The Thieves’ Guild

Chapter Three

Has anyone thought to question the owl?” the man asked as he knelt on the floor. A voluminous robe the color of driftwood hid his entire body, including his head. On the floor before him lay a congealing pool of dark blood.

“The owl?” the master of the house, Gaeord uth Wotan, asked nervously. He was a man unused to being afraid of anyone or anything, and he disliked the feeling. He fidgeted with the heavy gold chain dangling below his chin, and nervously ran a hand down the front of his blue silk pajamas.

“The owl by the door,” the man in the robes said. “The one given you by Amil of Sanction in exchange for certain, how shall we say, advantages in Palanthian pearl importation.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir Arach,” Gaeord stammered. With a sigh, the gray-robed Knight of Takhisis pushed back his hood and stared languidly at his portly host. “The magical owl said to have the power of speech,” he said with weary patience.

“Oh, that owl!” Gaeord laughed nervously. “The magical power wore off some months ago. How did you know?” he whispered.

“It is my business to know, Master Gaeord,” Sir Arach Jannon said. “It is my business to know everything that passes within this city. I am its Lord High Justice, am I not? I am also the highest-ranking Thorn Knight in the city, and as such all things magical also come under my domain, especially since the unlicensed ownership of magical items is illegal in this city.”

“Yes, sir,” Gaeord said.

“I knew about this owl of yours, just as I know that most of these boxes and crates,” he said with a gesture at the contents of the room, “have never seen the inside of a customs house, that they arrive by night from your ships, pass through the water gate into your reflecting pool, and are unloaded through that loft, the loft through which your burglar either entered or made his escape.”

“Which is it?” Gaeord asked, trying desperately to change the subject. “If he entered through the door, why break the lock on the loft cage? If he entered through the loft, who entered through the door?”

“Exactly! And once here, how did he die and where is his body? If he did‘ die here, then who was it that escaped? This case presents some interesting perplexities, Master Gaeord,” Sir Arach said. “I am very glad you brought it to my attention. So glad that I may overlook certain irregularities in the way you choose to conduct your business.”

“I knew of your interest in such puzzles. I am only thankful that nothing was stolen,” Gaeord said quickly, with just a bit too much enthusiasm. He had not sent for Sir Arach. The man had unaccountably appeared at his door at dawn, announcing his intention to investigate the burglary of which only Gaeord and a few of his most trusted servants had known. Gaeord suspected that the Thorn Knight had spies in his household, just as it was rumored he had spies in the house of every important family in Palanthas.

“Yes. You are indeed fortunate that nothing was stolen,” Sir Arach responded, his voice tinged with irony. Droplets of sweat broke out on Gaeord’s brow.

At that moment, a servant appeared at the door, clearing his throat.

“What is it?” Gaeord snapped.

“Mistress Jenna to see you, sir,” the servant said nervously. “She demanded-”

Before he could finish his explanation, a woman pushed past him and entered the room. She was clad in long robes of a deep wine-colored red, bound about the waist by a belt of gold twined with what appeared to be a living vine. Her long gray hair was pulled back in a simple yet elegant braid, allowing the gold hoops in her ears the freedom to swing and glint in the light.

Though well into her sixties, Mistress Jenna was still a strikingly beautiful woman. Her steps were firm and sure, her stride vigorous. She was perhaps the most powerful mage in the city, respected, even feared. Her shop, the Three Moons, dealt in magical items, potions, scrolls, and spellbooks (though the latter were of little use since the moons of magic disappeared from the skies after the Chaos War). Strangely enough, or perhaps not so strangely, considering the position of influence that she held in the city, the Knights of Takhisis never questioned her right to deal in magic, even though the law against the sale of such items was strictly prosecuted in all other cases. Now Sir Arach rose at her entrance, and it was an indication of her position in society that he bowed slightly upon meeting her eyes.

She cast a swift, bitter glance over him, then turned to the master of the house.

“Mistress Jenna, this is an unexpected surprise,” Gaeord said rather unconvincingly. He coughed, and using the excuse to cup one hand over his mouth to hide it from Sir Arach’s view, mouthed the words, “Say nothing.”

Mistress Jenna seemed not to notice. Her gaze had just as quickly strayed to the blood stain on the floor. “I heard there was a robbery,” she said, as her eyes lighted on the open loft door, then flickered over the various boxes and crates that half filled the room.

“Nothing was taken,” Gaeord quickly affirmed. How many spies did he have in his house anyway? He determined as soon as this was over to question all his servants most thoroughly.

