They returned to the Mint the following morn.

  It was a bright and warm day in the Myriad Isles, the sun chased by clouds but nimbly eluding them. Nico for one was glad to be back, glad to be rid of the chill which had gripped him to his bones in Velbruk and Skyborn.

  Their rowboat came up alongside the Mint, orders were shouted and ropes were lowered. Crewmen helped lift them out of the raft, and the ship’s Quartermaster met them at the taffrail, but before he could speak Maximilian rudely shoved him aside, eager to apprise Cosimo of events the past few nights.

  “That brigantine returned the other night,” he said breathlessly. “The one that chased us the first night — ship with the black sails. I commanded the men to turn our guns on it. My courage and decisiveness just may have saved the Mint. Four shots from our cannons was all it took. We haven’t seen her since.”

  “My cannons, not our cannons,” Cosimo said. He snapped his fingers at one of his servants. “A fresh change of clothes, immediamente. I’d like to swap these furs for silks. I’m sweating like a swaddled pig.” He turned back to Max, his expression one of mingled anger and annoyance. “Four shots. You should have only needed one. Did you put any iron in the brig’s belly?”

  “Well… no. Or maybe we did. I could hardly tell… it was so dark. But the important thing is —”

  Cosimo cut him off.

  “Were you able to see the name of the ship?”

  “As I said,” Max said, cheeks turning crimson, “it was dark. Pitch black. Remarkable we could even glimpse her in such conditions.”

  “And yet you wasted four shots.”

  As Cosimo and Max bickered, Leo and Nico detached themselves, striding to the quarterdeck where they found some semblance of privacy.

  “I assume Cosimo has a raven or two on board,” Nico said. “I’ll send word ahead to Tomasso. He’s going to be meeting the Duke today. We need to join him.”

  Leo smiled winsomely, putting his right hand upon the pommel of Wraith. “Ah yes, interrogating a Mad Duke for clues about a mythical deathtrap. Alternatively, perhaps I can draw a pair of nooses on the Mint’s yardarm and we can hang ourselves. Might save some time and effort. A nice clean death is preferable to a messy one.”

  Preferable to whatever fate awaits in the Oculus, Nico thought with a shudder. The Oculus was the headquarters of the Choir of Shadows, an ominous mausoleum-like structure which sat on a hill overlooking Verona. It was rumored the Empress’ enemies were sent there, their lives prolonged indefinitely so that they could be subjected to eternal torments. It was claimed the Empress had some enemies in there dating back hundreds of years.

  Tortured ceaselessly without respite and lacking even the hope of death. Nico dispelled the thought. He would not allow himself to be daunted by fear for his own safety; his fear for Tomasso’s safety would motivate him.

  “We need to speak with the Duke,” he said forcefully. “I see no alternative.”

  “No,” Leo said, the sarcastic smirk sliding from his face. “Nor I. We’ll leave Gianna behind of course. No need to imperil her with this expedition. It will be a memorable occasion no doubt.” His lips curled to a frown. “Should we live to remember it.”

  ***

  A crewman took Nico to the Mint’s rookery, located in the aft of the ship. The ravens were the Northern Vedic variety, especially fast and gifted navigators. It seemed Cosimo kept his birds in finer conditions than his crew. When Nico entered the room, the birds were enjoying a cup of moonberries, an exotic delicacy.

  Nico quickly dashed off a letter to Tomasso, requesting to accompany him when he met with the Duke. After the bird took flight, its black wings fading into the distance, Nico returned to his room, relieved to finally have some time to experiment with his new attunement. There is nothing so tantalizing, he thought, as an unread and unopened book. Especially one which promised to teach magic.

  So many years he had fantasized about this milestone. A talent for Illusion magic would no doubt be invaluable to the Guild. Bugger the guild, he thought, I could use it for theatrics. I could become once again a thespian, reprise my role as Lucydides. I could portray anyone. I could be anyone.

  He cracked the tome open for the first time since acquiring it in the Spire. He opened it halfway to a random page, curious what he would find. He found nothing: the page was blank. He flipped through some more pages; all were blank.

  Some kind of trick? It would be only fitting for an Illusion spellbook to be scribed with invisible ink. Il-ibn was notorious for his skullduggery. It was hard for one to be a master of illusion and not indulge a few tricks.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Nico flipped over to the tome’s opening pages, and was relieved to find text:

  BEGIN HERE

  The first several pages recapped foundational knowledge about Illusion magic, the principles and precepts Nico had already mastered reading Hofstadter’s text. Nico raced through all this, flipping forward several pages, where he found this:

  Practical Lesson #1: Complexion. The casting of Illusion magic never requires an incantation, for stealth and discretion are precious commodities to the budding Illusionist. The key ingredients to a successful Illusion spell are time, concentration, and faith. To channel the energy of Il-ibn you must focus single-mindedly on the Disguise you wish to cast.

