Tosh blinked. He and Bors weren’t in front of The Master anymore, nor were they in his hall. Instead, they floated in the cold vacuum of space for a heartbeat. The burning cold of the void was freezing Tosh’s blood, crystalizing the sweat on his flesh, creating a skin of ice. Tosh felt his breath dragged from him for that heartbeat, his life flashed before his eyes.

A second later, he was standing before the stone façade of the outer chamber of a particular merchant lord of Centauri Prime. The home of The Drumgag, a putrid humanoid merchant lord who dwelt on Centauri Prime. Tosh and Bors were billions of miles from where Tosh had stood, and he was sure Bors had been on Mars as well. For a moment, he felt shaken to the core. The Master could send us spinning billions of miles from one place in the Known Worlds to another with a flick of his finger? What kind of creature was he? He felt an icy chill, deeper than the one that struck him a moment ago. I don’t think I want to know the answer. Most of him was sure he didn’t want to know the answer.

There was the titter of laughter from The Master in Tosh’s head. “Only trying to help you along… Tosh.” The voice of the creature in his head caused Tosh to tremble.

Get out of my head, Grifter.

“Very well,” The Master said. “Adieu.”

Bors was roaring in outrage, breaking Tosh from the voice in his head. “Where is the warlock? I will tear him—”

Tosh put his hand out and touched Bors’ side. The barbarian wheeled around. “Little Bird? What is going—where are we?” The crystalline moisture on Tosh’s hands cracked and bonded with Bors. When he tried to tug his hand away, the bond of the two icy stiff pieces of flesh tore the skin from Tosh’s hand.

“Following the plan of a madman,” Tosh said, wincing from the pain. “For the moment, at least. We must get that Eye. If we do…” He let the sentence hang, waiting to hear what the barbarian would say.

Bors snorted a moment. “The wizard wasn’t smart. We know where he lives. We will return with—”

There was a flash of indigo, and Bors’ and Tosh’s weapons and packs were at their feet. Atop Tosh’s was a sleek ray gun, a new Quaal Mark 4. Tosh took up the small but powerful ray gun and gaped. Holding the sleek pistol made the reality of where they were and who they were to see solidify. Not much, but for a scant moment, it helped to make Tosh feel in control. “We have to go in and talk to a loathsome thing. The Master is a bit beyond us at the moment.” His lip twisted at calling him that instead of a few choice words, he wished to give the powerful thing. Not now. Later.

“Why?” Bors asked. He looked as if he wanted to say more, yet he too bent to gather his kit. Taking great care to pick up his sword, treating it more like a living babe than a weapon.

“Because it is what The Master wishes. Let’s get it over with. The sooner it is done, the sooner we can part ways and go back to our lives as they were before.”

Tosh looked at the outer façade of the giant domed structure of The Drumgag’s home. He knew the place well when he had come as a child. Almost sold to The Drumgag for debts that his father, Ahmed, had accrued while still under Tosh’s uncle. It was only through Ahmed’s negotiation that Tosh escaped possible bondage. It was still a wonder that his father had saved him at all. Though Tosh had tried to repress it, Ahmed had saved him from the rather gruesome fate of being a plaything for the loathsome merchant lord.

Use the one skill he taught you, and the boon is as good as yours. The voice of The Master trickled through Tosh’s mind. He bit back a reply, turned to look at Bors while thrusting the ray gun pistol into the sash of his pants. “Be ready for a smell of horrifying decay and human filth. The Drumgag is…is…beyond description. You must see it. You are my bodyguard, so remain quiet.”

Bors gave Tosh a hard look, yet nodded. “If that is what you wish, Little Bird.”

Tosh wanted to question the nickname, but a guard appeared. A barrel of a long-arm rifle thrust into Bor’s face. A blade of bone came within a hound’s tooth of Tosh’s stunned visage.

“Who goes there?” The guard barked. Sallow-skinned and skeletal, the guard glared with sickly yellow eyes at Tosh and Bors. He opened his mouth to repeat the question.

