Suddenly he heard the creak of a floorboard at the far end

of the corridor and looked up just in time to see a fabric wall settle back into place where someone had passed. Whoever it was, they were trying to flank him. Seregil quietly ducked into a small cubicle on that side only to find that there were two more behind him. While he was searching those, he heard a sudden burst of footsteps from the corridor. Fighting his way through layers of muslin, he dashed back to the door in time to cut off a dark, running figure who disappeared back into the maze once more.

They played at this game for some time, Seregil wondering all the time where the others had gotten to.

He was guarding the door and about ready to set fire to the place when he heard the clink of glass from beyond the scrim. If Atre was making a break for the front of the theater, then he’d be trapped in the open. Seregil pushed past the scrim and stepped out onto the stage.

Enough light came in through the partially open skylight and between the cracks in the shuttered windows for him to see Atre standing at the front of the stage, facing him. He was dressed like a peasant and had a pack at his feet. A crude necklace of long pale beads hung around his neck, unlike anything Seregil had ever seen him wear. As Seregil slowly approached, the actor smiled and held up something that caught the light.

A glass phial.

“I wouldn’t come any closer if I were you, Lord Seregil,” he said, giving it a slight shake that made whatever was inside tinkle against the glass. “I’m tired of our game. I think you know what’s in this one.”

“Yes. And you’re not leaving with it.”

“Tut, dear Lord Seregil. You’d better mind your manners. This bottle is rather fragile and it’s very risky, freeing an unfixed soul. You never know where it will end up. Some get home to their bodies. Others?” He made a graceful fluttering gesture. “They just float away.”

Seregil swallowed hard. Thero had warned of this. Perhaps they had just been lucky with Mika.

“Put down your sword, Lord Seregil.”

Seregil laid it on the stage beside him and raised his hands

to show the other man they were empty. He was less than twenty feet away from Atre, but he doubted he could close that distance in time if Atre let the bottle fall. Or threw it.

And he noticed something else. Atre was not wearing Elani’s ring.

“Thank you, my lord,” said Atre with mock-deference. “Well, here we are, onstage together at last. No masks or costumes for you this time, though. I knew there was more to you than you let on.”

“I could say the same of you. You know why I’m here.”

Atre smiled and gave the bottle another little shake and Seregil caught a glint of silver in the morning light. “I enjoyed dancing with little Illia at your party that night. Delightful child. Such a shame you and your friends got in my way. I might have left her alone if you hadn’t. Will you tell Micum Cavish that it’s his fault, as much as yours, that his daughter died?”

Seregil took a deep breath and said as calmly as he could, “If you break that bottle, I’ll have no reason not to kill you.”

“But she’ll still be dead. Now surely we can strike a bargain.”

“You give me the bottle, and Elani’s jewels, and I let you walk out of here. Their lives for yours.” Where in Bilairy’s name are Micum and Alec?

“I have your word on that, do I?” Atre asked, and tossed Illia’s bottle from his right hand to his left with a juggler’s flourish.

“Yes!” It was all Seregil could do not to jump Atre then, but he had to learn if Elani’s soul had been taken, too.

Atre chuckled as he tossed the bottle up in the air and caught it again. “I give you the ring and the bottle, and you let me go?”

“And the brooch.”

Atre laughed. “You are a stubborn one. But I think you are honorable, as well. All right, it’s a bargain. I’d shake on it, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to get within arm’s reach of you.”

“I thought you said I was honorable?”

“Honor has its limits for any man. I’m going to set the items down here.”

Seregil heaved an inward sigh of relief as Atre stood the bottle on the stage in front of him, then pulled a silver chain from his neck; on it were the ring and the emerald brooch.

“You probably want to make certain they’re the right ones.” Atre tossed the chain to him, but as Seregil reached to catch it, a board creaked behind him and he had the sudden crawling conviction that there was someone behind him. Once again, sharp ears and good instincts saved his life; he ducked and rolled away from Brader’s flashing sword, grabbing the poniard from his boot as he did so. Springing to his feet, he faced down the swordsman. In defending himself, he’d left the path to the back door open. He feinted toward the phial but Brader blocked him and took another swing, staying between him and Atre. The man was dangerously good, and Seregil’s sword was out of reach.

Atre gave Seregil a sly smile as he walked back toward the bottle.

“No!” Seregil growled.

The distraction nearly cost him his life; Brader thrust at him. Seregil tried to dodge but the blade pierced his right shoulder under his collarbone and he dropped the poniard. Pressing his advantage, Brader wrenched the blade free and caught Seregil around the neck in a chokehold, then brought his blade up to cut Seregil’s throat.

“Wait! Let him see,” Atre ordered.

Dragging Seregil nearly off his feet, Brader turned him so he was facing Atre. Grinning, the actor started to raise his foot to crush the fragile phial, then screamed in pain as a red-fletched arrow pierced his boot, pinning it to the boards scant inches from the bottle. Another struck Atre in the side, knocking him off balance. The man went down awkwardly, one foot still held to the floor, clutching the arrow shaft protruding from between his ribs.

“Atre!” Surprised, Brader loosened his hold on Seregil just enough for him to elbow the man in the ribs and slip free.

As Atre thrashed in pain, his free foot hit the bottle,

sending it spinning toward the edge of the stage between two footlights.

Seregil lunged after it and caught it one-handed just as it tipped over the edge. At the same instant two large hands clapped around his and Seregil found himself fetched up painfully against one of the footlights, looking down at Micum Cavish’s pale face.

“You take her,” Seregil gasped, releasing the bottle very carefully into his friend’s hands. Micum pressed it to his lips with a gasp of relief. It held Illia’s ring.

Seregil got to his feet clutching his wounded shoulder and looked back at Brader, expecting an attack. But the man was on his back in a pool of blood, one of Alec’s arrows protruding from his heaving chest. Seregil scanned the theater and Alec waved to him from one of the boxes-the one they’d been sitting in with Kylith a few short months ago-and started down for the front of the theater. The front doors stood open now, explaining how Alec and Micum had gotten in while he and the others had been distracted.

Grimacing in pain and feeling a little dizzy from blood loss, Seregil picked up his poniard with his left hand and stood over Atre. The man coughed out a spray of bloody spittle; it reminded Seregil of the black poisoned blood running down Thero’s cheek, and he resisted the urge to kick the remaining life out of Atre.

Instead he knelt beside the dying actor, placing the needle-sharp point of the poniard to his throat. “How do we restore Illia’s soul? Tell me!”

Atre let out a wheezing laugh. “Or what? You’ll kill me?”

“Slowly.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid. Unless you let me drink.”

“Those are swallowtail arrowheads,” Alec informed him as he climbed onto the stage to join them. “They have to be cut out, and even then you probably won’t live.”