Next morning I barely had time for a short meeting with Cyrus and Theo after waking myself from a haze of almost-sleep . . . as if sleep had really been an option. I couldn't help thinking about my encounter with Talia as I lay awake, and when I did, an uncertain sort of feeling would bubble up from the vicinity of my stomach, like astonishment combined with a sense of urgency and trepidation.

I told neither Cyrus nor Theodore about Talia when I met with them that morning, wishing to privately ponder the matter. Instead, I described chasing the 'wraith', the existence of the tracking gem, and the need to act quickly to preserve the upper hand we now had. Both were startled by the good fortune of this development, and both heartily agreed.

Upon learning of the tracking gem, both wore expressions that said “Why didn't I think of that?”

Theo was briefly able to touch upon what happened on his end of things – how he managed to convince Lord Forschell to visit his vault in the nick of time. They'd thwarted the attempt to rob from him shortly before Talia and I had our own encounter with the would-be thief as he'd been fleeing the scene.

It hadn't been just Theo and Forschell checking on the vault, either. Blackstaag himself was also there.

Forschell hadn't really believed that checking his valuables was necessary at first, mostly because he'd already been contacted by Lord Blackstaag and had consented to allow dozens of his knights to wander the property in addition to his own, all looking for me. Blackstaag's efforts to exact some form of revenge appeared to be expanding, and he appeared to have picked up on the pattern of thefts as well. Either that or he was just telling his knights to bluster around anywhere they felt like, heedless of the consequences.

In addition, it appeared that Blackstaag had poisoned Forschell against me, and with very little effort. He also appeared to consider Theo a likely co-conspirator, suggesting all sorts of things the two of them could do to get back at me. Though Forschell had limited himself to a couple of biting remarks about my character, Blackstaag had considerably more to say on the subject. Assassination had been hinted at more than once.

Despite the fact he knew I wasn't responsible. Unbelievable.

Theo said he would continue to meet with them so he could play along, appear interested in the prospect of assassination, and let me know what developed. I nodded, outwardly pretending that my stomach didn't suddenly feel as though I'd swallowed two handfuls of cold gravel.

Not everything was bad news, however. The grin Cyrus was wearing told me that something had gone exactly as planned last night . . . at least on his end of things. That worked out rather well, now that I had a tracking gem to locate – a tour of my property to visit with some of my more troublesome tenants was an excellent pretense for me to be roaming the streets. I'd be able to check with the lens periodically for the green dot that now betrayed the wraith's location, or at least, the location of his costume. I'd also get to see first hand what sort of use my Captain had made of the wee morning hours.

Once our very short meeting was concluded, I bolted upstairs to collect some things for my morning trek . . . and discovered that not only was my cloak and other outerwear still damp, but they were both exactly where I'd left them, half draped on the chair sitting in the main foyer.

They hadn't been cleaned or dried as usual - hadn't been touched at all.

I went cold with panic, suddenly recalling Talia's talk of leaving my service . . . her reasons for doing so having something to do with me being a half-blind, colossally unobservant, ignorant git.

She was gone, I realized.

My stomach began to do somersaults as my mind was flooded with notions of all of the things I could have done to stop her, all of the little things that I hadn't done or said as she'd walked away from me the night before. It wasn't until I'd encountered Farrah that I was able to calm myself . . . the second-floor maid informing me that Talia had switched shifts with her that morning, a pressing need for sleep being cited as the reason.

Sleep, and to spend some time off of her injured leg, probably. Talia had slammed into the wall quite hard last night, after all. I breathed a sigh of relief, making an urgent mental note to talk to her just as soon as I got back.

Farrah took my rain-soaked outerwear and assured me she'd have them ready within an hour. I told her not to rush - as it turned out, the rain had lessened considerably in the night, and there was no need for a heavy cloak. In fact, I figured I could get by with a hoodless grey three-quarter cloak and a small gem in my hair, one that gently convinced raindrops that falling somewhere other than my head was a fine idea. I didn't know why gems like that didn't work during heavier rain, but then, I didn't know how those gems worked at all, so . . .

When I finally did go outside, it became apparent that I'd been in danger of forgetting what daylight was.