“Tosh of the House du’Vaul to see his most gracious and magnificent merchant lord, The Drumgag.”

Entering the domicile of The Drumgag wasn’t difficult once Tosh dropped the name of his House, so they let him in. Tosh wasn’t at fault if the guards assumed he was a representative of House du’Vaul. Getting out is going to be the tricky part.

The gate guard growled something, and the massive doors split open like a pair of gray stone wings. The moment Tosh turned to look for the guard, he was gone.

A tall and broad-shouldered woman, rippling with muscles, met Tosh and Bors at the open maw of a gate. She gave Bors an appraising glance and a wink before looking at Tosh. “Come,” she barked in heavily accented Trade Tongue. She wore little except for a rudimentary set of bracers, greaves, girdle, and chest plate. Dark tattoos of black, green, and purple covered the rest of her exposed body. Even her face had splotches of ink, and her bald head had several concentric circles growing smaller and smaller the closer to the apex of her skull. Some ink looked old, and some looked as though someone had etched them in a week ago. When she turned to lead the pair into the stone dome, Tosh saw that all the tattoos, swirls, whorls, streaks, and twisting patterns led to a marking of a stylized “D” in the center of her lower back. It was a brand instead of a tattoo, one that had had some ink etched into the raised and branded flesh..

Bors looked at it strangely, and Tosh muttered, “It is how he marks those he owns. A grisly shrine of ownership.” He had to suppress a shiver, thinking how close he came to having one of those marks on his own lower back.

Bors growled, but didn’t speak. He gave Tosh a look, then turned to watch for what could come, as a good bodyguard would. And remained silent.

As they walked, the stench of unwashed bodies, mold, rotting meat, and the cloying stench of too much perfume grew thicker. Bors balked at one point. Covering his face with his hand, trying to ward off the miasma.

Tosh tugged at his elbow for a moment. “It is the only way to keep your little rusted sword in your possession,” he muttered to the bigger man before continuing forward. “Come along,” Tosh said in a tone reserved for servants.

A sudden anger flared in Bors’ eyes. He grabbed Tosh by the throat and slammed the smaller man into the gentle curved walls of the tunnel. The inked woman turned and watched, giving a small smile as though she wanted to see how this would climax.

“The Soul of the Mother is not a rusted sword! It is—“

“Is there an issue?” The inked woman asked, a small quirk of a smile on her inked face while leaning against the wall close to Tosh. She swung her head from Bors to Tosh and back. “I was told to present you two to The Drumgag. Or will I only present one very strong warrior and the mangled remains of a skinny merchant who angered the man?” There was a light in her eyes at the thought of seeing Tosh’s broken body on the stone floor. At least that was how it felt to Tosh. He felt his stomach drop for when Bors didn’t answer.

“Unless Little Bird thinks The Soul of the Mother is a rusted piece of scrap… no?” Bors asked after a heartbeat.

“No, it is a fine quality sword, magnificent even,” Tosh said. Bors dropped Tosh, who smoothed out his tunic and turned to look at the barbarian, trying not to sound too hoarse. “See here, Bors. You and I are working together. You must take on the role of—”

“Apologize to The Mother,” Bors said, sweeping the brittle-looking longsword out of the shoulder baldric, pushing the ghostly-white pommel to Tosh’s face. “Apologize for your insult.”

“Who?” Tosh asked. He gave a quick look at the inked woman, who seemed fascinated by the sword, but then looked at Tosh displeased.

Bors let out a grunt and got Tosh’s attention again. “Apologize to Mother.”

He’s daft. I’m stuck light-years from home. We are in the den of an unstable power-mad merchant, on a quest of pure insanity, and he wants me to apologize to a sword? By the Makers…“I’m sorry… Mother.” It was his one trick. He did sound convincing.

Bors patted Tosh on the shoulder. Even though it felt light, it still almost drove Tosh to one knee. “We shall continue. Please, lead the way,” Bors said, turning to the guide while sheathing his sword.