Chapter One: Mulled Wine

The first blush of dawn cast the Imperial Shipyards into stark silhouette, a forest of black cranes and masts standing on the eastern docks of Cassomir. Along the strand, gulls vied with ravens for the shellfish buried beneath a thin blanket of midwinter snow. The lapping waves left a sensuous border of sand at the edge of the snowfall, like the impression of a woman’s lips upon a crystal goblet. Soon the tide would recede, and the Sea Lion would set sail for Absalom.

The cost of passage on the converted freighter had been dear, but I felt anxious to return to the City at the Center of the World. Among its hundred wonders was the Grand Lodge of the Pathfinder Society, to whose secret masters I would soon report. Our expedition to Ustalav had met with mixed success, but now I returned with an unforeseen treasure: a copy of the lost Lacuna Codex. Within its pages lay magics so fell that even the Whispering Tyrant had feared their discovery.

A return to Absalom might also assuage the disappointments of our visit to Greengold, where traders and diplomats treat with the elves of Kyonin. There I had hoped to employ a craftsman to repair my beloved Red Carriage, the sole legacy from my elven father. After days of fruitless negotiations with the sheep-faced bureaucrats, I realized my half-elven heritage was no advantage to gaining entrance. Thus I entrusted my vehicle to storage and chartered a riverboat to Cassomir, where I secured passage to Absalom.

Beside me, Arnisant sat as still as a gargoyle. The stone of the quay must have been cold beneath his haunches, but the Ustalavic wolfhound was proving an obedient guardian. I sensed his gaze on me but did not return it. It was his part to look to me for instruction without expectation of reward. It fell to me to dispense those rewards when they would serve to reinforce his training, not simply to cultivate his affection.

My own seat was scarcely more comfortable than Arnisant’s. The entrepreneur who had established this refreshments pavilion for departing passengers warmed his guests with enormous coal braziers, but the furniture consisted of the rough benches and communal tables one might expect in a barracks. To deter others from sitting too close, I repositioned our luggage on the seats beside and opposite my own. Only my most precious satchel, that containing my spellcasting materials and the Lacuna Codex, remained by my side.

Radovan returned from the serving cart with a cup in either hand. One smelled of strong tea. From the other rose the scent of cheap wine smothered in clove and cinnamon. He set the latter on the table and glanced back to wink at the buxom barmaid, who returned his leer.

“How much time we got, boss?”

“Insufficient for dalliance.”

Radovan sighed, but I doubted his sincerity. No doubt he wished to maintain his reputation as a ladies’ man, but I sensed an air of melancholy about him since we departed Caliphas. There he had left behind a Varisian hedge-witch for whom I suspected he harbored a lingering devotion.

The morning air had already cooled the wine, which filled barely more than half of the glazed clay cup. I peered at Radovan, who had lately assumed an inappropriate custodianship of my consumption of wine and spirits. Considering the other evidence, however, it was equally likely that the vendor employed a stingy ladle. My first sip of the sour wine confirmed my expectation that, despite the high prices, it was the cheapest available.

“Dreadful stuff, isn’t it? At least it’s hot.” A corpulent man from a nearby table toasted me with his own cup before draining it. He winced, his chins wagging as the dregs hit the back of his throat. I took him for a merchant, noting that the high quality of his furs and jewels belied his coarse manners.

So did the woman at his side, who sat with the poise of a Qadiran cat. Whatever beauty age had stolen from her she had won back in elegance. Her high cheekbones and thin nose marked her as a descendant of an old Taldan family. If she were wed to the merchant, I deduced that theirs was yet another expeditious marriage between ambitious wealth and impoverished nobility.

Lest I appear uncivil before the lady, I raised my cup to return her husband’s salute. The wine was less disagreeable on second sip, more for the wine’s fortification than for its quality. I drained the cup, careful to avoid the sediment, and signaled Radovan to fetch me another.

“Hot this time,” I said. “And full to the brim.”

As I turned to give him the cup, Radovan pretended to study the ceiling of the tent. I knew at once I’d caught him at mischief. Arnisant’s drooling jowls confirmed my suspicion.

“How many times must I tell you not to feed my hound?”

Radovan shrugged. “Somebody must have dropped something on the floor.”

I saw Arnisant swallow before resuming his stoic posture, which I now realized was a ruse born of natural cunning rather than the fruit of my instruction.

“It is imperative to his training that I alone dispense rewards, and then only—”

“Looks like last call,” said Radovan. “Better hurry.” He returned to the wine cart, where the barmaid greeted him with a lascivious wetting of her lips.

I checked my impulse to scold Arnisant. Negative reinforcement is effective in the short term, but it would only muddle the more potent accumulation of reward-for-behavior training. Still, I disliked the notion that Arnisant might divide his loyalties. I was the dog’s master, not Radovan.

I showed Arnisant the sign to lie down. When he obeyed, I bade him roll over, rise, stand, and return to his seated vigil. Only then did I reward him with a sliver of beef liver sausage from a pouch among the many in which I had secured my riffle scrolls.

Wiping my hands upon a fresh linen handkerchief from my sleeve, I saw the merchant rising from his table. For a moment I feared he might introduce himself, but instead he bustled past me to visit the wine cart. On his way he stumbled into a young Qadiran woman whose snug winter clothes failed to conceal the rich curves of her figure. I wondered how she had escaped Radovan’s attentions until I saw the barmaid’s finger hooked into my bodyguard’s collar, pulling him close to whisper in his ear.

I resigned myself to the prospect of another cup of tepid wine.

