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Jenna remained on the path outside. “I’d rather not,” she said to the Thorn Knight’s entreaties.

“Suit yourself. You’ll miss seeing what a fool I’ve been,” Sir Arach said.

“I am certain other opportunities will arise,” she answered coldly.

Returning to the arbor where Gaeord crouched red-faced and breathing heavily in the shadows, Sir Arach motioned to the wall. There, he pointed out the clear marks in the deep garden loam of two bootprints. Gaeord looked at them for a moment, then turned a questioning gaze on the Thorn Knight.

“Don’t you see?” Sir Arach asked. Gaeord shook his head.

With a sigh, the Thorn Knight continued. “If you were to stand at the wall and leap for the edge, what sort of marks would your feet leave?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Gaeord answered.

“Toes indented, dirt flung away from the wall,” came the shouted answer from beyond the rose bushes.

“Thank you, Mistress Jenna,” Sir Arach shouted in response. Turning back to the bootprints, he continued, “As you can see, the toes here have hardly left any impression at all, while the heels are indented quite deeply, which is indicative of someone landing, not jumping.”

“I see,” Gaeord sighed appreciatively. “But what does it mean?”

“It means, dear Gaeord, that either your thief crossed the lawn by running backwards, or he wore his boots turned around backwards, or the boots themselves were magically altered to leave backwards impressions.”

“Of course!” Mistress Jenna exclaimed from without.

“So he jumped over my wall wearing backwards shoes,” Gaeord said, still confused.

“No, he dropped from the wall into your garden wearing backwards shoes.” Taking the sweating merchant by the sleeve of his pajamas, Sir Arach led him back to the garden path.

“Where has Mistress Jenna gone?” Gaeord asked as they emerged from the roses.

Sir Arach looked around, equally puzzled, then shrugged and continued his explanation as he led Gaeord back to the house. The red-robed sorceress had vanished, as was her wont.

“Having gained entrance to the estate, he then followed your daughter. from her assignation across the lawn and into the house, past the guards who probably thought it best to not see her entrance, in case they were questioned later. He then went up the stairs, hid for a moment in the niche, then continued down the passage after narrowly avoiding the attack of the magical bronze guardians.”

“But you can’t get to that chamber from that hallway,” Gaeord argued.

“Yes, I know,” Sir Arach said absently. He walked along, eyeing something he had drawn from a pocket of his gray robes. “Of course, I should have known at once that the boot prints were a ruse. The rose thorn stuck to the hem of his cloak proved that he had been in the garden before entering the house.”

“What about the second thief?” Gaeord asked as they stopped at the front door. “This doesn’t account for the thief you say entered through the loft. I should think he is the more talented and dangerous of the two.”

“My dear Gaeord, why worry yourself needlessly? Let a professional do the thinking, for it isn’t your strength. Now that I have a track to follow, I shall surely hunt down both thieves. Give me two turns of the glass on the grounds and about the house and I’ll give you your men.” With these words, Sir Arach turned and strode off in the direction of the reflecting pool.

Gaeord was just finishing a breakfast of ham and fried potatoes, a servant standing at his elbow to retrieve the empty plates, when Sir Arach returned, red faced and excited by his efforts. He slid into a seat at the table quite uninvited, and said without being asked, “Yes, thank you, I am famished. But no potatoes. I prefer eggs, poached, lightly salted if you don’t mind. And do hurry, I am expected at the Spring Dawning ceremonies in little more than an hour.”

The servant glanced at his master, and at Gaeord’s nod, hurried away to the kitchen.

Gaeord set aside his knife and fork and dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin almost as large as a ship’s flag. “So you have solved it then,” he muttered through the napkin.

“Most assuredly,” Sir Arach answered, as he examined the silverware. Gaeord had the uncomfortable feeling that his every possession had been carefully noted, categorized, and filed away in the enormous intellect of the Lord High Justice of Palanthas. “An interesting case, with several remarkable features. I thank you. I wouldn’t have missed it for all the jewels in Ansalon.”

“So who is the thief?” Gaeord asked, as a servant entered and began to clear away the other dishes and glasses.

“Thieves,” corrected Sir Arach. “No, perhaps you were right-thief. I’ll tell you who it is not. It is not the man who is currently at the bottom of your reflecting pool attracting sharks from the bay. Nor is it one of your household servants, nor one of your guests of the night before. They have all been accounted for. No one is missing.”

So one of the thieves was dead! Gaeord let out a sigh of relief and wiped his brow with his napkin. Then a cold chill prickled the nape of his pomaded neck, for he realized that, during the course of an hour, Sir Arach had ascertained the current whereabouts of every guest who had visited his party, as well as all his servants. This hinted at an enormous network of informants and spies, a network more fantastic than even the most fantastic rumors circulating in Palanthas.

“Who is at the bottom of the pool, then?” Gaeord asked timidly.

“Most likely one of the servants hired for the evening-a steward, wine servant, or musician. He slipped away during a lull in the party. It is possible that he had assistance from someone else on the inside,” Sir Arach said.

A servant entered with Sir Arach’s breakfast, and it was some time before Gaeord could get another word out of the man. For such a small, thin fellow, the Thorn Knight polished off copious amounts of fried ham and eggs, not to mention a full pot of tarbean tea. Finally, when nothing else remained, he settled back in his chair and dabbed his lips, sucked his teeth, and eyed the plates for any crumbs he might have missed.

“Do you have any clues as to the other thief’s identity?” Gaeord finally asked. He had grown anxious and wished the Thorn Knight would leave. He could recover financially from the theft, but he feared he might never shake the feeling that Sir Arach Jannon knew everything there was to know about him, from how much sugar he took with his tarbean tea, to the number of bags of untaxed steel and gold coins that lay hidden under the floor beneath his bed. Besides, the morning was getting on, and as this day was the annual Spring Dawning festival, his schedule was quite filled. He was anxious to get the awful business of the burglary behind him.

Sir Arach gazed at him for a while before answering his question, as though enjoying the tension that his continued silence created. Gaeord squirmed in his chair and toyed with his napkin, gazed out the huge windows of his breakfast room over the wide blue sweep of the Bay of Branchala-anything but look at his guest as he awaited the answer.

Finally, with a small chuckle, Sir Arach began. “I’d say we’re looking for a youngish man, early twenties, with coppery hair, slim build, Walks with the aid of a staff,” he rattled off while he observed his host’s expression.

“Really, Sir Arach. How could you-” Gaeord began, but the Knight cut him off.

“I had a man watching the estate last night. He saw just such a character pass up the street toward the University but took him for one of its students. However, the time is approximately correct, as we learned from a more careful interrogation of your guards, which established the time when your daughter returned to the party. No one else was seen in the vicinity of your southern wall at that time, though my man failed to notice anyone climbing over it.”

Gaeord rose from his chair, his face flushed, and threw his napkin on the table. “Really, I-”