Despite the many lingering clouds, the sun was bright enough to make me sneeze unexpectedly at times, and the accompanying warmth on my face made my walk about town much more pleasant than the previous forays into the dank night air had been. Birds were chirping, and the rich smell of wet timber and grass lingered in the streets. My spirit was buoyed, and a carefree smile found its way to my face. I swear, the difference was like . . .

Well, “night and day” might be just a tad redundant.

The rest of the morning went by quickly and productively, and my surprise visits to various shopkeepers appeared to accomplish what I wanted. I'd been pleased to note the guilty starts and looks of panic that some tenants made as I entered their shop – their hopeful, optimistic looks falling away abruptly upon seeing my face, despite my expression of good-natured cheer.

In most cases I simply reviewed their books, smiled, and left the store . . . confident that their own imaginations would paint a very detailed picture of what might happen to their various businesses should they be caught trying to swindle or cheat me. Sometimes, that worked much better than anything I could threaten them with.

One of the encounters was extremely satisfying – a particularly untrustworthy jeweler who'd been a problem these past several years. He was a wily older fellow who kept an immaculate shop, someone who'd been in the game long enough to develop some clever habits, not the least of which was his bookkeeping methods. Always smiling whenever I saw him, he'd offer to show me his books even before the question had even been asked, standing by helpfully in case additional explanation was required.

He had the typical reaction, allowing me to peruse his sales notes without a hint of protest. His cheerful expression barely changed as I pulled out the emerald wedding necklace I'd used as a prop that one morning, holding it aloft for him to see. I informed him that an off-duty knight in my employ had purchased the seven-hundred gold extravagance for me a mere week ago, and yet I could not find the sale anywhere in his books.

Even caught in an outright lie, he was an ornery, slippery cuss. He'd looked thoughtful, a smile firmly fixed upon his face, and then assured me that there must be some mistake. Perhaps the necklace was a commissioned piece, he'd mused speculatively, meaning that he wouldn't tally the sale until the original necklace's owner had picked up his money.

I'd insisted this wasn't the case based on my knight's testimony, and the smiling store owner insisted that my knight must have been mistaken, and so on, back and forth for the better part of half an hour, neither of us really getting anywhere. It's what usually happened between the two of us.

That wasn't the satisfying part of the encounter. That came later, once he'd refunded my seven-hundred gold without protest. As I'd been leaving, I exercised my fingers a little and lifted the very same emerald necklace from his left inside jacket pocket (along with a sapphire bracelet from the display case and a small purse behind the till) without him realizing it. I figured it'd go a fair ways towards making up the money that I knew he'd been withholding lately.

I'd say the odds were good he wouldn't even report the theft to me. He'd either suspect that I'd stolen it, or he'd realize that a necklace going missing the very day his Lord returned it for a refund sounded suspiciously fraudulent. When you engage in fraud with any sort of regularity, you're very careful to avoid reporting things that seem suspicious, even when completely legitimate.

Maybe one of these days (possibly one where I was walking out of his store with fully half of his displayed goods tucked away in various pockets) he'd realize that trying to pull this sort of stuff on me wasn't worth the hassle. Or, who knew? Maybe our ongoing battle of wills was the only thing that made his life interesting . . .

Of course, the shop visit I was most looking forward to was still ahead of me. I tried to act as though I were in no particular hurry, despite the urgency I felt every time I glanced at the green glass lens I held. I was pleased to note that the faint point of light in the distance had been getting steadily brighter the further North I went.

As I walked, I tried to remember all that I could about the four or five Lords with keeps that were nearby. I desperately hoped that the culprit wasn't Lord Willowbrook – an extremely tough son of a bitch who didn't mess around much when it came to politics, and who employed some extremely capable thieves.

If he was responsible, I'd have to seriously ponder how to handle things. Still, once I figured out where the wraith disguise was being housed, the biggest part of the mystery would be solved, and that's what I truly needed right now. The prickly details concerning how to get the various pilfered items back to their respective owners might be complicated and dangerous, but even that'd be better than the chaotic uncertainty I'd been dealing with up until now.

I looked through my lens again. Closer still.

