"I'll have a Bloody Mary," the vixen said. "Nothing for my intern. He's on duty."

"You want me to drown a mouse in your drink?" the satyr asked. "What the hell."

When their drinks arrived, the vixen took a long slug and said, "So. You think this guy is really His Absent Majesty's bastard?"

"We won't know until we find him, of course. But nothing discovered so far contradicts the possibility. Looks to be an innocent fallen in with bad company. The perp he's lodging with is a small-time criminal with so many aliases I doubt even he knows who he started out as. Which explains why the target's so fucking elusive."

"I was talking to a guy who said you'd have the target in custody within three hours."

Zorya Vechernyaya snorted.

The vixen fished the mouse out of her drink and, holding it by its tail, threw her head back, and swallowed it whole. Zorya Vechernyaya watched her intently. Then the vixen swallowed and said, "So what's the next move?"

Zorya Vechernyaya casually placed a hand on the vixen's forearm. "Next we put in for supplementary handing so we can send a compulsion to find this guy back in time two years to get a head start on the investigation."

The vixen whistled. "That's pricey."

"Tell me about it."

"Chancy, too. Suppose they kill him."

"It hasn't happened. So it won't. We just want to get a good, solid start on the investigation—and we have. How do you think we got this close so fast?" Zorya Vechernyaya slugged down the last of her martini and shouted, "Hey! Who do I have to flay alive to get another drink around here?"

Will had had a lot of practice maintaining a deadpan face since taking up with Nat. Now, though, it was all he could do to hide his shock. So this was why the witches from the political police had invaded his train on the way to Babel! They'd been searching for him not because of any crime he had unknowingly committed but because they thought him the rightful heir to the Obsidian Throne. It would also explain why the minor of the heir's return had spread so quickly and convincingly. The ground had been prepared years ago and doubtless the whispers had since spread beyond the circles of governance. It was all beginning to pull together now. It was all beginning to make sense.

He just didn't know what to think about it.

"Say. You're in investigative, maybe you can help my intern," the vixen said. "The kid's looking for someone." "Oh, yeah? Who?"

"His father. Only the kid doesn't know much about him. Not even his name. But he does know that he owns a hippogriff."

Zorya Vechernyaya accepted her new martini from the satyr. "Hippogriff or simurgh?"

"Hippogriff." Will said.

"Purebred or mongrel?"

'Considering the owner, probably purebred."

"So your old man's an aristocrat?"

"Blue blood, with a touch of crimson," the vixen said. Mortal blood was red, for it contained iron. "We're pretty sure he's got money."

"You'll be wanting to look into gizzard stones, in that case. A serious 'griffer will have his own distinctive mix. Moonstones, opals, gold nuggets... Do you have any idea what colors your rider might favor?"

Emeralds, Will thought. To match her eyes. Rubies to match her hair. He knew it tor a certainty. Aloud, he said simply, "No."

"Too bad." Zorya Vechernyaya turned back to the vixen. "Tell me a little more about yourself."

"Not much to tell. I'll sleep with anyone who thinks he or she or they can break my heart. 'Cause I know it can't be done and it's fun to watch 'em try."

Zorya Vechernyaya's eyes narrowed. "I admit to liking a challenge. But to be frank, you're not my usual type and I don't know if I care to get involved."

"Oh, you want me," the vixen said. "My primary orientation is straight, I'm willing to try anything, and I've never been hurt. Emotionally, I mean. I am, to be equally frank, the hottest little weekend you've ever seen."

Under the table, she kicked Will's ankle.

Will looked up to see both women staring at him expressionlessly. Red-faced with embarrassment, he left.

Dwarf jewelers always set up their shops like caves, with clutters of boxes stacked in the corners as casually as boulders, and rows of tiny little drawers like strata of rock that hid precious stones, rare minerals, and magic rings. You could ask for Charlemagne's sword and, after the mandatory glass of oversweetened hot mint tea, a flunky would appear from the shadows with a canvas-wrapped package whose cardboard tag read, in neatly calligraphic letters faded an almost invisible brown, JOYEUSE.

The firm of Alberecht & Ting, Gastrolitheurs, however, was as posh as they came and almost all the racial signifiers had been scrubbed away. Normally, chairs in dwarf establishments were too small and too low to the floor to be comfortable to sit in. Except for the dwarf. They'd fit him perfectly. Will was ushered into an easy chair that looked no larger than Alberecht's, but was a pleasure to abide in.

Alberecht smiled as though Will were a personal friend. "As I'm sure you know," he said in the easy manner with which the discreet enlighten the ignorant, "the purpose of gizzard stones is to break down the hard parts of your mount's food—the seeds and bits of bone—into smaller pieces to be better exposed to the digestive enzymes. These rest in the muscular gizzard, or true stomach. Now, the opening of the pyloric sphincter is very tiny, which keeps the gizzard stones from escaping. But as the gizzard churns, the stones are ground against each other until eventually they are so small that they escape through the sphincter. Thus, you need to begin with a mix of varied-sized stones, and follow up with a regular replacement regimen."

"I see."

"Our product has been chosen specifically for its gastrolithic qualities and artisan-cut in a manner designed to be both attractive to the eye and safe tor your mount. Try one yourself." He lifted up a ruby from the display tray with a pair of tweezers and proffered it to Will.

Will rolled the stone in his mouth as the connoisseurs did. It tumbled over his tongue smoothly. The facets were crisp but did not cut his flesh.

Satisfied, he spat the stone into the discard dish set discretely to one side, as if the stone wouldn't simply be washed and returned to the stock.

"Excellent. You can provide references, of course." "References?" Never had absolute astonishment been so mildly expressed.

"Satisfied users. For those who have used this particular formulation, I mean. A turquoise-and-sapphire user's acclaim would be worthless. And Schuyler is more than just a racing beast to me. I daren't take chances."

"Hmm," Alberecht said. "Let me see what can be done." He disappeared into the back room.

Minutes later, he returned with an envelope. Will opened it and glanced down at a short list of four names, nodding with casual recognition. The first was Pippin Droit-de-Seigneur. "Oh, yes, old Stinky," he murmured. The second was Fata Melusine Sansculotte. He pursed his lips and shook his head slightly, as if she might be beyond his asking, a former lover, say, who knew how to carry a grudge. The third was Eilrik von Fenris. He grunted noncommitally. Then he came to the fourth:

Alcyone L'Inconnu.