The sun had risen high enough to reveal the details of the harbor. Across the bay to the north, the triple towers of Harbor Watch stood vigil over the docks. Ballistas, catapults, and trebuchets fairly bristled on their many platforms, promising doom to any vessel so rash as to assault the shipyards. A great rusty chain descended into the water from the southernmost tower, but I had read more than one report suggesting this hull-breaking chain had never been completed, its appearance merely a stratagem to deter ambitious armadas.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” The young elf pacing the perimeter of the pavilion blew at the steam rising from his cup. His sallow complexion and nervous gaze lent him the aspect of a scholar. Upon his shoulders he bore a tall woven backpack that sagged with the weight of its contents. I knew him at once, not as an individual but as one of a breed of optimistic youngsters I had encountered year after year via the Pathfinder Society. No doubt he dreamed of traveling Golarion and uncovering ancient secrets, beginning his apprenticeship in Absalom.

As I turned to speak with him, however, the boy shied away like a colt. If that was the extent of his spirit, his over-stuffed pack would seem all the heavier for his disappointment when he was turned away from the Grand Lodge.

The remaining occupants of the wine tent were a pair of dwarves. They were obviously traveling companions, one scowling as he observed the porters loading crates onto the ship, the other distracting his companion with jests at the expense of their fellow passengers. When his gaze fell upon me, the jocular dwarf sketched a bow that seemed more friendly than insolent. I returned the courtesy with a scant nod.

“Pretty or not, she needs to keep her

hands off other people’s purses.”

The merchant’s wife favored me with a bright smile, which I returned with as little encouragement as possible. Her expression faltered somewhat as she understood that I wished to be left alone, but she masked her disappointment with the practiced grace of noble breeding.

The shadow of Grayguard Castle crept toward us by the time Radovan disentangled himself from the barmaid, who clutched his coins with more ardor than she put into her smile. Yet perhaps I do him an injustice. Despite his infernal ancestry, Radovan’s knack for enchanting women verges on the uncanny.

That was an interesting thought. Among the benefits of his tainted blood were an ability to see in total darkness and a certain resistance to the effects of heat and flame, which lately seemed to have evolved into a remarkable transformation triggered by great fire. Unfortunately, he rebuffed my proposal to study his metamorphosis. A few simple experiments might determine whether heat or flame was the true catalyst, and whether time or tranquility caused him to revert to his half-human self. Was his unlikely charm another quality of his unusual condition?

The woman fell upon me before I could react. By the time I heard Arnisant growl a warning, she clutched at my neck and shoulder. My own arms instinctively encircled her body, pulling her close to prevent her head from striking the table. For an instant I thought it was the merchant’s wife who had tripped over the satchel at my feet, but it was the young Qadiran woman.

Her momentary struggle before settling on my lap evoked an involuntary reaction that she could not fail to notice. In the private company of a gentlewoman of certain charms, I should have welcomed the phenomenon. Yet we stood exposed to the public eye, and she was no lady.

The young woman smothered a giggle with her gloved fingers.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, although I was hardly responsible for our collision.

“That’s quite a tower you’ve erected.” She did not refer to the luggage.

Not six feet away, the talkative dwarf guffawed. Behind him, his companion frowned at the disturbance, while the young elf ceased pacing, frozen and staring like a startled hare. Near them, the merchant’s wife covered her blush with a lace fan, while her husband bit his knuckles to stop his own laughter.

“Nice try, sister.” Radovan pulled the woman from my lap. She struggled to escape, but he held tight to her arm while slipping a hand beneath her cloak. Before she could scream, he removed his hand and dangled my purse before her eyes.

This time the merchant could not help but laugh. “That’s very good, don’t you think, my dear?”

His wife nodded, but her eyes lingered on Radovan as he favored the pickpocket with the lopsided leer he calls “the little smile.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Radovan asked.

Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. “Shadya.”

“What are we going to do about this little incident? If I call the guards, we’re going to miss our boat.”

Shadya slipped out of his grip. She raised a defiant chin and glared back at him, rubbing her arm where he’d bruised her. “What do you want?”

Quick as an adder, Radovan slipped an arm around her waist and bent her low for a kiss. She struggled briefly while his fingers explored every contour of her body.

The merchant’s wife was the first to turn away. A moment later, she prodded her husband with the fan, and he cast his gaze to the floor. The elf and the cheerful dwarf stared, one gaping, the other grinning. The dour dwarf cleared his throat.

I could bear it no longer. “That is quite enough, Radovan.”

He released the woman and returned to my side. She retreated, her expression wavering between confusion and outrage.

Radovan returned my purse. “That’s all she got.”

While no doubt he enjoyed the pretense of collecting a kiss, I knew its true purpose was to search the woman for any other items she might have stolen.

“Passengers aboard!” the burly captain bellowed from the edge of the gangplank. The ship’s mates arrived to transfer our luggage to our cabins.

As a spindly sailor approached to take our bags, I noticed that the leather latch on the most precious of my satchels lay unsecured. I opened it, my heart racing. What I feared had occurred.

The Lacuna Codex was missing.

Chapter Two: Dry Sherry

“Please, Captain, you must see it from my perspective.”

Captain Qoloth brayed so vigorously that the top of his close-shorn head bumped the ceiling. The Katapeshi stood several inches taller than I and doubtless carried thrice my weight on his broad frame. His prominent jaws and bristly whiskers suggested a parent among that nation’s hyenafolk, though my studies at the Acadamae suggested that such a hybrid was categorically impossible. Considering the bestial odor of his fur-clad body, I reevaluated my understanding of the term “impossible.”

“Do you know, my half-elven friend, what it is that I most enjoy about being captain?” Qoloth smiled, revealing long canine teeth. “It is that everyone else aboard my ship must see things from my perspective.”

“Very well.” My station was no advantage so far from my native land, even had I chosen to announce my Chelish origins on a vessel flying the crowned white lion of Taldor. My attempts at reason had failed to move Captain Qoloth, who noted with perfect logic that the Lacuna Codex had been stolen before I came under his protection by boarding his ship. Thus, I was reduced to begging the most meager concession. “Will you at least grant me permission to question the other passengers?”

