The Mint docked at Mercado’s marina shortly before noon.

  Usually, their return to Verona marked a bittersweet moment for Leo, who was eternally restless, for it typically marked the end of one successful venture and a long wait until the next. The city was as they had left it — gulls cawed, fishermen cried, whores solicited, merchants haggled. And yet it sounds like a funeral dirge, Leo thought wryly. My last glimpse of it.

  In truth, Leo had always relished the prospect of danger —?especially near-death experiences — ever since he was a young boy. The adrenaline rush of combat, the sword blows of foes to his face. Never does one feel so alive, he thought, as when perched on the razor edge of death.

  As a young, fatherless man, his penchant for peril had driven him to dark deeds. Before Tomasso had found him, he had spent a stint with a low level, morally grey, often times criminal mercenary guild. It was there where he had honed his martial capabilities.

  When his boss Vim — a mean, one-eyed, one-hand beer-bellied man from the Paladisian mainland — told him to kill, he accepted his orders without question. It wasn’t until later he realized he was, in essence, a jackboot thug in the Duke’s indirect employ, slaying political foes and enemies of the crown.

  It wasn’t until later he realized how terribly wrong what he was doing had been. He never had the heart to tell Gianna the truth about his past. Nico knew… Nico had his own way of finding out things. Sometimes he cursed himself, wondering how he could have done what he’d done. But he knew he’d done it because he was young and foolish — and above all because crossing swords was fun. Peril was exquisitely delightful.

  Alas, the peril which they now faced from the Mad Duke was of an entirely different character. It was not the sort of peril you could fight your way out of. At least not easily.

  Unless I dare slay the Duke’s entire guard. Now that would be a worthy tale for the bards… Yes, applied relentlessly, Sforza’s Theory of Problem Resolution truly has no practical limits. I ought to write a book…

  They found Tomasso sitting on a bench outside Sweet Victory Confectionery, clutching a grimy wine bottle in his trembling right hand. He gave them a feeble smile.

  Leo seized the wine bottle, staring at it in disbelief. “Is this — it is! Yuzi! Azrael above, Tomasso, this is swill for swine. Do you mean this as a gift for the Duke?”

  “It is,” said Tomasso, careful to keep his voice low. “And yes.”

  “I know our finances are dire, but Tomasso — to a duke this gift is an insult. Hell, it’s an insult to a pauper. What happened to prestige is the currency of our guild? No self-respecting man would drink this. Ferdinand will have you impaled on a spike. Honestly, I’d volunteer to heave you over the parapet.”

  “Very droll, Leo,” said Tomasso, glancing around as though wary of eavesdroppers. “Where is Gianna?”

  “She’s staying aboard the ship. Playing Citadels with a Nordian knight, believe it or not. One of the aforementioned supplemental party members. Where are we meeting the Duke? Within the Ducal Palace?”

  Tomasso nodded. “My ship should be ready for us. Come.”

  They slipped through the harbor’s trafficked streets, this time bound not for Mercado’s but rather the Lucio Marina, home to the more modest vessels commanded by merchants, minor nobility, and of course adventurers. As a former banker, Tomasso had often used Mercado’s in his prior occupation, and was eager to return to it. Alas, there was not near so much money in adventuring as there was in banking…

  When Duke Ferdinand II, at the ripe old age of 85, had begun taking alchemical potions in a bid to stave off death, one of his first brazen acts had been to relocate the Ducal Palace from Verona to Modena, a private island just a few miles due east. It had flared into a scandal at the time, but as the Duke’s behavior became increasingly erratic, his absence was generally appreciated by most Veronans.

  One by one they boarded Tomasso’s ship, the Arrow. It was a three-mast carrack with enough size and speed to get them anywhere they needed to be, but it was quite plain and ordinary compared the majestic splendor of the Mint. But here, at least, they had the full run of the Captain’s Quarters. The ship was presumably collateralized in one of the Guild’s many debt covenants. Nico wondered idly if the Duke would have it seized the moment they entered port.

  When they were alone, Tomasso placed the wine bottle onto a table, showing its seal to them. “It’s not Yuzi.” He tore off the grimy label, revealing the bottle’s true identity.

  Leo gasped.

  “A little sleight of hand,” Tomasso said, smiling proudly. “It would be too conspicuous out in the open, even in Mercado’s.”

  “Lemontillado,” said Leo, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Silver label,” said Tomasso, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Aged 104 years.”

  “That's got to be worth talents. You could buy a frigate with that.”

  “I'd rather buy the Duke's favor. He's known to be fond of Vedic vintage.”

  “Perhaps,” Nico said, measuring his words, “it would be better used in service to the guild’s debts?”

  “Perhaps,” Tomasso said guiltily. “Alas, it was acquired long ago as a gift, and the market for a Lemontillado liqueur is hardly a liquid one. Now tell me, why are you both here? What business do you have with the Duke?”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Long story,” said Nico, and he proceeded to recount the events that had transpired since their departure. Cosimo’s antics aboard the Mint on their first night; the Metzengheist they’d encountered in the Library; enlisting Golgas to crack a clue; and now the latest puzzle: Only Duke Ferdinand knows where they key is kept. You may ask him, but his lips are made of stone.

  “Could the clue be referring to Duke Ferdinand the First?”

  The idea had not occurred to Nico, but he quickly rejected it. “No. Ilhen was born after Ferdinand I died. Logically, it must be referring to the current occupant of the Ducal Palace.”

