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will he be open to my suggestions?"
    “Will he listen to a special emissary, my own brother, a prince of the realm? Sure he will. He doesn't like me being away, but we've talked, and he understands."
    “How much does he understand, about Perilous and such matters?"
    “The usual cover story. I'm his court magician. I come from a distant foreign land, far, far away. Hyperborea, Shangri-la, und so welter ."
    Trent chuckled. “How many potentates play Arthur to your Merlin?"
    “Gods! If I had a farthing."
    “Okay. By the way, what's the objective? Another city-state, I take it. What's the name of the place?"
    “Dardania."
    Trent looked thoughtful. “This is beginning to resonate. And what's Anthaemion's outfit called?"
    “His city-state? Mykos. The members of the joint military command he heads are generally known as Arkadians, though they don't think of themselves much in that light. This can be a shaky alliance at times."
    “Hmm. Let me ask this. What set the whole shooting-match off? What's the war all about?"
    “Well, again, the usual thing. They're all pirates in this culture, really. Raid each other constantly, harass the hell out of each other's shipping, and so forth, and it's tolerated to a degree. All's fair, up to a point. But then someone goes too far, breaks an unwritten rule. Then everyone gangs up on the transgressor, and all hell breaks loose."
    “But what precipitated it?"
    “One gang made off with another gang's women, which is nothing original. They all do it, and worse, but this time the ringleader kidnapped the big king's little brother's wife, and ... What's the matter?"
    Trent had come to a halt, arms folded, regarding Incarnadine with withering skepticism. “Don't tell me. This king's brother's wife. Her name wouldn't happen to be—?"
    “It's Alena."
    “Ye gods, Inky! What in the name of—"
    “The analogues are there, but they're superficial, really."
    “Oh, sure."
    “No, I'm not kidding. I know it sounds fishy, but—"
    “Just a little skirmish, you said. A quick assault. One-two punch and they're out. Right!"
    Incarnadine leaned against the smooth stone wall. “Trent, do you want to bow out? No hard feelings if you do."
    “Well ... damn it."
    “Seriously, I'll understand."
    “So you say now. But you said you were in a bind."
    “I'll get by somehow. Don't worry about it."
    Scowling, Trent eyed his brother askance.
    “It's okay, Trent,” Incarnadine said mildly. “Really."
    With a deep sigh of resignation, Trent started walking again. “You con artist. You rotten, no-good swindler..."
    “Really, if you think you can't handle it—"
    “Oh, shut up. You know I'm not going to chicken out now."
    Watching his brother stalk away, Incarnadine grinned wryly. “I knew I could count on you,” he said.
    Trent walked resolutely on. “Up yours. Your frigging Majesty."
    Incarnadine followed after, his laughter reverberating in the stone corridor.
     

 

 
     
    Keep—East Wing,   Near the Southwest Tower
     
    Kwip the thief stepped casually along the hallway, whistling tunelessly. He was a small man, preferring his native dress: jerkin, pantaloons, a hat not unlike a beret though larger, and soft black leather boots. He had dark eyes and dark hair and looked to be in his middle years or somewhat younger.
    He passed the opening to a smaller side passage and stopped a few feet beyond.
    He looked up and down the hallway, his manner still relaxed, perhaps calculatedly so. He listened.
    No one about, nobody coming. He walked back to the side passageway, entered it, and covered the short distance to its end, where a stout oak door stood. After a last glance over his shoulder, he reached into a pocket on his jerkin and took out a large skeleton key.
    The key was halfway into its hole when he froze. There was something amiss.
    He carefully withdrew the key and grasped the door's wrought-iron handle. He pulled gently. The door eased open a few inches. He listened, heard nothing.
    He stepped