Following him in the darkness, it occurred to Alec that Micum, too, had come and gone here freely over

the years, always certain of welcome. Everything Alec had learned of the friendship between these two seemed to come together and spin itself into a long history in which he had only the most fleeting foothold.

Reaching the final door, they stepped into the cluttered brightness of the sitting room. A crackling fire cast a mellow glow over the chamber. The place seemed more disordered than usual, if that was possible.

Clothing of all sorts hung over chairs and lay piled in corners; plates, papers, and scraps of wizened fruit rind cluttered every available surface. Alec spotted a mug he'd left on the dining table a week ago still standing undisturbed, as if to anchor his right of presence until his return. A fresh litter of metal fragments, wood chips, and scattered tools ringed the forge on the workbench beneath the window.

The only clear spot left in the room was the corner containing Alec's bed. A suit of fine clothes had been neatly laid out there, and against the pillow was propped a large placard with the words WelcomeHome, Sir Alec! written on it in flowing purple letters.

"Looks like he's been busy!" Micum remarked, eyeing the mess. "Seregil, are you in?"

"Hello?" A sleepy voice came from somewhere beyond the couch.

Stepping around, Alec and Micum found him sprawled in a nest of cushions, books, and scrolls with the cat on his chest.

Seregil stretched lazily. "I see you left each other in one piece. How did it go?"

Grinning broadly, Micum settled on the couch.

"Just fine, once I managed to undo all your wrongheaded teaching. You may get a few surprises next time you cross blades."

"Well done, Alec!" Pushing the cat aside, Seregil stood up and stretched again. "I knew you'd get the hang of things. And not a moment too soon, either. I may have a job for you tonight."

"A Rhнminee Cat job?" Alec ventured hopefully.

"Of course. What do you think, Micum? It's just an over-the sill and out-again sort of thing in Wheel Street."

"I don't see why not. He's not ready to storm the Palace yet, "He should be able to look out for himself on something like that if he doesn't attract too much attention." Seregil ruffled Alec's hair playfully. "Then it's settled. The job's yours. I guess you'd better have this."

With a dramatic wave of his hand, Seregil produced a small, silk-wrapped parcel and presented it to Alec.

It was heavy. Unwrapping it, Alec found a tool roll identical to the one Seregil always carried.

Opening it, he ran his fingers over the ornately carved handles: picks, wires, hooks, a tiny lightwand. On the inner flap of the roll a small crescent of Illior was stamped in dull silver.

"I thought it was about time you had one of your own," said Seregil, clearly pleased with Alec's speechless delight.

Alec glanced back at the forge. "You made these yourself?"

"Well, it's not the sort of thing you see in the market. You'll be needing a new history, too. I've been giving it some thought."

Micum nodded toward the placard. "Sir Alec?"

"Of Ivywell, no less." Seregil dropped Alec a slight bow before collapsing into the couch opposite Micum. "He's Mycenian."

Alec went to the bed and looked more closely at the clothing.

"So Lord Seregil will be returning to the city in time to prepare for the Festival of Sakor, as usual?" observed Micum. "And not alone this time?"

Seregil nodded. "I bring young Sir Alec, only child and last surviving heir of Sir Gareth of Ivywell, a genteel but impoverished Mycenian baron. In hopes of giving his scion a chance in life, Sir Gareth has left his son ward to an old and trusted friend Lord Seregil of Rhнminee."

"No wonder he died poor," Micum threw in wryly. "Sir Gareth seems to have been a man of questionable judgment."

Ignoring this, Seregil confined his attention to Alec.

"By situating the now defunct and completely fictitious estate of Ivywell in the most remote region of Mycena, we kill several birds at a shot. Any unusual mannerisms you might display will be put down to your provincial upbringing. There's also less chance that anyone will expect to know a common acquaintance. Thus Sir Alec's background is at once suitably genteel and safely obscure."

"The fact that he's neither Skalan nor Aurлnfaie would make him a tempting target for any Leran hoping to get at Lord Seregil," added Micum.

"A jilt!" said Alec.

"A what?" laughed Seregil.

"A jilt, the bait," he explained. "If you want to trap something big, like a bear or mountain cat, you stake out a kid and wait for your beast to show up."

"All right, then. You'd be our jilt. If any bears do show up, just be your sweet, innocent self, feed them everything we want them to know, and report everything they say back to me."

"But how would they get to me?" asked Alec.

"That won't be difficult. Lord Seregil's a social sort. His house in the Noble Quarter has already been opened and word's getting around. I'm sure the news will reach the right ears sooner or later. In a few days we'll throw a big party to introduce you to society."

Micum favored his friend with an affectionate grin.

"You scheming bastard! So what else did you get up to while we were gone?"

"Well, it's taken until today, but I think I've found our forger. You recall Master Alben?"

"That blackmailing apothecary you burgled a few years back during that business for Lady Mina?"

"That's the one. He's moved his shop to Hind Street since then."

"How'd you find him?"

"I was pretty certain Ghemella was our seal forger. Since she also buys stolen papers, I planted some of mine with her and last night she led me straight to him. It's only a matter now of finding his cache to see if there's anything useful to be had. If he is the one who forged the letter from me, then my guess is he's probably made a copy or two for himself just to hedge his bets. And if we can get our hands on those we can squeeze him for names."

"Is that the job tonight?" asked Alec, an eager gleam in his eye. "The sooner we clear your name, the better."

Seregil smiled. "Your concern for my tattered honor is deeply appreciated, Sir Alec, but we'll need another day or so to prepare for that one. Don't fret, now. Everything's under control.In the meantime, however, I think you'll find tonight's little exercise worthy of your new skills."

Wheel Street, a quiet, respectable boulevard of modest back garden villas, lay on the fringe of the Noble Quarter. Well dressed so as to attract no attention, Alec strolled along beside Seregil and Micum just after dark-three gentlemen out enjoying the night air.

The narrow houses were decorated Skalan style with mosaics and carvings. The ground level of some had been converted into shops; in the dimness Alec made out the signs of a tailor, a hat maker, and a gem dealer. The street ended in a small circular court in front of a public stable.

Riders and carriages bustled in all directions; the sounds of entertainment could be heard here and there as they walked past.

"That's ours, the one with the grapevine pattern over the door," whispered Seregil, indicating a brightly lit house across the way. "Belongs to a minor lord with some connection to shipping. No family, three servants: the old manservant, a cook, and the maid."

Several horses were tethered in front and they could hear the noise of pipes and fiddles being tuned.

"Sounds like he's having a party," whispered Micum. "Suppose he's engaged extra servants for the evening?"

"Those can be the worst sort, forever bumbling into places the regular staff can be counted on not to go," Seregil warned Alec. "And guests, too! Keep your ears open and remember, all we're after is a correspondence case. In and out, nothing fancy. According to my information, he keeps the case in a desk in his study, that room there at the left corner of the second floor, overlooking the street."