“Talk all you like. Just remember, there is no magic aboard the Lion. And keep your boy out of the other cabins.”

Radovan bristled at the dismissive term. It mattered little to him that he had, in fact, been spotted attempting to pick the lock of Shadya’s cabin to search for the missing tome.

“Very well, Captain. Thank you for your time.”

Arnisant awaited us on deck. A sea breeze ruffled the hound’s pewter-gray coat, but the sun’s warmth assuaged the winter chill. The wolfhound’s eyes flicked toward Radovan before settling on me. I bade him heel as we strolled the deck, careful not to intrude upon the labors of the crew.

The Lacuna Codex had to be somewhere aboard the Sea Lion. Under other circumstances, I would appreciate the captain’s insistence that none of his guests were to be subjected to physical or magical inspection. For the exorbitant price he charged for passage, one expected a modicum of privacy while traveling between Taldor and Absalom.

Yet someone had absconded with my property, and the thief had to be one of my fellow passengers. Apart from the crew, who had been nowhere near my luggage before the theft, there were only six others aboard. In his own coarse manner, Radovan had already searched Shadya, the Qadiran woman who had lifted my purse at the wharf. While not eliminating her as a suspect, Radovan’s “inquiry” left five other likely suspects.

Lord and Lady Neverion seemed innocuous, but it is my business to dispel seeming. The wealthy Menas Neverion began life as a butcher, gradually expanding his business until he had accumulated sufficient capital to speculate on imports. Desna favored his investments, and eventually he bent his vast fortune toward his ultimate goal: the title, hand, and lands of the widowed and impoverished Lady Charikla. Had catastrophe withered their holdings? The stolen Codex was worth a fortune to the right buyer.

Or to the wrong one.

Pekko and Jaska were dwarf merchants conveying cargo to Absalom. They too took the air, their breath forming clouds as they walked arm-in-arm on the far side of the deck. Pekko threw us a jaunty wave. He was a gregarious sort with bells and charms tied in his red-brown beard. Jaska was his opposite in almost every regard, disagreeable of countenance with a sooty smudge of a beard and an angry canker-blossom overtaking his left nostril. He was the one who seemed most concerned with the safe handling of their cargo, the nature of which I had not yet discovered. Did either of these ostensible traders harbor a lust for rare tomes?

“Pekko is likeable enough, if something of a lush. But is his jovial exterior a front for something more sinister?”

The young elf called Murviniel had revealed himself to be a Pathfinder aspirant, as I had surmised. Once he overcame his trepidation, he asked whether I was, as he suspected, “the famous” Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare. Accustomed as I am to idle flattery, I was surprised that his admiration sounded genuine, if born of innocence. Any active Pathfinder would know that my once-flourishing reputation had paled. In fact, my latest excursion had proven a failure except for the discovery of the now-missing Lacuna Codex. Did Murviniel hope to steal for himself the prize that would win back my former status?

The creak of salt-encrusted hinges interrupted my reverie. As the portly Menas Neverion held the door, his delicate wife emerged from below decks. She squinted at the white sky as the breeze ruffled the various furs of her stole. In her arms shivered a pair of tiny dogs that must have arrived within their baggage. Arnisant lifted his snout to catch their scent but remained obediently at my side.

“I bet you could eat both of those little rats in one bite, couldn’t you, Arni?” Radovan scratched the back of the hound’s head.

“Please,” I said. “Do not confuse my hound by using a diminutive of his name.”

“Arni’s not confused,” said Radovan. “He’s smarter than he looks, like you always say about me.”

“Considerably smarter, I hope. All the same—”

“There you are, my dear fellow.” Menas Neverion bustled toward us, extending his hand to grasp mine as if I were some common broker of fortunes. I countered his unseemly greeting by offering a curt Chelish bow. He withdrew the offending appendage and fiddled with a button on his fur coat.

“Your Excellency, my husband wishes to invite you to sample his sherry this evening,” said Lady Neverion. She stroked a finger across the heads of the tiny dogs cradled in her arm. They trembled and strained their little necks for a view of Arnisant. “If the sherry pleases the foremost count of Cheliax, it should dazzle the connoisseurs of Absalom.”

While I had taken no special pains to conceal my identity, I had not expected to be known among the other passengers. Only Murviniel had recognized me, and I now wondered how. Certainly my name was well known among members of the Society, but my image was not so commonly distributed. Even setting aside that question, either Murviniel had identified me to Lady Charikla, or else some other intelligence allowed her to identify me by title.

Lady Neverion anticipated my question. “We were never formally introduced, my dear Count. I glimpsed you once, some years ago, during a procession in Oppara. You cut quite the dashing figure among the Chelish emissaries. I pray you won’t think me forward when I say you appear quite unchanged.”

“My lady is most kind,” I replied with a more courtly bow than I had offered her husband. Menas appeared undisturbed by the attention she shone upon me, but I could not return the compliment, for I had no recollection of the lady. My most recent visit to Oppara had occurred more than forty years earlier, when I served a minor role in a diplomatic gesture following the revolutions in Galt and Andoran. Unless some magic were responsible for preserving her appearance, Charikla must have been little more than a child at the time of my visit. A sudden eructation drew my attention. The sound emanated from my hound. Arnisant gazed up at Charikla’s little dogs, who yipped in fear. With a sign, Radovan directed him to move farther away. Charikla cradled her darlings to her breast.

Before I could frame an apology, Menas spoke again.

“Do be a good fellow and join us for a drink before supper.” He glanced to the side and waved at Pekko as the dwarves completed their latest circuit of the deck. Pekko waved back, but sour-faced Jaska tugged him down the stairs to the cabins. Menas added, “We’ve invited everyone, and I promise I won’t be stingy, even though it’s very expensive stuff.”

Lady Neverion glanced away from her husband’s crass remark. Radovan cleared his throat to cover a chuckle. Even to one raised on the streets of Egorian, the pretensions of this merchant lord were risible.

