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accidentally stepping on any pieces
and making the damage worse. Bad enough the fellow was a thief, but
this destruction went beyond the pale.
    We exited the wing, into the grand foyer
with its displays of ancient animals and humans alike. Apparently
encouraged by his success at slowing us, the man overturned a small
display of neolithic weaponry.
    It proved his undoing. Iskander scooped up
one of the obsidian blades, paused to take aim, and threw it.
    The sharp edge of the volcanic glass sliced
through the man’s coat, shirt, and arm with ease. He let out a cry
of agony, the valise tumbling from his hand.
    “Stop right there!” shouted one of the
guards from the other end of the hall.
    The thief ignored the command and the
brandished weapon, instead darting through the small door to the
side of the main entrance. It was yet unlocked, and in an instant
he was gone. The guard ran after him, but I doubted his chances of
catching the fellow amidst the evening crowds.
    “At least he didn’t get away with whatever
is in the valise,” I said as I knelt to open it. “Your aim was
excellent as always.”
    Iskander picked up the obsidian blade and
inspected it carefully. “It doesn’t look damaged, just bloody,” he
said with relief. “What did the fellow take from your office?”
    I reached into the valise and pulled out the
Wisborg Codex. Apparently my instincts about the volume had been
right.
    Iskander frowned. “What did he want with
that?”
    “No idea.” I tucked the volume under my arm
and rose to my feet. “But I think it best to keep it locked safely
away until we find out.”

Chapter 8
    Griffin
     
    The next morning, I interrogated Whyborne
over breakfast. He’d arrived home rather late, having spent several
hours reiterating his story for the police investigating the
attempted theft, and we’d gone to bed shortly after.
    “The detective seemed to find it odd that
I’m always in the middle of anything that goes wrong at the
museum,” he said glumly as we settled into breakfast. “As though it
were my fault! I’m not the one who brings dangerous items into the
Ladysmith. I tried explaining that I merely work long hours and
have terrible luck, but I don’t think he believed me.”
    “I take it you’re going to examine the codex
more closely today?” I poured milk over my cold cereal, then passed
the bottle to him.
    “Of course. And yes, I’ll be careful,” he
added. “What bothers me is that the thief came prepared to face
me.”
    “The dagger.” I frowned. “Might he have
taken it from the museum’s collection? Did it have the same
provenance as the sword?”
    “Devil if I know.” Whyborne poked
unenthusiastically at his cereal with his spoon. “If I recall
correctly, Dr. Norris said there was only the sword and the diary,
but he might have been mistaken. I wouldn’t trust him to know every
item the American History Department has squirreled away in its
storerooms.”
    His remark put me in mind of Mr. Tubbs’s
comments about the acquisitiveness of the Ladysmith’s staff. “That
reminds me—my case has some aspects to it which would benefit from
your expertise. Your sorcerous expertise,” I added when he
momentarily brightened.
    “Oh.” He deflated. “Go ahead then.”
    I told him the details of my case as we ate.
“I don’t think either Mr. Lambert or Mr. Tubbs were lying,” I
concluded. “Is it possible Mr. Lambert was under a spell of some
sort? Something to cloud his mind?”
    “It is possible,” he mused, sucking on his
spoon thoughtfully. “There are spells for mind control, and the
victims are usually disoriented. Sometimes they remember fragments,
such as having the sensation of being unable to control their own
bodies.”
    “How ghastly.” A shiver ran up my spine at
the thought. “As I recall, when the dweller in the deeps influenced
your mind, you believed yourself to be somewhere else.”
    “True,” he agreed. “But the dweller didn’t
cause me to act in