In fact, unless I missed my guess, the tracking gem was actually somewhere fairly close to where I was headed – the tea shop at the uppermost edge of my territory, whose owner felt that he was no longer required to pay tribute to his Lord. I vaguely remembered him . . . a rather abrupt and brusque fellow. He'd been quite rude to his own employees as we'd sat down for our first chat, and he'd gone so far as to cuff the lad serving us right in front of me for merely getting my order wrong. It had been a while since I'd been to this particular shop, and I began to wonder if I was even going to be able to recognize it.

After a few more minutes of walking, I realized I needn't have worried. A small crowd of people had formed in the street right in front of the shop I was looking for.

Taking a deep breath, I began projecting innocent good cheer for all I was worth and headed towards the shop's main doors, which appeared to be the source of all the commotion. It took a couple of moments to shoulder through the worst of the crowd, several faces turning to see who it was who wished to elbow past them. Since several of the onlookers were tenants of mine anyways, most of them stepped out of the way and allowed me to get past. Over the dozens of muttering voices and the occasional laugh, I could hear faint traces of groaning effort, as well as a rather exasperated voice attempting to make itself heard, frantically squawking orders at people.

After clearing the worst of the crowd, I stepped through the doorway.

A stout man I recognized was frantically shouting orders at everyone, chins waggling uncertainly, a fine sheen of perspiration on his balding head. He seemed flustered.

“I say, shopkeeper . . . might I trouble you for a cup of Yellow-treacle tea? And one of those sticky-buns if it's not too . . . good heavens!” I said, trying my best to looked shocked and amazed.

It wasn't very hard at all.

It was exactly how a tea shop should look, except that everything in the shop – and I do mean everything – was upside-down and affixed to the ceiling.

Tables were set in an orderly fashion, chairs arranged around them in a casual manner, all held invisibly yet firmly to the wooden roof above our heads. The end-tables with open menus resting upon them, the front counter where tea and baked goods were prepared, even the display case filled with various pastries and bread products was in what appeared to be a useful, functional spot . . . save for the fact that it was inverted and either attached to the ceiling itself, or stuck to something that was. Lamps, cups, baskets of buns, you name it . . .

I mean, even the tipping cup had been welded to the front counter, each individual coin glued to the inside of the shiny glass bowl that held them so they would not fall jangling to the floor.

The grunts of effort I'd heard were coming from three rather young fellows, of an age you'd suspect might be working in a tea shop, all dangling from one of the chairs in a vain effort to pull it down.

Cyrus had discovered a curious compound one day as he was perusing some of the lesser-frequented shops and outfitters on the west side of town, near the docks. He'd shown it to me briefly, demonstrated how it worked, and had been dying to use it ever since. It began as two lumps of putty, one red and one light blue, which you pressed together carefully with your fingers. Once mixed, it would liquify, then solidify, and then do something rather indescribable . . . but in the end, it would weld together any two items it touched as securely as if they were the same object.

I don't know how much of that stuff he'd used here, possibly all of it . . . but it was worth every copper.

As I gazed at the surreal scene, I realized it was getting harder not to grin.

One person wasn't grinning at all. His complexion slightly pink, the shopkeeper turned and stared once I'd spoken aloud, angry eyes peeking up at me from beneath his perspiration-moistened brow.

“Lord . . . Tucat,” he half growled, jaw clenching as he regarded me. His eyes narrowed with realization, as though he had not even considered who might have been behind such a thing until that exact moment.

“Shopkeeper Halfhorn, what the deuce is going on?” I said, sounding astonished. “What in Hades name happened here? Your shop, it's-”

That was when I noticed that each table's center candle had been lit, and while most had burned down to nothing hours ago, one was still steadily dripping a generous amount of hot wax upon the floorboards below. I almost had a fit of the giggles right there.

The shopkeeper appeared to be at a loss for words, and could only stare at me in impotent fury as I looked about the tea shop in wide-eyed wonder.

“Why, this is outrageous!” I cried, doing my level best to sound outraged while gesturing at the room with my arm, aware that the small audience behind me had ceased their muttering in order to hear. “Baal have mercy - who could do such a thing?! What sort of diabolical miscreant could possibly have masterminded a detestable, contemptible, somewhat hilarious act of hooliganism such as this?!”