“I would be honored,” I said.

“And do bring your man,” he added. “I’ve invited that Qadiran girl. What do you think? They’ll add a bit of color.”

Menas grinned, awaiting my approval. His wife’s eyes narrowed as she considered my bodyguard. Radovan smiled without revealing his teeth, but I knew he was stifling the urge to wink at her. That was wise, for Lady Neverion was doubtless unaccustomed to including hellspawn or pickpockets in her social gatherings.

“We should be honored,” I said.

“Don’t bring your hound, of course. My lady wife’s precious little creatures are not among the hors d’oeuvres.” He leaned in to whisper, “Not that I’d mind the quiet afterward!”

Radovan snorted. Charikla turned away, murmuring assurances to her noisy little dogs until Menas offered her his arm and escorted her around the deck.

∗∗∗

We arrived at the Neverions’ cabin twenty minutes after the appointed hour. I wished to observe the dynamics established among the other passengers in my absence. Also, it would not do for a count of Cheliax to stand awaiting the arrival of those of lesser status.

The chamber was larger than I had expected, even considering the high price Captain Qoloth charged his passengers. Not even the enormous master of the ship had any need to stoop beneath the seven-foot ceiling. His evening clothes included a hyena-pelt cape that only exacerbated his resemblance to the hyenafolk.

For the occasion I had chosen an embroidered coat to wear over a linen shirt with laced cuffs. Radovan’s leather garb was barely presentable, but none of my clothing would fit his wide chest. I insisted that he wear a soft gray half-cape I had made for myself in Caliphas.

The Neverions appeared well appointed as usual, all fine furs and tasteful jewelry, the selection of which I attributed to Lady Charikla rather than her husband. Menas laughed as he poured another drink for the jocular Pekko, who held two large wine goblets rather than the dainty sherry crystals held by the other guests. Despite the effort to appear unconcerned, I could see Menas wince slightly as he calculated the cost of every drop he poured for the seemingly insatiable dwarf. The dwarves had donned gray waistcoats over fresh linen shirts, but Pekko had already managed to stain his cuffs while quaffing sherry from both goblets. Judging by his rosy cheeks and the ever-increasing volume of his voice, he had already imbibed plenty, and he had a bottle of his own nestled into one of his trouser pockets.

I started toward the group, but then I heard Radovan’s intake of breath. I followed his gaze to the other side of the cabin.

Shadya appeared less a thief and more a lady in loose silken trousers draped as sensuously as a skirt over her long legs. Over a beaded shirt she wore a brilliant azure vest of crushed velvet, its stiff fabric somehow failing to conceal the curves of breasts and hips. Subtle patterns appeared in the fabric as she moved, betraying its fine quality. Either Shadya was an exceptionally successful thief, or else she picked pockets for the thrill of the act.

Radovan straightened. Before he could take a step toward the woman, she lifted her chin and turned away. Radovan jutted his jaw, deterred for now.

“Captain Jeggare?”

Murviniel appeared at my elbow. Alone among the guests, he appeared out of place. His robes were the color of old sailcloth, and his tri-corner hat was unfashionable even in Andoran where it had once been popular. His only ornament was a cheap brass ring on which was stamped the emblem of the Pathfinder Society.

“There’s only one captain on this ship, by Abadar!” Qoloth’s voice thundered across the cabin, but his wide grin belied his threatening tone. He drained his glass and held it out for Menas to refill. The trader obliged, tugging at his tight collar as the captain joined Pekko in guzzling his expensive sherry.

“While we are aboard ship, you must address me as Count Jeggare.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”

“‘Excellency’ is the traditional honorific.”

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency.”

Radovan moved away, but not before I saw him roll his eyes.

I waved away Murviniel’s apology. It is acceptable to dispense with formality in the field, but the young elf was not yet a member, only an applicant to the Society.

“How is it that you recognized me?” I asked.

Murviniel lowered his eyes. “The truth is, Your Excellency, you are my idol.”

“Your what?”

“My hero,” he said. “You travel the world and uncover secrets no one else has ever found, even other Pathfinders. My copy of your Bestiary of Garund has fallen to pieces, I have read it so often. I want to be just like you.”

“Your words are…gratifying.” It was now my turn to feel flustered, but before I could recover my composure I saw Menas Neverion pull at his collar again, this time with far more force. The man’s face had turned dark red. His eyes bulged, the veins darkening as they spread toward his iris.

Beside Menas, Pekko peered into his goblets, one after the other, glassy-eyed and seemingly oblivious to the events around him. Charikla recoiled from her husband, her face a mask of revulsion as she realized the extent of his distress. Qoloth squinted suspiciously at the choking merchant before reaching out to steady the man.

“Help him!” cried Charikla. Jaska grabbed Menas and eased the man to the carpet. The others all moved at once, some toward and others away from the fallen merchant. I pushed through the crowd and felt the man’s throat.

“Too late.” I said. “He is already dead.”

Chapter Three: Peach Brandy

My pronouncement of death silenced the room. Everyone else stared as I knelt beside the corpse. I watched for clues in their faces.

Lady Neverion clutched the nearest arm, which happened to belong to Captain Qoloth. The hirsute ship’s master patted the woman’s hands, but his eyes remained locked on the dead man. His grimace deepened into a scowl.

Young Murviniel peered around the captain’s shoulder with naked curiosity, his brow furrowing as he inspected the dead man’s countenance. Whatever killed Menas Neverion had burst the veins in his eyes and colored his face purple.

Beside the elf, the dwarves gaped at the dead man. Pekko appeared confused, but considering his flushed cheeks and the two goblets in his hands, I concluded he was simply inebriated. He raised a goblet toward his mouth, but Jaska lay a hand on his arm and shook his head until Pekko noticed the sherry glass lying beside the dead man. Pekko set both goblets carefully on a sideboard and wiped his hands on his shirt.