Sir Arach merely smiled, his black eyes “Why, Mistress Jenna!” he exclaimed with mock surprise. “I had no idea that you and Master Gaeord were such close friends. It really is too kind of you to visit him in his hour of need, but on its face, this case seems simple enough, and we certainly shouldn’t need to call upon your considerable magical powers to solve it.”

“You suspect who the thief is?” Gaeord asked.

“Not a clue,” the Thorn Knight admitted without hesitation. “But I have every confidence that I shall discover his identity. It is a shame about that owl, though. Most strange that it should lose its magical powers, now, at this particular time.”

At these last words, a strange quiet fell over the room’s occupants. Gaeord wondered at its cause, looking in some confusion at his two uninvited guests, who seemed to be staring at each other. A more imaginative man might have fancied that the gray eyes of Mistress Jenna were fighting a duel with the sharp, black eyes of the Thorn Knight, each mage probing the other for some clue as to what he or she was thinking at that moment. Though no word was said, whole conversations seemed to pass between them.

Suddenly, like a wrestler who flings off his opponent to escape him, the Thorn Knight tore his gaze away from Mistress Jenna. He then spoke slowly, as though fighting to regain his composure, “Yes, we might have learned much from the owl.”

Mistress Jenna turned to Gaeord. “What were the thieves after?” she asked.

“I have many things in my house that such daring thieves as these would be willing to risk their lives to obtain,” Gaeord bragged. “But I assure you, they failed in their attempt to steal whatever it was they were after. See, they were interrupted and fled!”

Sir Arach clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Come, come, Master Gaeord,” he said. “How can I possibly be expected to solve this crime if its victim withholds pertinent facts? I must know everything if justice is to prevail.”

Despite his wealth and station in Palanthian society, Gaeord uth Wotan’s face turned gray at these words. A man such as he was long accustomed to dealing with government officials while conducting his business of importation and trade. His ability to guarantee the sort of profits his partners and investors demanded depended on operating, now and then, outside of the normal confines of the law. Ways were opened and means obtained by the judicious and discreet application of coin, favors, gifts, intimidation, even violence. He was no criminal, no one would dare to call him such. It was simply how business was conducted in Palanthas.

Standing before him, however, was a man notoriously impossible to influence. Sir Arach Jannon, one of the most powerful men in all Palanthas, could not be bribed and he certainly could not be intimidated. It was he who intimidated others. Nothing could be hidden from him. He had spies throughout the city, it was said, in every household of any importance, even those of his fellow Knights of Takhisis. What was more, the man was a Thorn Knight, a magic user of the Gray Robes, and magic worried Gaeord almost as much as high taxes.

Those who opposed Sir Arach often found themselves under intense scrutiny. Those with business practices that could not bear close examination had no desire to conduct business with those under Sir Arach’s eye. More than one great Palanthian family had been destroyed by this man, often without one charge ever being leveled against it.

Gaeord mopped his brow with a green silk handkerchief, then nervously tugged at the gold chain dangling around his neck. He had not shaved, having been awakened before dawn by his footman with the report of the break-in, and now his jowls itched abominably. He glanced from the Thorn Knight to Mistress Jenna, but her severe gaze only served to turn his blood to ice. She must know already, without his having said a word. His news must necessarily displease her, since what was stolen was hers. She had ordered and already paid (quite handsomely) for it the previous autumn. Then again, she might be his saving grace. The special dispensation concerning all things magical that Mistress Jenna enjoyed might shield him from Sir Arach. He could hardly be convicted of smuggling dangerous magic if he was but the carrier for someone who enjoyed immunity from the law.

He cleared his throat as he stuffed the handkerchief into the sleeve of his pajamas. “It was a quantity-mind you, a small quantity-of dragonflower pollen,” he said, ending with a nervous laugh he hoped would seem nonchalant.

“Dragonflower pollen!” Sir Arach exclaimed. “I am surprised at you, Master Gaeord. I had thought you limited your activities to more mundane contraband. Little did I suspect that you were importing the most illegal substance in Palanthas. The pollen of the dragonflower grows only in the Dragon Isles, where it is death for mortals to tread. In small amounts, it prolongs life and returns the flush of youth. Greater quantities, I’m sure you know, bring madness and death.”

“It was for a friend,” Gaeord pleaded, staring at Mistress Jenna. The Thorn Knight followed the direction of Gaeord’s gaze.

