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reached.
           Outside Blue Temple Headquarters again, their removal having been effected without the use of any mundane door, Wood and Tigris strolled the streets in silence, until they were rejoined by the demon Dactylartha.
           “Noble masters!” hissed the tiny voice, coming out of the barely visible disturbance in the air. “Was my performance satisfactory?”
           “At least you will not be punished for it.” Wood spoke abstractedly, his main thought already elsewhere.
           “Madam Tigris!” Dactylartha pleaded softly. “Did I not do well?”
           “As our Master has said,” she responded curtly. “Did your old rulers recognize you, do you suppose, Dactylartha?”
           This terrible creature, she remembered, had once been Blue Temple property, involved in the famous robbery, on which occasion the demon had failed as dismally as all the other layers of defense of the main hoard. That did not mean, of course, that Dactylartha was weak or ineffective. Against any one of the Swords, only failure could generally be expected—unless, of course, one was armed with another Sword.
           A dangerous being to recruit; Tigris, though her own skills in enchantment were great, was not sure she could have controlled the thing without her Master’s help.
           Wood, now giving the thing its new orders, curtly dismissed it, and in a moment it was gone.
           “What are you thinking about, my dear?” the Ancient One inquired. “You look pensive.”
           “About demons, Master.”
           “Ah yes—demons. Well, as a rule, one kills them, or has some firm means of control—or is as nice to them as possible. That is about all there is to know on the subject.” And Wood laughed, a hissing sound that might have come from the throat of one of the very creatures he was contemplating.
           Tigris changed the subject. “Which of the Twelve Swords would you most like to possess, Master?”
           “Ah. Now that—that—is indeed a question.” The Ancient One mused in silence for a few paces. Then he said to Tigris: “There’s Soulcutter, of course. I certainly wouldn’t want to draw that little toy with my own hands—having heard what has happened to others—the trick of course would be to get someone else to draw it, under the proper circumstances.”
           “I understand perfectly, my lord.”
           “Do you? Good. As for the Sword of Wisdom, I confess to you, my dear, that I nourish a certain hope—that on coming into possession of that weapon I will be able to use it to lead me to the Emperor.”
           Tigris wondered briefly whether she ought to pretend to be surprised. In the end she decided not to do so. She asked, instead: “What Swords does the Emperor have?”
           “None, that I can determine with any certainty.”
           Tigris, flattering: “Then of the two greatest magicians in the world, neither now has any Sword.”
           It was true that her Master, Wood, at the moment had not a single Sword to call his own—while Prince Mark of Tasavalta, gallingly, had no less than four.
           Tigris was taking great care not to remind her Master directly of this latter fact.
           He grunted something, for the moment sounding completely human—a mode of existence he did not always appear to favor.
           “Where to now, Master?”
           “To a place where I trust we will not be interrupted, Tigris. We have work to do.”
     
     

 
    Chapter Three
     
           Morning had arrived, and Ben of Purkinje was enduring an enormous headache.
           He sat up slowly, further tormented by a fierce itching. Particles of the hay in which he had been sleeping had worked their way into his clothing. According to the feeling in his head, the hour ought not to be much past midnight, but the exterior world ruthlessly assured