I could not at first see Shadya. She had retreated from the corpse until her back pressed against the ship’s bulkhead. She pressed a fist against her mouth and stared at the floor, in either utter revulsion or else an excellent facsimile of that emotion. When she saw Radovan looking at her, she looked away.

A loud whistle pierced the silence. At Qoloth’s signal, a crewman opened the door.

“Escort this lady to the empty cabin.” The captain drew Charikla Neverion away from the corpse of her husband.

“But sir, it is full of the dwarves’ extra cargo—”

“Then remove it.”

“Aye, sir. But where—?”

“I don’t give a damn!” bellowed Qoloth. “Can’t you see the lady is distraught? You can put the cargo on deck or in the bilge for all I care.”

“Wait, wait!” sputtered Jaska. “The contents are fragile. I will go with you.”

Before Qoloth could object, Lady Neverion shrieked.

“Ladybug, no!”

One of the lady’s tiny dogs lapped at the damp spot beside the fallen glass. Radovan scooped up the tiny creature and snagged its mate before it too could sample the spilled sherry. He poured the shivering dogs into Charikla’s arms, and she hugged them to her breast while recoiling from him. To his credit, Radovan pretended not to notice her disdain.

“Lady Neverion certainly seems distraught. But then, when doesn’t she?”

Qoloth’s head wobbled as though he were stifling the urge to shout some more. Instead he simply steered Lady Neverion toward his crewman before waving them and Jaska from the room. As the door closed behind them, Qoloth muttered, “Gold—Fisted Abadar, couldn’t you have given the fat fool his heart attack in Absalom?”

I suppressed the urge to stop Qoloth from letting the others go, as the captain had already cautioned me not to challenge his authority. Even so, I could not stop myself from correcting him. “Lord Neverion did not die of natural causes. He was murdered.”

“Poison?”

I nodded, tugging a handkerchief from my sleeve.

“It was the sherry, wasn’t it?” Pekko slurred. He pressed the backs of his hands against his cheeks and forehead. “Great gods and little fishes, he had only two. I drank four. No, seven!”

I lifted the glass Menas had dropped, careful to shield my bare skin with the handkerchief. In addition to the impression of the dead man’s lips and a few remaining drops of sherry, I perceived a faint discoloration around the outer rim of the glass.

“It would appear you are in no danger,” I assured the dwarf.

Murviniel bent low to examine the glass, placing his face close to mine in a careless gesture of familiarity. His breath smelled of nettle tea as he whispered, “Satyr’s tears.”

The faint blue tint of the otherwise unobtrusive stain led me to the same conclusion. I stood. “You are familiar with poisons?”

Murviniel also stood. “Not poisons especially, no,” he said. “But with herbs in general, yes. I suppose I should have kept quiet.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’ve just made myself a suspect, haven’t I?”

“Everyone is a suspect.”

“I’m not,” said Qoloth. “Murder aboard ship’s bad for business. If Neverion’s death is somehow related to this stolen book of yours, I expect you to sort it out before we reach port.”

“Then you withdraw your objections to my using magic?” Much as I deplore divination spells as a cheat, in this matter I was willing to stoop. Allowing the power of the Lacuna Codex to be unleashed upon the world was too terrible to consider, and it seemed quite possible that I would discover a link between the theft and the murder.

Qoloth barked a dismissive laugh. “When I told you there’s no magic aboard the Sea Lion, I wasn’t objecting. I was stating a fact.”

I should have realized sooner that the Katapeshi’s exorbitant fare included certain amenities not commonly available on other vessels. Many wealthy travelers were happy to pay a premium for protection from magical detection or attack while traversing the Inner Sea. I had simply engaged the first available passage, heedless of the expense.

“You cannot deactivate the effect?”

“I’m a sailor, not a sorcerer,” said Qoloth. I saw no evidence of falsehood in his expression, but he was the bold sort of man to whom big lies come easy.

“Very well,” I said. “In that case, I wish to begin questioning those present. Would you be so good as to have your crew escort the men to their cabins, there to remain until I visit?”

Qoloth narrowed his eyes, perhaps deciding whether my request sounded too much like a command. Now that the captain had endorsed my investigation, it was imperative that I establish some measure of authority without undermining his.

“Good,” he said. “Report to me at eight bells.”

The ship’s cook had struck four bells just before we arrived at the Neverion’s cabin. Informing the captain of my progress less than two hours hence would interrupt what would doubtless prove an arduous inquiry. Nevertheless, if reaffirming Qoloth’s authority in this manner would permit me greater freedom to investigate, I would be content. I bowed my assent.

As the others departed, Qoloth whistled up another pair of sailors to remove Neverion’s body to the cold locker. As the corpse vanished from sight, Shadya spoke. “Please, Captain. Don’t leave me alone with them.”

Qoloth paused at the door. He followed Shadya’s gaze to Radovan, who offered him the little smile and a parody of a naval salute.

“Allow me to apologize for the manner in which my associate retrieved my purse,” I began. “I assure you that my inquiry will remain strictly verbal.” While my apology was sincere, it also served to remind Qoloth of the circumstances preceding Radovan’s frisking. Shadya had already proven herself less than trustworthy.

Qoloth summoned another sailor to stand watch inside the room. There was little harm in that, I thought, so long as Shadya revealed nothing I wished to keep from the captain’s ears. He did not seem a likely candidate for the theft, but for the murder I knew I must not discount anyone.

The moment the door closed behind Qoloth, Radovan said, “Knock it off, sister. You’re not fooling anyone with the delicate routine. The captain’s this close to letting us toss your room. I wonder what we’ll find tucked beneath your mattress.”

Rather than intercede, I awaited her response. My bodyguard had chosen the proper tack. My courtesy had granted Shadya an undue sense of security. Radovan, in his coarse manner, had disrupted her cool facade.