  “Frankly,” said Leo, “I still think this has nothing to do with Ilhen or his Seventh. I think we intercepted a communique. Maybe, as Nico suggested, it’s something political. Something… related to espionage.” It was of course Leo’s paramount ambition to join Pathfinders Espionage & Intelligence sect. Part of him wanted this job — or really any job he took — to cross into that territory. On the other hand, he didn’t want Tomasso to get Lucius involved.

  “Inside the Library,” Nico said, continuing Leo’s line of thought, “right where we found the second clue, we found the symbol of the Choir of Shadows.”

  “Peculiar,” said Tomasso. So I take it you intend to ask him… ah, where the key is kept?”

  Nico nodded. “Absent a better alternative… yes.”

  Tomasso sighed. “The Duke has summoned me to discuss debt, not riddles. This may aggravate him. And you know how… violently mercurial… he can be.”

  Nico shrugged. “It's your call, Tomasso. We can stay back, but one way or other, today or tomorrow or next week, we need to talk to him. Cosimo is anxious.”

  Tomasso considered this, tapping a thumb on his pursed lips. “Very well. Your presence may benefit all of us. And anyway, he does seem quite fond of Leo.”

  “He ought to be,” Leo said, smirking. “After all, I’m his son.”

  ***

  The Isle of Modena was still very much a virgin land, with native old-growth palms towering its skies. But as the Arrow slid into the royal marina and the Ducal Palace came into view, Nico could see that Duke Ferdinand II had tamed the nature around it in much the same way his forebear had tamed nature in the Boboli Gardens of Verona. The land had been assiduously leveled into tiers, with the Ducal Palace occupying the uppermost level. The two lower tiers consisted of his gardens, planted with an array of exotic trees and flowers. There were as many colors to be found in the Duke’s gardens as there were to be found in the paintings of the Musea di Ortiva.

  The man may be old and cruel and a bloodthirsty tyrant, Nico thought, but one cannot deny he has a bit of style.

  They debarked the Arrow and began the upward climb. A half mile of rustic hairpin trails led up the steep face of the hill. The midday sun beat down on them as they climbed it. Beads of sweat trickled down Nico's brow. He wondered if the Duke himself came up this way; it hardly seemed fitting for such a royal personage. But then, the Duke was hardly a sane man.

  At the top, two guards in burnished steel stood watch. They crossed their halberds at Tomasso's approach, forming an X with their weapons.

  “State your business in Modena,” the one on the right said in a booming voice. He was tall and sinewy, with a stubbly black beard.

  “Our business is with his august majesty Duke Ferdinand II,” Tomasso said. “A summons was sent.” He handed the writ to the guard.

  The guard lifted his visor and scanned the letter, his lips moving with the words, brow furrowing. He shook his head slowly.

  “Are you Tomasso?”

  Tomasso nodded.

  “And who are you two?” The guard glared at Leo and Nico.

  “Leonardo Sforza, and this is Niccolò di Manarola. We are associates of Tomasso.”

  “Di Manarola? A bastard?”

  Nico’s lip curled. He nodded.

  “Well, bastard or associate, your names are not on the writ.”

  “We’ve our own business with the Duke,” Leo said. “He is a personal friend.”

  “I don't care if he pushed you out of his womb. Your name's not on the writ; you don't pass.”

  The guard flung the note and it sank to the muddy earth. Tomasso scrambled to collect it, wiping bits of dirt from its face and refolding it. His hands trembled as he placed it back into one of his coat pockets.

  “Well, that was quite rude,” Leo said. He reached for the hilt of Ice and as he did so, both guards tensed. It might have gone to blows if another voice had not spoken then.

  “Leonardo Sforza. I recognized your perfume. It trails you like a noxious cloud.”

  Leo turned. Vincenzo di Luca, the Duke's majordomo, was climbing up the hairpin trail. He was a tall and slender man with a pointed chin and thick jet-black hair. He wore a stylish red doublet cinched with a golden belt. He smiled warmly as he approached. Leo had met him previously and had a favorable impression. It was widely considered that the majordomo was the one man in the Myriad Isles who had any power over the Mad Duke, for the Duke relied upon him considerably.

  “Cologne,” Leo said, sheepishly. “Not perfume. It's cologne.”

  Vincenzo's eyes went to Leo's sword. “Are you trying to force entry onto the Duke's estate?”

  “That was going to be my next gambit,” Leo said. “My irresistible good charm proved powerless on your boys. Great work, chaps.”

  The majordomo smiled more widely, gesturing them to follow. The winding trail beyond climbed to the edge of the Duke’s gardens. “Come.”

  The guard moved to block Vincenzo. “Their names aren’t on the writ,” he protested. His cheeks were flushed, and his hand still rested on the pommel of his longsword.

  “The Duke shall make an allowance. The Pathfinders Guild is always welcome on Modena.”

  Leo could not help but make a smug face as they passed the guards onto the Duke's estate. The majordomo graciously greeted Nico and Tomasso in turn, and took the wine bottle from Tomasso's outstretched hands. “Is this a gift for the Duke?”

  “Lemontillado wine,” said Tomasso, beaming. “Aged 104 years.”

  “That's very generous of you. But I fear it's wasted on Ferdinand.”

  “Oh…? I thought he was fond of Lemontillado?”

  “He was, yes. But he has since acquired new tastes. His sommelier is a former Archmage of Skyborn, and has a conceived a novel process for amalgamating alchemy and alcohol. But he will still appreciate your gift. I think.”

  “Is he…” Tomasso’s voice faltered. He swallowed nervously. “How is he today? Is he well?”

  “Unwell. Ever since the disappearance of his nephew… I fear the bad days outnumber the good. With luck, today will be better. Shall we find out together?”