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me !”
    Eyeing Damus as if the Gen were a gambling hall drunk, the guard said, “A ranch east of town was raided last night. One man and several head of cattle were killed.”
    Nahel’s hackles visibly rose. “How?”
    “Man and beast died of blood loss. The watchman’s throat was torn out, but the cattle bore hardly a mark.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “This morning before dawn. The crime was discovered when the dead man missed breakfast. The owner ran to meet me on my rounds when I was still a mile off.”
    Nahel’s face was grave as he turned to Damus. “We should look into this.”
    “I’ll wait here for the Nesshin,” Damus said.
    Nahel turned and hurried down the eastern road. The shrine guard followed.

    After a final failed attempt to talk his way past the acolyte, Damus resolved to make the best of Nahel’s absence. He left the shrine and followed Temple Street’s dusty course to its intersection with Fountain Street. There, at the corner where the pontifical mansion stood, Damus turned left. After a few blocks he came to the only source of relief from Medvia’s tedious banality—the Fountainhead.
    Damus entered the yeasty smelling establishment. His focus immediately narrowed to the bar, where he took a seat. The Fountainhead maintained a more refined atmosphere than the inn’s common room. Within minutes Damus had the boots off his sore feet and a drink in his hand. Best of all, he had no malakh to curb his vices.
    Damus had just set his empty glass on the polished oak bar when a pale hand grabbed the tumbler’s rim.
    “Allow me,” a reedy voice said.
    Damus nearly tipped over, but he quickly gathered his wits. He adopted a gracious smile and turned to regard his benefactor, who sat draped in a black robe, slouching with an almost simian posture. The only features visible under the hood were the tip of a beak-like nose and a pointed chin. The image reminded Damus of a pale crescent moon. The only other clues to the man’s appearance were the spidery hands poking out from his gold-trimmed sleeves.
    Damus’ eyes nearly bulged from their sockets when his memory supplied the golden pattern’s meaning. A Guild Master!
    For once, the Light Gen courtier found himself at a loss for words. “Thanks,” he stammered. “Thank you! Master…”
    “Arcanadeus,” the guildsman finished for him.
    Damus took up his freshly filled glass and swallowed the spicy amber contents in one gulp. The Master passed the barman a silver coin with a thin, satisfied smile.
    Squinting to clear his watery eyes, Damus scanned the tavern, wary of anyone eavesdropping. It was the narrow interval between midday and evening meal service. Thin beams of sunlight slanted through shuttered windows to fall upon empty tables. Damus knew that he and the guildsman could discuss important business undisturbed. He also knew that anything Arcanadeus wished to discuss would be important.
    “I see by your look that you know who I am,” said the Master.
    The corner of Damus’ mouth curled upward. “Knowing is my appointed trade.”
    “I see,” Arcanadeus said, “but who appointed you?”
    “Queen Nakvin of Avalon charged me to survey post-Cataclysm Mithgar. “Your name turns up often.”
    Arcanadeus leaned forward. “I am eager to know the context.”
    Damus straightened to affect scholarly authority. “You were a Master Steersman of the Guild. Now you travel these scarred lands reminding the backward inhabitants of the knowledge they’ve lost. But I forget myself! Would you care for a drink?”
    “No, but please have another on my account. I would prove the purity of my intentions before discussing details.”
    Damus gladly received his third glass.
    Arcanadeus continued. “I’m flattered that Seele has taken notice of my work. What will you tell Her Majesty about my accomplishments?”
    Damus inspected his empty glass. His head swam pleasantly. “I’ll say you’ve worked miracles.”
    A thin piping laugh rose in the