She hesitated, but her countenance still betrayed more shock than umbrage. Unless I misread her, she was truly surprised by Neverion’s death.

“I didn’t know the man,” she said. “His wife has a few tempting jewels, I admit, but there was nothing for me in his death.”

“You did not partake of the sherry,” I said.

She hesitated, and in her eyes I saw that she was considering her answer. “I almost did,” she said. “I arrived shortly before you. When I went to greet our hosts, that woman threw me such an icy glare that I thought better of it.”

All too well I understood my peers’ ability to shun undesirables with a glance. So did Radovan, who had experienced such snubs far more often than I.

“Very well.” I signaled the sailor to open the cabin door.

“That’s it?” Shadya sounded almost disappointed.

“That is all for now.” I bowed.

Radovan and I navigated the narrow passage to Murviniel’s berth, passing a lone sailor who stood watch over the passenger cabins. Inwardly I approved of the captain’s caution, but I wondered how well the crewman could overhear conversations within the cabins. Judging from the sound of movement inside Murviniel’s cabin, I expected the guard could hear anything spoken above a whisper.

The elf spoke before I could greet him. “Lord Neverion served the sherry himself. I didn’t notice anyone else handling the glasses, but I think one of the crew set up their sideboard. I don’t know which one, but of course the captain would.”

While pretending to listen, I observed Murviniel’s quarters. He had strewn his personal belongings haphazardly throughout the small cabin. I lifted a battered volume of spells from the bed. “You study magic?”

“Yes,” said the elf. “My brother gave me his first spellbook. I’m not much past the cantrips, I’m afraid.”

“The Society can always use another practitioner of the arcane.”

Among the other swollen and dog-eared books that had escaped Murviniel’s backpack, I spied a copy of my own Bestiary of Garund and thought of his earlier fawning. Had he left it out in an obsequious gesture?

Radovan recognized the book and understood the meaning of its presence. He rubbed his eye in a rude gesture to indicate what he thought of Murviniel’s ploy. It was only a matter of time before the elf solicited my support in his application to the Pathfinder Society.

“What else can I tell you?” Murviniel said, apparently oblivious to the communication that passed between Radovan and me. “I arrived after the dwarves, but before everyone else. No one was talking of anything but the motion of the ship and the favorable wind. The Qadiran girl and the dwarf Jaska did not drink the sherry, but everyone else did. The other dwarf was already half in his cups before he arrived. He and Neverion acted like old friends, but I could have sworn they had never met before boarding the ship.”

“What herbs do you carry in that pack of yours?”

“Ah,” said the elf. His eyes brightened, the opposite of the usual reaction to my changing the subject. “I thought you might ask, so I emptied my pack. Here, you can see them all. Not much here, just these two pouches for tea. I’m not a practicing herbalist. I’ve mostly just read a few books.”

In addition to the nettle I detected on his breath earlier, I recognized a mélange of rosehips, hibiscus, and peppermint commonly steeped as a relaxing tisane. Neither mixture was the least bit toxic, and both suggested that Murviniel was of a delicate constitution, probably suffering from some urinary dysfunction.

Before I could frame a question he had not already anticipated, Murviniel came to his point. “If there is any way I could assist you in this investigation, Your Excellency, I would be only too happy to put myself at your service.”

I weighed the likely distraction of the young elf’s assistance against any genuine help he might provide. In truth, I had chosen to speak with him next only to give Pekko time to sober up and fret about what I would ask him. Considering the famed fortitude of dwarven drinkers, I decided the time was now. “We shall talk more tomorrow.”

“But—is there nothing else?”

“Not at this time, thank you.”

We left Murviniel gasping like a beached fish, his hopes frustrated. Radovan smiled and scratched the back of his neck as we left the cabin. “Kid’s got it bad.”

“We were all young once.”

“Even you?” he said. “Somehow I can’t picture that.”

I stopped before the door to the dwarves’ cabin. My keen hearing detected no sound but the rhythmic creaking of the ship as it rose and descended upon the waves. At my signal, Radovan rapped on the portal. When no reply came, he tried the latch and found it unlocked. He opened the door to reveal a small cabin crowded with several crates lodged between the two bunks. On the tiny space of floor that remained sprawled Pekko. A few inches from his hand lay a pewter flask and funnel, beside it a spilled bottle of liquid exuding the unmistakable odor of peach brandy.

Pekko lay quite motionless, his face the color of a ripe eggplant.

Chapter Four: Cheap Sack

The dwarf slumped on the floor of the closet. The manacles on his wrists were newly bolted to the deck to form a makeshift brig.

“I’d never harm Pekko,” said Jaska. “Without him, I’m out of business.”

“You’re out of business because you got pinched smuggling poison,” said Radovan.

“Satyr’s tears aren’t just poison,” said Jaska. “They’re are a key ingredient in remedies for all sorts of ills. For some, it’s the only thing that works.”

That much I knew to be true, but the satyr’s tears had now been used to murder two men aboard ship, and a search of their cabins had failed to uncover the Lacuna Codex. The poisonous herbs, however, turned up in a search of the crates—already opened—in the dwarves’ cabin.

“Who else might have had a motive for poisoning your partner?” I said.

“Nobody,” moaned Jaska. “Everybody loved Pekko. He had an easy way about him. I know the business, but Pekko knew the customers. He did his best work with that flask of his.”

“Yet you never indulged in drink.”

Jaska flushed. “Even outside my people, no one respects a dwarf who won’t so much as raise a toast.”

“What? Are you some kind of monk or something?” said Radovan.

I ventured a supposition.

“You suffer from some sort of inflammatory ailment, probably gout,” I said. “If it is so acute as to require satyr’s tears, then alcoholic beverages must incite excruciating attacks.”

