The young apprentice put on his most serious face, the one he used when Maskar was lecturing him. "Is this your… material?"

Ladislau the giff made a loud, derisive snort that sounded like an air bubble escaping a tar pit. "Is this the best you can do, Khanos. Are there no better groundling mages on this dirt speck." The hippo-headed creature's voice was level and flat, and his questions sounded like statements.

"I think he will do, Laddy?" rejoined Khanos. "You don't need a large gun to shoot down a small bird, do you now?"

Ladislau grumbled something Jehan did not catch and motioned to the barrels. Jehan stepped up to the containers and pulled the loosened lid from the closest.

The smoke powder itself was hard and granular, a grayish-black shade shot with small pips of silver. Jehan had never heard of these pips, and inwardly congratulated himself on the discovery. Here was some other fact about the powder that the Old Hounds kept to themselves.

Jehan picked up a nodule of the powder between two fingers. It was heavier than it looked, as if it had been cast around lead. He tried to break it between his nails, but he might as well have been squeezing a pebble.

Jehan looked into the container. The small nodules were mixed with a grit of a soft, lighter gray. The largest particle of the grit was slightly larger than the smallest bit of smoke powder. Doubtless, the merchant had already considered sifting it through a screen. Jehan rubbed the grit between his fingers; it broke apart easily and drifted slowly downward in the still air of the warehouse.

The young mage licked his dust-covered skin. It tasted like the floor of old Maskar's summoning chamber, and the grit clotted into a ball that Jehan rubbed between his fingers.

No sieve then, and no water to separate the two, Jehan thought. He said aloud, "You could do this without magic, and in a city safer than this. Perhaps it would be smarter merely to remove the smaller barrels now and separate it later.

The giff made a noise that sounded like a human stomach growling, and Khanos put in, "We felt it would be easier to move one barrel than six, especially through this city? We don't want these to fall into the wrong hands? Can you separate the two?"

Jehan scooped up the mixture with one hand and sifted it between his fingers. Some of the larger nodules stayed in his palm, but most of the silver-shot grains fell back into the barrel with some of the grit. The grit drifted more slowly, like dandelions on the wind.

At length he nodded. "It can be done. You want to have the powder in the large keg at the end of this?" Khanos nodded enthusiastically. "Then if Mr. Ladislau here would be so kind as to pour the smaller barrels slowly into the larger, I can come up with something to remove most of the debris."

The giff grunted and hoisted the first barrel. Jehan recalled the basics of the cantrip, the small semispell that Maskar had taught him to aid in his sweepings. It was a simple spell-"half an intention and a bit of wind" as Maskar described it when he first taught it. Of course, Maskar the Mummy would never think to use a floor-sweeping cantrip in this way.

Jehan cast the minor spell and nodded at the great creature. The giff began to pour the mixture into the larger barrel. Jehan directed the sweeping wind across the entrance of the larger container. The breeze caught most of the grit and dust, blowing them away from the container's mouth. The heavier nodules of smoke powder fell into the barrel, forming a dark great pile mixed with silver sparkles. Without the dust, the sparkles glowed brighter in the moonlight.

Ladislau the giff finished the first small barrel and picked up the second and, finishing that, the third. Jehan wondered if he could make the spell last long enough for all six barrels, and redoubled his concentration as Ladislau started on the fourth barrel. By the fifth barrel, perspiration dripped from the young mage's brow, and by the sixth, small stars were dancing at the edge of his vision.

The giff poured the last of the barrel into the container, and Jehan tied off the end of the incantation. He took a deep breath and blinked back the dizziness he felt. The back of his head ached, and Jehan realized he had sweated off the effects of the ale, spellcasting himself into a mild hangover.

He looked at the others. The dust in the air had yet to fully settle, giving the entire warehouse a fog-enshrouded look in the moonlight. The great giff s nostrils twitched, and he scratched his snout with a heavy hand. The merchant was positively radiant, and pulled up a handful of the smoke powder, letting the rough nodules slip between his fingers. Then he grabbed the barrel's lid and slipped it into place.

Jehan cleared his throat softly. Then, afraid his interruption might be merely interpreted as a reaction to the dust, cleared it again. The merchant scowled at the young mage.

"Before you close the barrel," said Jehan levelly, "about my fee."

"Your fee?" said Khanos. The smile returned to his face. "I had quite forgotten. Ladislau, can you give the young man his fee?"

The giff pulled the arquebuses from his belt-sash and leveled them on Jehan.

The last of the little stars plaguing Jehan's vision evaporated, and the mage's attention was fully riveted on the ends of the gun barrels.

"Good-bye, groundling," said the giff. "We couldn't leave you alive to tell your superiors." His inhuman face was illuminated by the twin fires of the exploding smoke powder as he pulled the triggers.

Jehan dropped an instant before the guns fired, turn-bling forward. Even so, he felt something hot plow a grazing path along his left shoulder.

The pain roused him to action. When he struck the hard, cool floor, Jehan immediately scrambled on his hands and feet, trying to put as much distance between himself and the giffs weapons. He half ran and half crawled away from the pair, deeper into the dusty darkness of the warehouse. Behind him he heard Khanos cursing at his companion.

Jehan's shoulder burned as if someone had dripped acid on it. Now scared, wounded, and sober, the young mage cursed himself for being so stupid, so trusting. He should have left a message at the tavern, or contacted Gerald or Anton at the very least. But no, he was so sure he could handle this little bit of magic, this little bit of free-staff spellcasting, this independent study. He was so sure that his little magics could handle anything a mere merchant could throw at him.

But could he handle enemies armed with smoke powder, bringing them to the level of wizards themselves?

Jehan leaned against a stack of boxes and tried to contain his breathing. His wounded shoulder held a coldness that was beginning to spread down his arm, and his shirt clung to him stickily there. He would have to escape this place and be pretty quick about it. His opponents were somewhere in the dusty darkness between him and the only door.

Jehan mentally cursed Maskar the Mummy as well, for not teaching him any useful spells for such a situation. One more example of the Old Hounds keeping their knowledge to themselves.

Jehan was suddenly aware of a tall humanoid near him and started, almost crying out. It was only the ugly deva statue he had noted before. Beneath spread wings, its angelic face was impassive to Jehan's plight, its features practically glittering in the moon's radiance through the skylight.

The statue reached halfway to the skylight above, and there were shelves above it. Most skylights had an interior latch, easily sprung. Even lacking that, Jehan could probably smash the skylight and get away before they could fire on him. – - -

And they would not expect a groundling mage to take to the skies.

Slowly, painfully, Jehan pulled himself up around the base of the deva statue. His shoulder was getting worse • now, and the young mage wondered if he could make it all the way up. Still, it would be better to hole up in the spaces above rather than being found passed out on the ground.