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“We need more light,” I said. Dinra grunted and led us around until we spotted a streak of light leaking out from a shutter overhead. He showed me the object again, and now I could see various scratches on it, like glyphs, and the glitter of three red jewels set in a triangle.

“It’s a pretty thing,” I said. “What is it?”

He chuckled. “My fortune, with any luck. And yours as well, my friend.”

“Mine?”

“It was something you said that led me to it, and, with all you’ve done for me, I think you des—”

“I’ve done nothing for you,” I said, laughing. “Though you’re welcome to think I have.”

“Uh-huh. Right. Teaching me to play is nothing?”

“I didn’t teach you. You learned.”

“Heh” he said. We’d had that argument before, and neither of us were ever going to win it. He started to say more, but I shook my head and led him away from the light, indicating he ought to put the thing away.

“Tell me,” I said, dropping my voice, “what I said that led you to that thing, whatever it is.”

He graced me with one of his, “Are you joking?” looks. “You said there are still artifacts around from when the Hand ruled.”

“Well, yes.”

“And you spoke of one in particular, for which the right people would pay a fortune. You said it was being passed from hand to hand by those who didn’t know what it was, and was presently in the cache of a fat little merchant—”

“Kakos!”

“—who kept it somewhere in his back storeroom. Yes, that’s right.”

“I told you about that? I mean, that’s all true, but I don’t remember telling you about it. I can’t believe I’d have been so stupid.”

“You were a little drunk.”

“Oh. But—” I frowned and stared at him. “Wait—is than …?”

He nodded. “The Palm of the Hand,” he said.

I don’t know if I actually turned pale, but it felt that way. “Put it away, for the love of—”

“Relax. No one—”

I screamed a whisper, if you can imagine such a thing. “Put it away. Now!”

He put it away, giving me a sort of hurt look. Our feet carried us past Carzen the wheelwright’s, now closed and shuttered and locked, but with some signs of life. I said, “I did not spend four years teaching you to play in order to watch you get your bloody throat cut. That thing—that isn’t us. We sing. We play. We entertain people. We drink a lot. We don’t mess with—”

“But I have it already.”

Light came flooding out from a doorway, a small public house called the Bottomless Well. I don’t know much about it because they don’t encourage musicians. When we were out of earshot of the place, I said, “Yes, you do. You survived getting it—and no, I don’t want to know how, or from where—but how are you going to survive keeping it?”

He started to answer, but I cut him off, because we’d reached the Processional, and I needed to head east and out the gates to Land’s End. “Look,” I said. “Keep it out of sight, and stay safe. I’ll talk to you later.”

I left him there with a puzzled look on his face and went to do what they pay me for. Finding Land’s End is easy; finding this particular residence within its walls was a bit of a challenge, but I managed.

His home was in the country in the middle of a town

A simple square with three fine walls it was

completely round.

It rested in a valley, high up on a hill

It burned down many years ago so it must be there

still

So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t

fail

And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.

The Enders spent the night not listening to me, and then told me how good I’d been. Enders—at the least the ones that hire musicians—come in three styles: dirges, fugues, and jigs. Dirges just scowl at you as if you were terrible and that’s why they aren’t tipping you. Fugues beam at you, telling you how wonderful you were, and calculate that you’d rather hear that than receive a tip. Jigs figure that, if they’re going to say you were wonderful, they have to back it up with a soldat or two. In no case, as far as I can tell, does it have anything to do with how well you’ve played. Dinra said that playing for the Ilsigi is similar, but they are a little more willing to listen, now and then, and will occasionally even admit they enjoyed the music.

Lord Serripines had appeared briefly, but so far as I could tell, hadn’t spoken more than three words to anyone or spared a glance in my direction. The story was that his hatred of the Dyareelans was deep and abiding. What would he say if he knew that I’d just seen a powerful artifact of theirs in the hand of my best friend? I very much did not want to know.

In any case, the Ender who acted as host that night was a jig, so in addition to meaningless praise I had a nice pair of soldats warming my pocket as I packed up my cresca and prepared to head for home.

A servant escorted me to the back door, where there were two uniformed guards. Their eyes pounced on me, and they moved forward on the balls of their feet as if ready to start chasing me. I blinked at them.

“Tordin Jardin?” said the skinny one. Well, he was mostly skinny, but he had big shoulders that looked like they had a lot of muscle under them.

I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am Tord‘an J’ardin. May I be of service?” I gave them a smile.

The skinny one nodded brusquely. His partner, who was a bit taller and had amazingly thick, shaggy eyebrows, just stood there, still looking like he was ready to leap if I took off.

I didn’t take off.

Skinny said, “The Sharda has some questions for you. Come along with us.”

The Sharda? I’d heard of the Sharda. I tried to remember where, and in what context.

I smiled again. “Sure.”

I know being cheerful to the City Watch just makes them suspicious, but I can’t help it; it’s how I am.

They positioned themselves on each side of me, but didn’t hobble me or anything, so there was a limit to how much trouble I might be in. As we walked, I said, “I don’t suppose you can tell me what this—”

“No,” said Shaggybrows.

I chuckled. “I hadn’t really thought you would.” They like to have you on their own turf before they start on anything. There was no point in speculating, but I couldn’t help it. When they come and get you, it’s something more than to ask if you happened to witness a day laborer ducking out on a bill at the ’Unicorn.

I said, “So, how are you gentlemen doing this evening?”

Skinny grunted. Shaggybrows didn’t. This completed the conversation until we reached the post.

It was a long walk, made longer by the conversation, of which there was none whatsoever. They brought me to the Hall of Justice, near the palace, and deposited me in a chair in a room full of blank walls with a single chair. Skinny indicated the chair, and I sat down. They left, and when they closed the door I heard a bolt being shot.

The fact that they hadn’t taken my cresca, or, indeed, searched me, was a good sign. And more than a good sign, it also gave me something to do while waiting for the dance to begin, so to speak. Of course, I’d have had something to do anyway: If they d taken my cresca, I’d have whistled. I whistle very well. But I opened up the case, tuned the instrument, and began running through some scales. I also wondered at the evident cooperation between the City Watch and whoever the magistrate was who was investigating this matter.