The dwarf nodded. “I told Captain Qoloth as much, but he wouldn’t hear it. All he cares about is arriving in Absalom with his murders solved.”

“How did you intend to disguise your abstinence at the sherry tasting?”

“I usually say I’d just had a drink or two. This time it was trickier, since Pekko and I had just been chatting with Menas. They shared a few drinks in our cabin before the party.”

“Did you have business with Lord Neverion?”

“Not yet,” said Jaska. “Pekko thought him a good future prospect, so I left them to it while I visited the head.”

“Could anyone else have overheard their conversation?”

He pondered. “I passed a crewman, and also that girl and the elf. One of them might have entered the cabin between the time I left and when I arrived at the Neverions’ party.”

“Who awaited you there?”

“Our hosts, of course. And Pekko. Oh, and one of the crew was just leaving. He’d brought fresh glasses. Menas almost handed me one, but thankfully his wife distracted him, and then Pekko kept him occupied with…” he choked “…with his stupid jokes.”

The presence of the ship’s crew complicated matters more than I liked, yet I knew no reason Shadya or Murviniel would desire the death of Menas Neverion. Worse, my most recent visit to the deck confirmed my suspicion that dampening magic was not the least of the Sea Lion’s enchantments. We had nearly arrived in Absalom, far ahead of schedule even considering the favorable winds. Time was running out.

We left Jaska to his confinement. As we walked to Lady Neverion’s new quarters, we saw a deckhand emerging from her cabin, arms full of bags. The ship turned sharply, and the docking whistle sounded above. We had arrived.

With a brief pause to fetch Arnisant from our cabin, we hastened above decks, where the crew prepared to dock. Already we were within the wide harbor of Absalom, its docks stretching east to west. Ships from a dozen different ports vied with the Sea Lion for an available berth. Behind their colored sails and banners, the manors and temples of Absalom rose up to the grand Starstone Cathedral in the distance.

Captain Qoloth stood near the main mast, Lady Neverion’s hand on his fingers.

“Thank you for agreeing to speed our journey,” she said as his whiskers brushed her hand. “It will soothe my nerves to spend a few days on land before returning to bury my husband.”

“And no doubt it is some consolation to see justice done.” He glowered at Jaska, who stood shackled and glum between a pair of sailors.

“Indeed,” Charikla sniffed before indicating a crate of wine bottles left on deck. “Please accept this gift for your men. I never touch the stuff. This common sack is all my husband would drink when no one was looking, even though it aggravated his gout.”

Something tickled in my mind at the word “gout.” Considering his age and girth, it was no surprise that Menas should suffer from the same affliction as Jaska. But what could the dwarf hope to gain from the merchant lord’s death?

The captain, on the other hand, had been most considerate in providing Charikla with an alternative to the cabin in which her husband had died. Furthermore, he had commanded me not to trouble her after the discovery of the poisonous herbs among the dwarves’ cargo. As a wealthy widow, Charikla was well suited to reward Qoloth for his compliance.

“What exactly is Murviniel carrying in that enormous backpack?”

Shadya and Murviniel emerged from the passenger cabins. A porter trailed behind the Qadiran woman, but the elf carried his own over-burdened backpack.

“You ask me,” said Radovan, “every damned one of them is guilty of something.”

Such a simple remark, yet it spawned a hasty theory that just might fit our circumstances.

“Captain Qoloth,” I said. “A moment, if you please.”

Everyone who had been preparing to debark stopped to listen. That was well, but the ship’s master looked displeased. “Make it quick.”

“I implore you to keep everyone aboard until we can summon the city guard and resolve the matter of these murders, not to mention the theft of my property.”

“We have our killer, and I already told you the theft is not my responsibility.”

“But you don’t have the killer,” I said. “In fact, you’ve imprisoned the one innocent man among your passengers—myself excepted, of course.”

“And me,” said Radovan. He grinned, stopping just short of revealing the full horror of his smile. “I haven’t done anything real nasty in weeks.”

Radovan’s uninvited aside once again proved handy.

“Despite his fearsome appearance, my bodyguard is a fine example of the adage that one should not judge a book by its cover. Of course, sometimes a cover is honest. For example, you, Captain, are probably much as you appear: a practical businessman who runs an efficient ship with a disciplined crew.

“I’m—” Qoloth hesitated, considering whether I was mocking or flattering him.

“Lady Neverion is also much as she appears, a woman of noble breeding in mourning for her late husband.”

Charikla bowed her head in assent.

“But not mourning for her second late husband.” She bristled, and I added, “No one could mistake you for a happy couple. You were ashamed of his coarse manners and low breeding. If not for the misfortunes of your estate, you should never have thought twice about marriage so far beneath your station. Oh, I believe your horror at his death was genuine. Perhaps you did not expect the method of his murder to be quite so horrible, nor for it to occur so close to you. Yet twice you prevented him from offering a drink to others. You knew which was the tainted glass.”

Charikla’s lips trembled briefly, but she could deny none of what I had said. I turned toward Shadya.

“Our other female companion is also much as she appears, but one must examine her cover closely.” I raised a finger to silence Radovan, who I sensed had been poised to add a remark. “Despite your immodest behavior, Shadya, you have no air of desperation about you. No matter how successful your thefts, you could not have stolen the refined taste to choose such fashionable garments as those you wore the night of the sherry tasting. You are a dilettante from a wealthy family. You steal not for necessity but for the thrill of transgression.”

“I didn’t take your book,” she said. Her voice betrayed a rising fear, and I marked the direction of her gaze when it left my eyes.

She indicated exactly the person I had begun to suspect.

“No,” I agreed. “You merely provided the diversion, drawing my attention and that of my bodyguard while the true thief stole the Codex from my satchel. What I did not realize before was that not everyone at the dock in Cassomir was fooled by your charade. Someone else witnessed the theft, and the price for her silence was the murder of her husband.”