“Ah, that explains the presence of the renowned Mistress Jenna,” Sir Arach said.

“Yes, it was for me,” she finally admitted without apology. “I funded the expedition "to the Dragon Isles, not Master Gaeord, though it was his ship and crew. I can’t afford a second expedition. I want the pollen returned to me at once, and,” she added to the Thorn Knight, “I expect you to see that the Thieves’ Guild is punished most severely.”

“Who said anything about the Thieves’ Guild?” Sir Arach asked somewhat crossly. “There is no Thieves’ Guild in Palanthas. This is the work of petty criminals, nothing more.”

“Well, whoever they are, I want them caught. You Knights of Takhisis talk about how you maintain law and order. I want to see it in action. If you won’t do it, I certainly will,” Mistress Jenna angrily threatened.

“Yes, and today is Spring Dawning festival,” Gaeord said, trying again to change the subject. “Might we hurry this up? The festivities begin in a couple of hours.”

“I would have been finished by now, if you had been honest with me from the beginning and if others wouldn’t keep interrupting!” Sir Arach snarled. “If I might have a few moments to examine this room, I think I might be able to move forward with my investigation. Do try to stay out of my way.”

With that, the Thorn Knight sank to all fours and began to crawl this way and that over the floor, pressing his nose into corners, laying his face on the flagstones, and staring for long minutes at things the others could not see. Occasionally, some exclamation of surprise or discovery escaped his lips, but only once during the course of his odd caperings did Sir Arach speak, to ask, “How often is this floor polished?”

“Daily,” Gaeord answered.

Nodding, the Thorn Knight removed a pouch from a pocket of his robe and struck it against the floor. A cloud of fine white dust erupted from it and settled on the floor. He examined it for a moment, nodded again, then turned his attention to the loft door. He stood in the embrasure for some moments staring down into the reflecting pool below, then turned his attention to the inner walls, then the outside of the wall above the opening. Lastly, he lifted the doors’ wooden bar and examined it in detail.

He crossed the room and carefully studied the entrance from the hallway, taking special care around the door’s brass lock and running his fingers along the edges of the doorframe.

That accomplished, he finished his examination at the pool of blood where he had begun. He knelt beside it, then dipped the tip of his finger into it. He held the sample up to the light and peered at it with one eye shut, sniffed it, and popped the blood-smeared finger into his mouth.

“Gods!” Gaeord said in disgust. Mistress Jenna turned away, exasperated.

Sir Arach looked at them, still sucking his finger. Almost apologetically, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and rose to his feet. “The final test. Had to be sure,” he said by way of explanation.

“Test for what?” Jenna scowled.

“Cause of death,” he said.

“Whose death?”

“I think if Gaeord can have his servants drag the reflecting pool, we may discover the answer,” Sir Arach said.

“So what happened?” Gaeord asked.

“Two thieves entered this chamber, one by the door from the hallway-one of them had a key. The lock has not been picked, neither has the door been jimmied. The other thief must have entered through the loft.”

“Impossible!” Gaeord exclaimed. “He would need wings!”

“I am afraid it is only too probable. The bar was lifted with a knife, as evidenced by the groove at its exact center. Were the bar raised from within this room, there would be no cut in the wood.”

“Perhaps he did have wings,” Jenna conjectured, her brows wrinkling together suspiciously. “Perhaps he used magic to fly.”

“If he had such power, he could also have lifted the bar with his magic. No, this was a common thief,” Sir Arach said. “I suspect that he dropped from above.”

“From the sky?” Gaeord laughed. “The roof was patrolled by my best guards, and all entrances were closely watched. What you suggest is impossible.”

“The simple fact remains,” Sir Arach said drily, “that two thieves, two thieves sir, did enter your house. It is pointless to argue that they couldn’t have done it, for they did! If I can answer how, it might lead us to who.”

“Go on,” Jenna impatiently ordered.

The Thorn Knight glared at Gaeord for another moment, then continued, “Having entered the chamber, he found it occupied by another of his profession. A scuffle ensued. You can see the palm print on the floor there, where I dusted with powder, as well as a streak where one of the two slid across the floor. Having wrestled, the one killed the other with a dagger through the eye.”

“How do you know that?” Jenna asked.

“By tasting the blood, I was able to detect the presence of eye fluid as well as brain fluid. I have made extensive study of bodily fluids and trained my senses to detect over three hundred different kinds. I can tell the blood of a dog from that of a man by smell alone. Mixed fluids need a more involved sampling.”

