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going to be up to our necks in – well, let's just say we'll all be happier if it doesn't come to that."
      I craned my head to see his face, and tried to judge what was going through his mind. It was about as helpful as watching a tree to see whether it was growing. Eventually, however, he turned to his companion and said, "One minute."
      His grip on my shoulder turned into a shove; I tumbled into the tent. It was very dark inside, and what little light came through the flap was cut off when the guard stepped in behind me. A lamp hung from a bracket inside the smoke hole, an elegant construction of black iron patterned with stars and diamonds of coloured glass, but it was extinguished, as was the hearth beneath it. My escort paced past me, tore the flask I was still carrying from my fingers, and returned it to its place on a low set of shelves to our right. Beside the shelves was a large collapsible table, with maps, charts, and other papers spread over its surface. The only sign of luxury was a few patterned rugs tossed over the dirt floor, seemingly at random. Most of the remaining space was taken up with the bed, a low wooden frame draped with furs.
      Looking past, I saw the metal-bound chest beside it. My heart clenched.
      "Did you look in there?" I asked, pointing.
      "It's locked."
      Well, of course.
      "I'm sure Moaradrid would have mentioned that. It's probably just stiff."
      I walked over to it and kneeled down. It was large and decorative, made of some reddish wood and ornamented with a flowing geometric pattern along the metal bindings. All that really interested me, though, was the lock. It looked like a standard five-pin tumbler, and not a very sophisticated one at that, for all its artistic embellishment. I kept my body between it and my escort and drew my picks.
      "Are you sure there's nothing on that table?" I called.
      "I've looked."
      "Well look again, can't you? Perhaps if you lit that lamp we could both see better."
      Sliding in a pick, I sought for the back pin. When I was sure I'd found it, I followed up with the tension wrench. The back pin and the fourth broke easily, and I started to feel confident.
      "What are you doing?"
      "I think it's caught on something. Give me a moment…"
      The third was trickier. I kept misjudging, and losing it. At last it broke, with a definite click. I moved straight to the second, and an instant later, that went too.
      There were footsteps on the carpeted floor. He was coming towards me.
      The front pin was another difficult one, or my nerves were getting in the way. My fingers were greasy with sweat.
      "Get away from there…"
      My tension wrench turned as the cylinder popped. In one motion, I palmed my picks, swung the lid up, and reached in with my free hand. "Ah, there we are. There's nothing in here, though, only clothes. I'm sure he said…"
      My fingers closed on rough leather. I snatched my hand back and let the lid drop.
      "No, nothing," I said, slipping the bag inside my cloak and into the hidden pocket I had sewn there. "How about you?"
      "Stand up," he said, "and get away from that."
      "Fine. I told you, there's nothing here but clothes. Have you found it?"
      His hands were clearly empty. Instead of answering, he glared as if he'd like to strangle me.
      I pointed past him. "What's that?"
      It was the pot flask he'd originally brought out, sat on the shelf where he'd left it. I marched over before he could stop me, and called, "This might be what we're after."
      "That," he said, anger dripping from every word, "is the one I gave you."
      "Is it? Are you sure?"
      I pulled the stopper, sniffed, and tried not to gag at the familiar odour.
      "Really? Now that I think about it, it does smell something like medicine. Could it be…?"
      I turned back to him, an idiotic smile plastered across my face.
      "Wait, there's writing on the bottom: 'For inflammations, distensions, and