Lady Neverion’s face paled. She was past anger now, wading deeper into the cool waters of fear as I spoke.

“But why was Pekko killed?” demanded Jaska. One of the sailors guarding him jerked his chains to silence him, but the other man looked at the dwarf with sympathy.

“To cover the killer’s tracks. The murderer visited your cabin before the party and acquired a sample of the satyr’s tears from Pekko.” I turned toward the elf.

“But I told you,” Murviniel said. “I’ve only read about such herbs.”

“And yet you brought along a pouch of nettle tea on what you pretend is your first visit to Absalom. You fooled me at first, but I see now what lies beneath your false cover: a thief and a killer.”

“You’re mad,” he said. “Very well, then. Let’s hear the rest of it. What tale will Venture-Captain Varian Jeggare spin for us next? Oh, will it appear in the next volume of the Chronicles?”

“You are no mere Pathfinder applicant. That ring upon your finger resembles those a certain venture-captain presented to her agents decades ago.”

Murviniel shrugged. “One of whom must have fallen on hard times and sold it.”

“Plausible, I admit. But there are more surprises under your cover. The nettle tea you drink soothes a number of ailments, most of them peculiar to men of middle years. Sometimes even I forget how misleading a youthful elven appearance can be. One day—perhaps already—the nettle tea will no longer ameliorate your illness. You cannot say you are unfamiliar with the effects of satyr’s tears, both beneficial and toxic.”

“That’s—that’s—” His naive front evaporated. “What motive would I have for killing Neverion?”

“Before you stole the Lacuna Codex, you had none. But you had to repay the silence of the one who witnessed your theft. Is that not correct, Lady Neverion?”

Charikla adopted a statue’s gaze, staring off into the distance.

“Everyone else present was a man, except for the barmaid—whose attentions were devoted to Radovan—and Lady Neverion, who as a lady of noble birth naturally turned away from Shadya’s bawdy antics. What did she see? I would have noticed had you approached close enough to dip a hand inside my luggage. I wager you plucked it out with a spell.”

“You did do it!” Shadya shoved Murviniel away from her. She closed the distance and struck him again, pushing him over and over.

“How do you know that, sweetheart?” said Radovan. He slid over to Murviniel’s other side, drawing his attention by producing his big knife.

Shadya answered me rather than Radovan. “This elf bet me I couldn’t let your henchman see that I was lifting your purse while leaving you unawares.” She pointed at Murviniel. “If I had known about a killing, I would have told someone. He said it must have been the other dwarf who killed him, over some sort of business dispute.”

“So much for honor among thieves,” said Murviniel, turning his back to the gunwales. “You may be your own most ardent admirer, Count Jeggare. But I must admit you figured it out eventually. Too bad it’s just a bit too late.” He fell over the edge of the ship and plunged into the water.

“Man overboard!” cried a sailor.

I ran to the side and looked down just in time to see Murviniel kick away from the ship. Once free of the Sea Lion’s dampening field, he vanished in a twinkle of magic. I recognized the effect of a minor teleportation spell and looked up along the pier. There he reappeared, already sprinting through the chaotic mass of laborers.

I withdrew a riffle scroll and prepared to throw myself into the water, hoping the scroll would still function after a good drenching.

“Wait,” said Shadya. “You can find him later, can’t you?”

“Perhaps, but I cannot allow him a chance to pass the Lacuna Codex to a confederate. The book is untraceable by magic, and I—”

“This is your book?” Shadya tossed me my Bestiary of Garund. I shook my head, but then I saw fragments of Murviniel’s wicker backpack clinging to the cover, and I recalled the shoves Shadya had given him. She had cut his pack like a purse.

The Bestiary was stuffed full of loose sheets between its pages. Flipping through, I recognized pages of the Lacuna Codex. Murviniel had hidden them in plain sight during my visit to his cabin. Yet there were too few pages to account for the entire tome.

“Not all of it is here.”

Shadya revealed several more slender volumes she had liberated from the elf’s pack and concealed behind her back. Two more were also full of Codex pages. A quick accounting ascertained that she had recovered them all. My sigh of relief deflated me so completely that I almost sank to my knees. Arnisant approached to sniff me, assuring himself I was unharmed.

“Nice work,” Radovan told Shadya. She smiled before remembering she was angry with him. Before she could cement the frown to her face, he whispered something to make her laugh.

I looked past them to see one of Qoloth’s men take Lady Neverion by the arm while a second confiscated her dogs. Shaking his head, the captain signaled the guards to release Jaska from his bonds.

“I can’t say I’m glad to lose the bonus the lady promised for swift passage,” said Qoloth. He said nothing more, perhaps hoping that his silence would prompt me to compensate him for his loss.

As the crew set the gangplank on the dock, I oversaw the conveyance of our luggage while Radovan exchanged a few words with Shadya. The manner in which they stood so close suggested she had forgiven him, at least in part, for his earlier rough behavior. It had, after all, won her wager with Murviniel.

“I don’t expect the boss will want you charged,” Radovan said. “He’s a pretty understanding guy.”

“Perhaps a reward for rescuing his books?”

“He ain’t that understanding. But what kind of reward did you have in mind?”

“Perhaps another kiss,” she said. “I wasn’t prepared to appreciate the last one.”

A smile spread across Radovan’s wide jaws. He stopped it at what he calls “the little smile” before moving in to grant Shadya’s request.

Standing beside me, Qoloth asked, “How does he do that?”

I shrugged. “No one knows.”

We finished our business, glancing up from time to time to see whether the way was clear. When Shadya at last withdrew from Radovan’s embrace, she shouldered her bag and skipped across the gangplank. She waved once without looking back and disappeared into the crowd.

Radovan was still grinning as he hefted a few of our bags.

“You know she lifted your purse,” I said.

Radovan traced his thumb over his lips and gazed into the waterfront crowds. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”