“For once you and I are in full agreement, Sir Hydel. No army would have ever taken Leonska on campaign, not even to haul baggage.”

Artus and Pontifax turned to the door to find Marrok de Landoine standing there, surveying them with practiced disinterest. “I thought I’d find you here, Cimber. If you are done assisting Sir Hydel with his examination, I’d like a word with you.”

The nobleman didn’t wait for a reply. He hooked Artus’s arm with his own and led him out of the Treaty Room, down the narrow hall. Stalwarts deferentially flattened against the paneling or ducked into doorways to let them by.

“I have my pass,” Artus said. He reached up to his breast pocket for the thin leather card that allowed him access to certain areas of the club-the library, game room, and main bar-even though he was not a full member. The gesture was automatic; the pass was the only topic about which the nobleman had ever addressed Artus directly.

“I’m certain you do,” Marrok said. “You consider Uther a friend, do you not?”

“Of course.”

“He is in a considerable spot of trouble.”

“I know. I ran into him outside the club,” Artus noted. “He asked me-”

“Despite what some of the other members think,” said Marrok, unaware or unconcerned that he was interrupting Artus, said “I believe him innocent.”

“I agree. Uther asked-”

“Earlier you caught me in a very bad temper. We’ve had our differences in the past, too…”

Artus suppressed a smirk. Marrok had single-handedly blocked his entrance into the society three times in as many years. In the nobleman’s eyes, no accomplishment as a scholar, explorer, or historian could compensate for Artus’s low birth.

“Yet I have always recognized you as… clever.” The pause made it obvious that Marrok had to cast his net far for the right word. The phrase that followed made it clear just how far. “In your own way.”

The slight was unintentional, though even more annoying for its thoughtlessness. Artus slipped from the nobleman’s falsely familiar grasp under the pretext of tightening a boot lace. After that they walked in silence for a time, moving toward the fabulous library at the club’s heart.

Finally, Marrok spoke again. It seemed to Artus that the nobleman’s superior glow dimmed just a little as he did. “Politics deserve more of your attention,” he began obliquely, then checked himself. “No, let me be direct. Some of the more senior members-Hamnet Hawklin foremost among them-have declared Uther guilty. I respect them, yet I also feel they are incorrect in their conclusion. It would be unwise of me to challenge them in any open fashion, but I must also-”

“So long as you’re being direct,” Artus prompted, “how about skipping to the verse of this song that involves me.”

“I wish you to find the killer.”

Artus began, for the third time, to tell Marrok he’d already promised Uther to do just that, but decided to see what the nobleman had to say. “I suppose I could try,” he offered.

Masking his feelings had never been one of Artus’s strong suits. The attempt now only caused Marrok to mistake the explorer’s hastily erected facade of guilelessness for actual reluctance.

“You’d do well to play along here, Cimber,” the nobleman said. “At least hear me out. You have no idea how disinclined I am to ask for your help.”

“Oh, I think I know. But why me?”

“Use a criminal to catch a criminal,” Marrok said, and this time the insult was carefully chosen. “Don’t think for an instant the club doesn’t know that your father was a highwayman. You lost your position as a court scribe when you got caught breaking him out of jail. We could also discuss that murder charge outstanding against you in Tantras. There’s no need for me to go on, is there?”

Anger edged Marrok’s words, made them sharp as blades, but he kept his voice tactfully low. They’d reached the library’s antechamber, where a small group of men and women were discussing a recent polar expedition the society had sponsored. Generally, Artus could have strolled through the club with a large spear protruding from his side and not attracted any attention at all. The moment Marrok de Landoine entered a room, he somehow became its focus.

“Here’s the fellow to ask now,” one of the loiterers announced. “Say, Marrok old man, when will that yeti Philyra bagged on the expedition be ready for display?”

Preparing exotic beasts for display seemed to be the one practical skill Marrok de Landoine possessed. He was loathe to discuss the craft. A fact his peers always capitalized upon in the club’s near constant public banter. Marrok had never intended to reveal his odd talent to his fellows. But the supposed artists to whom the Stalwarts had entrusted their unusual, often irreplaceable trophies did such a poor job that the nobleman was forced to step forward and save the membership and the library, where such valuable objects were displayed, from further insult.

“Eh?” Marrok said distractedly. “Oh, the yeti… any day now.”

The nobleman turned back to Artus, his own expression not all that far removed from the fearsome hunting snarl of the fabled snow beasts. “Uther is more valuable to the society than you are a detriment,” Marrok growled. “Find the murderer and I’ll… support you for full membership.”

As he turned to go, Marrok worked his mouth soundlessly, as if trying to exorcise the foul taste of the offer he’d just made. The nobleman passed Pontifax on his way out of the antechamber; the mage had obviously followed them from the Treaty Room at a discreet distance. The two exchanged civil, if frigid greetings.

“Marrok canceled the pass I gave you, didn’t he?” Pontifax said without preamble. “I’m sorry, my boy. He’s been in a foul mood ever since his favorite hound died. Kezef, I think he called it, though why anyone would name a pet after a monster like that-”

Artus shook his head, still a bit stunned by Marrok’s offer. “He’s going to support me for membership. If I clear Uther’s name, I’ll be a Stalwart.”

“It’s about time,” Pontifax said. “Assuming we find the killer, of course.”

Artus patted the mage on the back. ‘We will. Look, you follow up on the leads here-the note Guigenor supposedly lost, the dagger, that sort of thing. I’m going to get some communications help.”

“Communications help?” Pontifax repeated, confusion clear on his face. “Who do you need to communicate with that you can’t just chat up all on your own?”

A triumphant gleam flashed in Artus’s brown eyes. “Count Leonska.”

The soul you seek is not recorded in my rolls, said the weird, disembodied head floating above the low altar. The words buzzed in Artus’s mind, swarmed around his thoughts like flies. The sensation was no more peculiar than the specter’s features-or lack thereof. Its smooth gray face was broken only by two bulging yellow eyes.

“How can that be, 0 Scribe of the Dead?” intoned the priest kneeling opposite Artus.

I do not know the reason for it, only the truth of what I tell you.

“But all dead men are your charges. Can you not tell us where the soul of Count Leonska resides?”

There was a pause. Then the two fat tallow candles on the altar began to smoke. The black, oily coils snaked upward, but rose no higher than the specter’s chin. If you insist on badgering me, minion of the Scribbler God, said the Scribe of the Dead menacingly, then I will give my reply in the flesh. The smoke coalesced into a flowing cloak. The phantasmal head began to take on substance.

The priest toppled a candle with a casual stroke of one brown hand. The conjured power lingered for a moment above the altar, black cloak billowing, then slowly faded. Its bulbous yellow eyes disappeared last. Their awful gaze seemed to pierce the small prayer room long after they, too, had vanished.