"And so you made the forgeries for him and once again kept copies for yourself," Barien said. "What was his purpose in securing these documents?"

"He never said, my lord, and I never asked," Alben replied with a hint of skewed dignity. "You'll pardon me for putting it so, but a forger doesn't last long without discretion."

"That is all you can tell us, then?" Barien looked to the wizard still standing over the accused pair.

"It's as much as I know of the matter, my lord," Alben assured him.

Imaneus nodded again but Nysander forestalled him.

"A few salient points remain to be established, the first being when the latest forgery was to be delivered and to whom. The second is whether or not the prisoners know of any Leran connection with this whole affair."

"Lerans!" Barien grasped angrily at his heavy chain of office. "What have the Lerans to do with this?"

"I don't know anything about Lerans," Alben cried out, looking imploringly up at Idrilain. "I'm loyal to the throne no matter what your blood is, great lady! I wouldn't have anything to do with that sort of thing."

"Nor I, your ladyship, nor I!" Ghemella sobbed.

"They speak the truth," said Imaneus.

"Their loyalty is so noted," Idrilain observed sarcastically. "But what of Nysander's first question? When are these new forgeries to be delivered, and to whom?"

"Tomorrow night, my Queen," said Alben. "There were three this time, those you have there done up in the yellow ribbon. There's a letter of Lord Seregil's, one from a Lady Bisma, and another from Lord

Derian."

"All with foreign connections," noted Phoria.

"I wouldn't know about that," Alben maintained. "The gentleman only said I was to give them to no one but himself, just as before. He always comes alone at night. That's the end of it, my Queen, and by the Hand of Dalna, I can't think of a thing I've left out now!"

Idrilain turned her icy gaze on the jeweler.

"Have you anything to add?"

"I bought the papers and made the seals," Ghemella whined, tears dripping down over her quivering jowls. "I swear by the Four, my Queen, I knew nothing more than that of the whole business!"

When the prisoners and officials had been dismissed, Barien rounded on Nysander.

"What's all this about Lerans?" he demanded. "If you have any evidence of such activity in the city you must share it with me at once!"

"I should certainly have done so," Nysander replied.

"At this point it is simply a theory which makes a great deal of sense."

"Poor old Vardarus," Idrilain said sadly, pulling a letter from the box. "If only he'd spoken up—"

"You had no choice, given the evidence," Phoria insisted staunchly. "It all seemed irrefutable. At least Lord Seregil's come to no harm."

"Ah yes, Seregil. And what of him, Nysander? By rights I can't hold him. Yet if I release him the traitorous bastards who've concocted all this will surely bolt."

"That is certain," the wizard agreed. "He must remain where he is for now and we must hasten to allay suspicion at the apothecary's house. The neighbors will be gossiping of the night's events, and word travels all too quickly to evil ears. Our only hope lies in tracking this buyer of forged papers when he comes for the next packet. Alben could be put back in place—with all suitable restraints, of course—for the time it takes to apprehend our man."

"It must be done quietly," cautioned Barien.

"If word of this business should get out to the people, especially about Vardarus, I shudder to think of the reaction."

Idrilain waved a hand impatiently. "It's the tracking I'm concerned with. There's no room for failure. Barien, Phoria, leave us."

Accustomed to such peremptory dismissals, the Princess Royal and Viceregent withdrew at once. Nysander watched them go, troubled by something in Barien's manner.

"He's been terribly upset by this whole business," said Idrilain. "I wish you'd mentioned your concerns about the Lerans to him before. He's always found the whole idea so upsetting."

"My apologies," Nysander replied. "It was simply a stab in the dark."

"But a good one, the more evidence I see. Damn it, Nysander, if those traitors have grown strong enough for something like this, then I want them destroyed! This delivery has to be handled perfectly, and anyone who can get their hands on a Queen's Warrant may well know the faces of my spies. Your people are another matter; even I don't know who most of them are."

Nysander bowed deeply, relieved that she'd reached the desired conclusion on her own. "The Watchers are at your command, as always. Have I your permission to pursue the matter in my own fashion?"

Idrilain clenched a fist around the hilt of her sword. "Use whatever means you see fit. Whoever this traitor is, I want his head on a pike by week's end!"

"As do I, my Queen," replied Nysander, "though I will be surprised if there is only one."

29 An Abrupt Change of Scenery

Caught in midpace, Seregil ran headlong into something in the darkness. Backing up hastily, he could just make out two tall forms that had somehow materialized in the cell. For a chilling instant, his mind skipped back to the lonely Mycenian inn and the dark presence he'd grappled with there; then he caught the familiar smell of parchment and candle smoke.

"Nysander?"

"Yes, dear boy, and Thero." Drawing Seregil to the back of the cell, he spoke close to his ear.

"Thero has come to take your place."

"How?"

"No time for explanations. Join hands with him."

Biting back a flood of questions, Seregil did as Nysander asked. Thero's hands were cold but steady in his as Nysander took them firmly by the shoulders and began a silent incantation.

The transformation happened with dizzying swiftness. For an instant the shadows of the cell seemed to brighten, swirl, engulf them all-and when Seregil's vision cleared, he found himself on the wrong side of the room facing a slim, all-too-familiar figure.

Raising a hand to his face, he felt a coarse mat of beard covering a gaunt cheek.

"Bilairy's Balls and Kidneys—"

"Quiet!" hissed Nysander.

"Take care with my body," Thero warned, touching his own new face.

"I'm more anxious to trade back than you, believe me!" Seregil shuddered, swaying a little in his new, taller frame. He could guess what was next and dreaded it.

Nysander slipped a firm hand beneath his arm and led him to the back wall of the cell. Reluctantly, Seregil took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward into the aperture that yawned, blacker than darkness and staggered out again, blinking and gagging, into the sudden brightness of Nysander's casting room.

"Steady now, I've got you," Micum said, catching him as his knees gave way. "Alec, the brandy. And the basin, too, by the looks of him,"

Seregil crouched over the brass basin for a moment, fighting down the intense nausea brought on by the spell; translocation spells had by far the worst aftereffect. Settling back on his heels, he gratefully accepted a cup of brandy.

Alec stared at him, goggle-eyed. "Seregil, is that really you in there?"

Seregil examined the pale, bony fingers wrapped around the cup, then knocked back the fiery liquor in a single gulp. "Gruesome, isn't it?"

"Thero was no more pleased than you by the prospect," sighed Nysander. "He was, however, a good deal more gracious."

"Forgive me," Seregil retorted. "I'm just not myself tonight."

Alec was still staring. "You've got Thero's voice, but somehow—I don't know, it still sounds more like you. Is it different than when you changed into an otter?"

"Decidedly." Seregil looked down at his new body warily. "It's like wearing an ill-fitting suit of clothes you can't take off. He wears his linen rather tight, too. I didn't know you could do this, Nysander!"