Dawn was not far off. A heavy dew had fallen on the sleeping city, silvering the worn cobblestones in the street. A taste of autumn was in the still air, hinting at the cold that would grow stronger with every passing day.

Wrapped in a brown cloak against the damp, Tol stood before the door of a sumptuous residence. The gates were barred and the door certainly bolted, but that wouldn’t stop him.

He grasped the black iron chain securing the gate and drew it taut. Number Six flashed in the pre-dawn light, and the links parted. He shoved and the gate swung inward without a sound.

The courtyard beyond was tidy, paving and granite benches scrubbed clean, but something about the scene bothered Tol. The answer struck him-nothing grew here. Every fine house in Daltigoth had a garden, with flowers or vines, a tree or two for shade. Even the poorer domiciles boasted a flowering bush or some sort of greenery to ease the harshness of endless stone. The courtyard of Mandes’s grand mansion was as sterile as a quarry.

Approaching the bronze door, Tol felt a flicker of heat over his hands and face, a fleeting touch, like a baby’s breath. Of course Mandes would have wards around his home to keep out unwanted visitors. For Tol, with the Irda artifact firmly in his possession again, these were no more of an impediment than a wisp of fog.

The door latch yielded to the keen edge of his steel blade as had the gate chain. Unlike the gate, though, these doors squeaked as they swung open, rousing the guard dozing on a stool just inside the door.

He was a hulking brute, not entirely human. When he spotted Tol striding in, saber in hand, he gave a surprised grunt and vaulted off his perch. He grabbed frantically for the halberd tucked beneath his arm.

Tol wasted no time. He lopped off the halberd’s head with a single two-handed stroke, presented the tip of his blade to the guard’s thick gullet, and hissed, “Get out.”

The guard wisely wasted no time. He grunted once and went out the door. Tol heard his heavy footfalls crossing the courtyard and going out the gate.

A great house such as this would have a maze of additions and extra chambers, but Tol reasoned the layout of its core would be much like his villa in the Quarry district, built on the same pattern as most of the finer houses in Daltigoth.

So it proved. Beyond the foyer was an antechamber of moderate size, richly decorated with tapestries, gilded sconces, and a thick carpet.

Eyeing the milk-colored rug warily, Tol stamped it with one foot and poked it with his saber. It lay quietly, as a good carpet should.

A wide, doorless opening led to a hall with a broad staircase leading up. He dropped his cloak to the floor and strode into the hall. At once he came upon a gray-haired, stooped man, bearing a tray of brass cups and folded linens.

The sight of the grim-faced warrior, naked blade in hand, sent the blood draining from the old servant’s lined face. The tray wobbled in his hands.

Tol put a hand on the tray to steady it. “Quiet,” he said evenly. “Not a sound. You know who I am?”

A nervous nod. “Lord Tolandruth.”

“I am here to kill your master.”

The man’s knees shook violently, setting the cups to rattling again. “I said no sound!” Tol hissed. The servant clenched his fingers hard on the edge of the tray to steady it.

“What is your name?” Tol asked.

“Yeffrin, my lord. P-p-p-please don’t kill my master!”

“Can’t be helped. He owes me many years and many lives.”

Tol ordered him to set the tray aside and lead the way to Mandes’s bedchamber. Teeth chattering in fright, Yeffrin did as he was bid, mounting the steps with a halting, shuffling gait. His obvious terror embarrassed Tol.

“Buck up, old man. You’re in no danger,” he said.

Yeffrin’s expression showed how little he believed that, but he mustered his courage and proceeded up the steps at a slightly faster clip.

At the landing they bore left down a side corridor brightly lit by wall lamps. It did not surprise Tol that Mandes would spend good money on oil to keep the hall illuminated all night. The sorcerer had reason to fear the dark. Miya, the indefatigable devotee of gossip, had collected many tales of his perfidy. Half the wealthy households in the city would like to slit Mandes’s throat. The other half were equally determined to protect the rogue wizard, who performed so many illicit favors for them. Until now Mandes’s life had been delicately-balanced. Tol’s return upset everything.

Ornate double doors at the end of the passage plainly denoted the master’s private suite. Yeffrin halted several steps away. Tol brushed past him.

“My lord!” said the old servant. “Beware-there are spells-”

Tol shifted Number Six to his left hand and opened one of the doors. Nothing untoward occurred, and Yeffrin gasped.

“Seems safe enough,” Tol remarked.

Inside, the room was a shambles. Shelves had been swept clean of their contents, tables and chairs overturned, cabinets opened and ransacked. Ancient manuscripts, no doubt extremely rare, crackled under Tol’s feet.

Yeffrin gave a shocked cry. He fell to his knees and began picking up the rare scrolls, clutching them to his narrow chest.

There was no sign of Mandes, but Tol spotted a faint light coming from behind the far shelf. Lifting his sword, he advanced rapidly.

A door in the stone wall stood slightly ajar. It blended so perfectly with the wall that, had it been closed, Tol would’ve missed it completely. He kicked it open and stormed through.

One person was in the small room. He sat with a hip propped on the only piece of furniture, a small table. Light glinted on his red hair.

“Where’s Mandes?” Tol demanded.

Prince Nazramin’s expression was mocking. “Well, I see it’s true-farmers do rise early.” The prince slid off the table and faced Tol, adding, “That isn’t a hoe in your hand, is it?”

Tol lowered his sword. “Don’t worry: I’m not here to harvest you.” He repeated his demand for Mandes.

“The churl has fled. Fortunately, I know where.” Tol waited, blocking the only door, and Nazramin added, “He’s gone to the palace to throw himself on my brother’s mercy.”

Tol ground his teeth in frustration. Mandes, knowing his latest attack had failed, feared Tol would do exactly what he had done, show up at his door with vengeance in mind. He had scuttled off to the imperial palace for protection.

Yeffrin appeared like a ghost at Tol’s elbow. Seeing the royal intruder occupying his master’s secret sanctum, the elderly servant yelped in fright. He fell to his knees, keeping the armed warrior between himself and the capricious prince.

“Why are you here?” Tol asked suspiciously.

The prince’s hand strayed to the hilt of the ornate saber at his hip. “It’s not your place to question me,” he replied, brown eyes narrowing.

“The question has been asked. Answer it.”

Nazramin smiled-or rather, his mouth drew up in a nominally friendly way, but above it, his eyes were as cruel as ever.

“Are you giving me orders, farmer?”

Tol tensed for an attack. “Yes.”

The false smile didn’t waver. “By rights I should have you broken. Hung from the lowliest gibbet in the city. Your friends and retainers would hang beside you-those I didn’t sell into slavery, that is.”

He meant his ugly threats, but Nazramin did not dare harm Tol, not while Tol commanded his own army and bore the title of Emperor’s Champion. Neither could Tol presume to challenge an imperial prince. Still, he would not take the man’s insults any longer, not without giving some back.

“I’ll ask one more time,” he said, hard gaze and keen blade unwavering. “Why are you here?”

Keeping one hand on his sword hilt but not drawing the blade, Nazramin advanced until he was nose to nose with Tol. Being slightly taller, he sneered down at the fuming warrior.