His complexion became even more pink as I spoke, his eyes smoldering and his jaw working slowly.

“My good man, this is intolerable!” I continued, sputtering as though incensed. “As the Lord responsible for this property, I swear to you I will find those ruffians responsible for doing this and put an end to their vile, sticky, vertigo-inducing pranks! No matter how daring, how smart, how outrageously funny these scoundrels are, they'll not be able to hide from my wrath! Why, if I have to turn this place upside-down, I swear that I'll get to the bottom of this, and when I do-”

“You . . .” the shopkeeper managed to squawk shrilly. There were a few dry chuckles that could be heard from the street.

“Yes . . . me! Of course! Why, isn't it my duty to you, my loyal tenant, to investigate every . . . every single . . . problem that-” I trailed off, furrowing my eyebrows at him suddenly. “Hang on a second. Halfhorn, is it? Merchant seal two-oh-six? I seem to recall something about that name, something fairly recent, though I can't quite remember what . . .”

“Lord Tucat,” the balding man growled, finally appearing to find his tongue, “are you saying that you aren't the one who did this to my shop?”

“I? Ye gods, man . . . what possible reason could I have to do such a dastardly thing? Why, you're one of my best tenants, if memory serves, and-”

“Former tenant,” he spat, expression becoming more hostile.

“Former . . . ah yes! I remember now,” I beamed, looking up at the assorted tables and chairs speculatively. “Thanks for reminding me . . . mind like a sieve. Yes, former tenant. Well, frankly I'm a little relieved to hear that. Wouldn't want to be the one responsible for cleaning up this mess, hey? What a headache that would be.”

“You . . . you can't-” he stammered.

“Exactly.” I nodded appraisingly to the room. “I can't. Wouldn't be fair to the others, the shopkeepers who pay for my protection. Still, disturbing to know that things like this are going on, young mischievous hoodlums running around unchecked, forcing innocent furniture to defy gravity like this. Personally, I blame the parents.”

My calm, smug words proved to be too much for him, and the shopkeeper exploded in anger a moment later.

“You think me simple-minded?” he shouted, his face now a fiery scarlet mask of rage. “You're behind this, you blighted, money-grubbing bastard! My shop is ruined, gods know for how long! You just couldn't stand the thought of an honest shopkeeper making due without your 'protection', and so you come down here-”

“I'll tell you what, though. Because you're in a bit of a tight spot, and even though you've publicly stated you have no need of your Lord's protection, I shall do you this one favor to show there's no hard feelings.” I raised my voice a notch for the benefit of those who were still milling around in the street, peering over one another to see what was going on. “I, Lord Vincent Tucat, shall reimburse you for any and all property that has gone missing as a result of this despicable and outrageous prank. Tell me what they made off with, and I promise that you shall have it back within the hour.”

I smiled beatifically at him, watching as his scowl deepened. Once more, he appeared at a loss for words.

Cyrus had, of course, stolen nothing. I'd made that part of my plan very clear.

“What?” I cried out as if scandalized a few seconds of silence later, not waiting for a response from the furious shop owner. “Are you saying they took nothing? They went to all this trouble, and then lacked the common decency to even rob you, like an honest thief? Fie, the gall of those scoundrels! Clearly the perpetrators wished to send you a sinister message, perhaps to demonstrate that they're capable of stealing everything you own, anytime they like.”

“You ill-bred, son of-”

“And now,” I said quietly, interrupting his sputtering retort by firmly grabbing his arm and yanking him aside, out of earshot of those nearby, “before you go and say something you'll desperately wish to take back, I want you to listen closely, and I very strongly recommend you don't interrupt.”

He closed his half-opened mouth and looked at me petulantly, though still quite obviously angry. I escorted him even further away from the crowd, so that I wouldn't be heard.

“First,” I continued, softly, “I'd try to lower your voice when making comments about my character, or sharing other unfounded accusations. Once or twice, I can let go . . . but sooner or later I'll have to take steps to safeguard my reputation, and I guarantee you wouldn't like that. Second, being your former Lord, I feel it may be necessary to point out a few things you may not be aware of. Do you know what happens when a tenant of mine chooses not to pay their tribute?”