“It’s disgusting,” Gaeord muttered involuntarily.

“It proves nothing,” Jenna added.

“On the contrary, it proves that one of the two died, and since his body is not in this room, it must lie in the reflecting pool. His identity might lead us to that of his enemy, but I doubt it. In any case, having procured the dragonflower pollen… you have noticed, I am sure, that he stole only the dragonflower pollen, and left all these other valuable commodities behind him, which suggests a commissioned theft-actually, two commissioned thefts…” he paused, gazing from beneath his heavy lids at Mistress Jenna.

She noticed the accusation in his stare, and her face turned crimson with anger. “You dare!” she hissed.

“Who besides yourself and Master Gaeord knew of the precious stuff?” Sir Arach asked.

“Why would I steal from myself? I already purchased the dragonflower pollen!” Jenna barked.

The Thorn Knight then turned to Master Gaeord. The master of the house flushed, then began to stammer, “Yes, there were others! I… uh… the captain of my ship… his officers… the crew might have discovered… servants… enemies… household spies!”

“Well, it is useless to speculate at this point. I must have more data,” Sir Arach said with a grim smile. It was obvious that he was enjoying his little performance. “As I was saying,” he continued, “Having procured the pollen, he then made his escape…”

“But where did he then go?” Gaeord asked.

“An excellent question, and one that will help solve this case,” Sir Arach said, as he rubbed his hands together. “Did he make his exit through the loft or the house?”

A maid appeared at the doorway and cleared her throat. As Sir Arach turned his eyes upon her, she curtsied, then said in a voice hurried by her nervousness, “M’lord said to notify him of anything out of the ordinary.”

“What is it, Mira?” Gaeord asked.

“We’ve found something at the balcony, sir,” she squeaked.

“Lead the way!” the Thorn Knight shouted in excitement. The maid fled in a swirl of cotton skirts.

Together, Sir Arach, Mistress Jenna, and Gaeord uth Wotan made their way to the balcony overlooking the main entrance to the house. The maid having long since disappeared, Gaeord led them along a circuitous route through the more fashionably decorated parts of the house, pausing occasionally to adjust the hang of a valuable painting here, running his hand lovingly along the rim a priceless vase there, using all the tricks he usually employed to impress his more frequent but less-notable visitors. However, every time his eyes met those of Mistress Jenna, he found her staring at him as though she thought him quite capable of trying to cheat her. Meanwhile, Sir Arach grew so impatient with Gaeord’s diversions that he finally shoved the wealthy merchant aside and took the lead. The Thorn Knight’s rapid, deliberate stride brought them quickly to their destination. Gaeord could barely suppress his astonishment that Sir Arach seemed to know the way, even taking a secret door that cut thirty steps from their journey.

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.

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-”

Sir Arach continued, “Having gained entrance to the house by following your daughter through the door while the guards looked the other way, he made his way upstairs, as I have already described. Now, you didn’t mention that three weeks ago you replaced the iron bars protecting the small fourth-floor window above the front door.”

“Yes. How did you-”

“The space between those bars is greater than at any other window, wide enough in fact to admit a grown man, if he is nimble enough,” Sir Arach said.

“Yes, well, it would be impossible-”

“Wide enough also to allow a man to escape. That itself is a clue, as the thief probably had knowledge of the replacement and its wider bars. Probably, we shall find him in the employ of the blacksmith who wrought them, or else a close friend of said blacksmith-a dwarf named Kharzog Hammerfell, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Gaeord croaked.

Sir Arach continued, “The thief exited through the window, then used the ledge to make his way around the house until he could drop down onto the cage protecting the loft door.”

“But the spikes.”

“He avoided them somehow.”

“Impossible!”

“Master Gaeord, that word comes too often to your lips,” Sir Arach remonstrated. “Once all other possibilities are eliminated, what remains must be true, no matter how remarkable it seems.”

“I see,” Gaeord said, still unconvinced.

“The rest you know. He entered and found the room already held by your inside-job thief. A scuffle ensued in which the inside thief was killed and the first made off with the loot. He then dived into the pool, swam through your water gate…”

Gaeord opened his mouth to make some exclamation, then clamped his teeth shut before uttering a sound.

Sir Arach continued, smiling, “… and made his way to shore less than a bowshot beyond the north wall. I found his boot prints in the sand, again backward as though he had entered the water there. Now it is simply a matter of following these clues to our man. The name of the thief, and his imminent capture, are only a matter of time.”