They arrived at the balcony through the large gilded mahogany door. Two guards, still wearing their holiday ribbons, stood near the hall entrance flanked by the bronze statues. On the floor at the feet of one of these statues lay a palm-wide strip of black cloth about three feet long. It was to this that they directed Sir Arach’s attention. He lifted it carefully by one corner and held it up to the sunlight streaming through window.
“Curious material,” he noted. “I know the weaver. He shall be questioned. Hello! What’s this?” He plucked something from the hem. “The thorn of a rose. Now we are getting somewhere. The material itself has been cut by a sharp instrument. The cut is not straight, which indicates that a tailor’s scissors did not shear it. It looks rather more like the veil cut in twain by an expert swordsman.” He eyed the statues for a moment, then nodded as though his suspicions were confirmed. He then held the cloth to his nose and sniffed deeply, while his eyes wandered over the room, taking in every detail.
Suddenly, he dropped the cloth and dashed to the head of the stairs, where one of numerous marble busts stood atop its pedestal set in a deep niche along the wall. He stared at it intensely for a moment, then turned his eyes to the floor behind the pedestal.
Seeing his interest, Gaeord remarked, “That is a bust of Vinas Solumnus. It was carved by the renowned sculptor Makennen in the year-”
“Yes, I know!” Sir Arach snarled without turning. “I find its position more of interest than its quality, which is quite poor, I assure you. It’s an obvious forgery.”
“A forgery!” Gaeord fairly screeched. “Why I paid over-”
Again, Sir Arach interrupted him. “Be that as it may, you have taken such great care with the perfect placement of the thirteen other busts along this wall that I find it difficult to believe you would leave this one so carelessly out of line. Why look, he faces almost a quarter turn away.”
“Remarkable,” Mistress Jenna said with obvious disdain. “I applaud your keen observation.”
Sir Arach glared at her for a moment. “It proves that one thief, at least, entered by way of the front door.”
“Impossible,” Gaeord interjected.
“I was on guard at that door all night, sir,” one of the guards protested. “No thief got by me, I assure you!”
“Nevertheless, he did ‘get by you,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Sir Arach replied caustically. “He ascended these stairs, hid here for a moment behind the pedestal, then made his way under the arch protected by those two magical and highly illegal bronze guardians, who only managed to slice a few inches of cloth from his cloak. A most clever and resourceful adversary. I shall enjoy capturing him. Now, to the front door, where I am sure we shall find more of interest.”
With these words, like a hound upon a scent the Thorn Knight flew down the stairs, his gray robes fluttering around him in his speed. The others followed more slowly. They found Sir Arach crawling about the grass plot near the doorway. The owl, still perched on its stand by the door, eyed him sleepily.
As the others strode out into the bright morning sunlight, Sir Arach rose slowly to his feet, wrinkling his brow. He searched the ground with his eyes while his long, spatulate fingers nervously scratched his chin.
“Why, what ever is the matter?” Mistress Jenna mockingly asked.
“Most curious. Most curious indeed,” the Thorn Knight answered distractedly. “Here, as you can see, are the same foot- prints as those left in the dust behind the pedestal. They are quite unique, I assure you. There can be no mistake that they are identical. Observe the square toe and the curious oaken leaf pattern on the left heel.”
Jenna and Gaeord leaned over the spot he indicated, but they saw nothing other than a blade or two of grass that might have been bent by a heavy tread.
Shrugging, Jenna asked, “So what is the mystery?”
“They go the wrong way. They do not enter the house, they leave it,” he answered. “And there is something most strange about them. I cannot put my finger on it, something about the way…” His voice trailed off as he turned and walked slowly along the front of the house, his eyes scouring the ground at his feet, pausing occasionally to examine a blade of grass or touch an indentation only his eyes could see.
Jenna strolled along behind him, with Gaeord trailing the famous sorceress so that he wouldn’t have to feel her eyes boring into his back. As they walked, Mistress Jenna muttered angrily to herself. Gaeord stepped closer to hear.
“Waste of time. Why doesn’t he just use his magic to solve it? Over-brained fool. I could track down the thief with a spell at any time,” she grumbled.
“Why don’t you then?” Gaeord asked.
“What?” She spun round, and Gaeord was sorry he’d asked.
“That’s his job!” she spat, pointing at the Thorn Knight. “I’ll not waste my magic chasing…” She let the words die on her lips as Gaeord stared at her curiously.
Sir Arach stopped by the fountain and knelt. As Jenna and Gaeord approached, he said, “The thief paused here for a time. I wonder why, unless…” He crawled away, his nose almost to the ground.
“Here!” he announced. “The light tread of a lady’s slippers, perhaps a girl. She was dancing.”
“Dancing, you say?” Gaeord asked, the blood draining from his face.
“An accomplice?” Jenna asked.
“Not likely. Probably, she didn’t even see him. I marvel, though, at his iron nerve, to stay hidden while she danced so near. In any case, her path leads toward the house, his leads, unaccountably, away.” Again, the puzzle crossed his narrow brow. Rising, he continued along the trail only his eyes could see.
It led them eventually into the garden, and finally to the rose hedge beside the wall. Sir Arach stooped beneath the hedge, vanishing through a barely perceptible gap in the thick thorny screen. He returned almost immediately, something bright glimmering on his outstretched palm.
“I marvel, Master Gaeord, at the baubles you leave lying about your garden. What fruits do you expect to grow from it? This, I believe, is one of the famous Laertian Combs, renowned for their priceless rubies, which you gave to your daughter on her sixteenth Day of Life Gift. And here is an ivory button-not really ivory, whale’s tooth actually, which is favored by the middle classes over the more expensive true ivory. I don’t imagine you would allow your own daughter to wear such trash. Perhaps her companion lost it.”
With a strangled cry, Gaeord snatched the condemning evidence from the Thorn Knight’s palm. Sir Arach vanished again behind the roses. Jenna chuckled and looked away.
A burst of insane laughter erupted from the rose bushes. “What a fool I’ve been. It was before me all the time. There is nothing so misleading as an obvious clue,” the Thorn Knight berated himself, all the while cackling hideously. The sound of it, like nails dragged across a slate board, made the others cringe.
His head appeared through the bushes. “Come, come. You must see this. Ah, I can’t have been so blind. Watch yourself. The thorns are sharp.”
With obvious reluctance, Gaeord stooped through the rose bushes and found himself in a close, shadowy arbor completely hidden from any passersby in the garden. At the back of it, the outer wall of his estate rose some dozen feet above him.