  Find a quiet space. Expel all distractions from your mind and consider your right hand. Gaze upon it for a full minute. Consider your palm lines, the seams of your joints, the lengths of your fingers. Now close your eyes and recall it with as much detail as you can imagine. You must do this for at least one minute. Then alter the image in your mind: whiten or darken your hand’s complexion.

  Open your eyes and review the results. On your first try it is unlikely to have had any effect. On successive attempts, you will note blotches of discoloration on palms and fingernails. Only with continued perseverance will you be able to pigment the entire hand. It is imperative that you master this lesson before continuing further. Each lesson will only unveil itself until you have completed the prior lesson.

  Nico tried it, vividly imagining his own hand, bleaching his own complexion. This much was trivial. His eidetic memory, and his past as a forgery artist, made it easy to recall every minute detail, from the faint blue veins to the whorls of his fingerprints. He could recall it all with near total fidelity.

  When Nico opened his eyes, his entire hand was milky white. He did this on his first try.

  The page opposite, which had been blank, now showed the following text: Well done. You are an adept.

  Those words then vanished and were replaced with:

  Practical Lesson #2: Hair

  Smiling, Nico dived into it eagerly.

  ***

  Leo was on the main deck, where he had found Gianna playing a game of Citadels with Bj?rn. The objective of the game was to amass knights, cavalry, archers, and siege weapons, and then array them for an assault against the opposing Citadel. Like any proper siege, some games could last a long time — even weeks of back and forth before one side managed to secretly undermine the opposing citadels’ walls.

  Gianna, Leo noticed, was playing a standard variation of the Despot’s Gambit, while Bj?rn was … well, Leo had no idea know what strategem Bj?rn was employing, but he seemed to have effectively maneuvered his cavalry into a pincer tactic, and he had the edge on her. Leo was impressed by his tactical mastery.

  “Bj?rn, playing a mean game of Citadels,” he said. “You truly are a man of hidden depths.”

  Bj?rn did not even deign to look upon Leo. “All Nordian men play Citadels,” he said in his deep gravelly voice. “Nordia invented Citadels.”

  “Hmm that… that doesn’t sound right… But I’m no scholar of board game history. You say Nordian men play Citadels. What about the women?”

  “Nordian women do not play games. Games and sports and war, those are the trades of men. Women are for cleaning and fishing and hut building and basket weaving and child rearing and husbandry.”

  “Wow. You really are building quite the gender paradise up there in Nordia,” Gianna said wryly, advancing one of her archers within striking range of Bj?rn’s citadel. Her sarcasm was lost on Bj?rn.

  “Yes,” he said, rearranging his cavalry in response to her move (she cursed his brilliance). “Nordia is paradise.”

  Out of the gray sky a raven emerged, fluttering onto the Citadel board and knocking over a few of Bj?rn’s knights. Bj?rn groaned in rage and moved to swat it, but Leo stopped him.

  “Wait! It’s for us, I think.” The bird held out a message that was tied to its leg. Leo untied it and unfurled the note, finding Tomasso’s spidery penmanship. It was his reply to Nico’s own letter.

  Have you taken leave of your senses? Why would you want to meet the Duke? Don’t answer. Meet me at the docks at noon.

  -T

  Leo crushed the note, cramming it into one of his many pockets. Gianna was giving him a quizzical look. Before she could inquire about the message, Cosimo’s voice cut the air like a whip.

  “Are the rumors true?”

  Leo turned to face Cosimo. He was back to wearing his flowing crimson and sapphire silks. Between his bright outfit and his many sparkling gemstone rings, he looked rather like a peacock. On any other ship, a wealthy man might be reluctant to wear such attire for fear of it getting sullied by a grimy deck, but Cosimo drove his men to scrub it night and day. Even with boots scuffing it constantly, it looked immaculate and spotless.

  “What rumors?” Leo said.

  “The rumors about Ferdinand. They say he’s a madman. They say he’s over one hundred and fifty years old, kept alive by alchemies that have robbed him of his wits. I hear he has a penchant for abducting citizens at random and breaking them on the wheel.”

  “You haven’t heard the half of it,” said Leo grimly. “Duke Ferdinand II has a volatile temperament. Each day is a coin toss, and if you catch him on one of the wrong days…” Leo shook his head.

  “You’ve met him, I take it?”

  “Once. He called me Rollo — the name of his deceased son. Then he tried to shake hands with a tree, thinking it was the King of Russo. Ferdinand can be both kind and cruel, magnanimous and miserly.”

  “I’ll settle for honest and accommodating. I want answers. I want to know where this key is kept.”

  “Will you be joining us?” Leo asked.

  “Of course not,” he said, eyes glittering malevolently. “Why should I? I pay you to take these risks.”