Tight-lipped and sullen, he shook his head.

“Well, while there's a few different things that can happen, the short answer is that if I wish to keep the territory I've been given, I pay their portion of tribute instead. The Prince doesn't care where his money comes from, really, so long as he gets it. Some Lords can get quite irked when they're forced to pay a tenant's share out of their own pocket, and often times the affected Lord ends up paying a visit to their tenant. I'm told these meetings can be very tense.” I sniffed, looking around the room. “Tables and chairs aren't the only things that can be found unexpectedly hanging from the rafters, if you catch my meaning.”

He caught my meaning. I noted the widening of his eyes with amusement and continued.

“Of course, I prefer a more gentle sort of approach. Not that I had anything to do with this, mind you,” I snorted, looking about once more, “although if you were to go to Tucat Keep and ask to speak to my Knight-Captain, I'm fairly certain that he might be in possession of a bottle of solvent or some such thing that might end up being useful. It'll probably only cost you the last two months of unpaid tribute, if I had to guess.”

A long while passed as we stood there, each of us measuring the other. He began shaking his head, slowly.

“Low-born blighter,” he snarled. “Well, since it appears as though I have no choice-”

“By the way,” I leaned forward intently, interrupting him with a hushed whisper, “do you duel?”

His mouth hung open mid-word, and he gave me an uncertain look.

“You see,” I said, quietly, “the Prince often grants favors to Lords he likes, especially those who keep their territories running smoothly, sometimes in the form of permission to duel. Once such a duel is proposed and approved by him, participation is required by law. Do you perchance duel? You know . . . with swords?”

Still open-mouthed, he shook his head.

“Pity. You'd have to find a duelist, at great expense, and it just isn't the same against a duelist. You could fight it yourself, of course, or perhaps leave town,” I sighed unhappily, shaking my head. “So many of them leave town now. Takes all the fun out of things.”

The easy smile left my face, and I looked the fellow straight in the eye while pointing very deliberately to the scar bridging my nose.

“Use the word 'blight', 'blighter', 'blighted' . . . any word that even remotely sounds like those words around me ever again, and we'll be finding out if the Prince is in a favor-granting mood very shortly afterward,” I said darkly, squinting hard at him. “Am I clear?”

A gulp and a nod later, I allowed my easy smile to appear once more.

“Well then,” I announced, my voice loud enough for most of the assembled crowd to hear, “I'm terribly disappointed I couldn't be more help today. I hope you manage to track down the irrepressible and devilishly handsome young rascals responsible for this outrage. With ruffians like that on the loose, who knows which one of us might be targeted next?”

Leaving the shop, I pretended not to notice the uneasy looks I was getting from some of the other shopkeepers hovering nearby. I had a sneaking suspicion that my problems in that area of town would work themselves out in short order.

That had felt good.

Allowing myself a small smile as I cleared the edge of the crowd, I pulled out the green lens and peered through it.

I stopped in my tracks, not fifteen feet from the collection of people behind me.

Very bright, very close. I swiveled my entire body so I could better see where the white-green light was coming from.

The gem was at ground level, and it appeared to be coming from an unremarkable building that had a collection of street urchins standing in front of it, all watching the crowd that had gathered in front of the tea shop. My stomach dropped a little as I realized that this building was on my territory, and thus finding the costume might not provide me with useful information after all.

I stepped sideways, peering through the lens as I did, trying to orient on the beacon's precise location. It was near the front of the building. In fact, as I took an additional step sideways, I could see that the gem was right at the very front door.

Or just outside of it.

Several of the urchins were looking at me, the sight of a Lord walking down the street being rare enough to merit a second look or surreptitious stare. One of them, a taller boy, was looking at me with eyes wider than the others, and had an expression that spoke of grave concern.

I lowered my lens, looking directly at him. Then, I raised my lens up in his direction once more.

The telltale glow was coming from slightly behind him.

Like a flash, he turned away and bolted down a side-street with an urgent flailing of legs, taking the brightly glowing dot with him, tatters of what remained of his coarse brown rags trailing behind-

Rags!

Not even bothering to try to make sense of it, I bolted after the fleeing figure who had already turned a corner and disappeared into the shadowy recesses of a nearby alley.