Lick, lick the air. Toward the windows… the flavor dwindled. The opposite direction… and the taste grew more acute, tartly acidic as if the oranges were still completely green. By the time I reached the wall, the sensation was as sharp as spikes on my tongue, like lapping the spill from a tannery: the purified essence of oranges, biting and nasty. It burned my mouth, bringing tears to my eyes and making my nose run freely.

If it had somehow started a ringing in my ears, the moment would have been perfect.

My tongue touched the wall, and suddenly the taste vanished. For a few worried moments, I wondered if my tongue had totally shut down under the bitter assault; but I lifted my fingers to my mouth and could taste the gamey salt of my perspiration. I tried the wall again – absolutely nothing.

Hmm.

As an experiment, I dropped my mouth to the marble floor. It was warm, probably the source of the heat that kept this hall more livable than the snowy garden. The tile tasted of dust, and the slightly mineral tang of marble.

The wall looked exactly like the floor – pure white stone the two of them. Yet the wall had no taste at all.

I moved down a few panels and tasted the wall again. This set of tiles were much like the floor, warm against my tongue and tinged with dust. But on the first patch of wall, the tiles still radiated an intense flavor of oranges but had no taste at all when my mouth actually touched them.

It had the unmistakable air of magic at work. That part of the wall had to be an illusion – good enough to fool sight and touch, but not meant to deceive all five senses. A snake sliding down the hall would be led straight to this spot by the spoor of oranges, and would know with its tongue that the tiles were false.

Dropping down to my stomach again, I closed my eyes and stuck out my tongue. Inch by inch I crawled forward, waiting for the moment when my tongue would actually press against the wall and stop.

The moment never came. The illusion yielded, as intangible as mist… and when I opened my eyes, I was no longer in the featureless marble hall. Nor was I alone. A centaur, tall and muscular, towered above me.

«Ah,» he said. «I see that you're painting.»

«I'm not…»

For a moment, my head spun dizzily, blackness crowding around me. Then the world snapped back into focus: a noisy world, full of people talking to each other or simply waiting in lines. I was standing beside my easel, a brush in my hand… and all around me was the complacent ruckus of the Sigil City Courts.

«The hustle and bustle of what this city calls justice,» the centaur continued. «Prisoners hobbling by in chains. Litigants glaring at each other as they await trial…»

His voice droned on, but I ignored it. This whole scene was unquestionably an illusion. Even if Shekinester could magically transport me to Sigil, the City Courts would not look so pleasantly normal. By now, the Guvners might have scraped up the charred corpses; but it would take months to clean away the scorch marks, and even longer to purge the ashen smell of cooked pork.

«What is your theme, young man?» the centaur demanded.

«My theme?» I asked, coming out of my daze.

«What artistic statement are you making? How the law oppresses —»

I grabbed him by his husky shoulders. «Stop rattling your bone-box! You're a sodding illusion, that's all you are. This is all a sodding illusion!»

«Ah… now that is an interesting theme,» he answered with a judicious nod. «Far from original, of course, but still a meaty proposition. Is our existence simply a fantasy in the mind of some unknown dreamer? Are we all figments of some higher imagination? I applaud you, young man. That is precisely the sort of issue Great Art should address…»

I closed my ears to his prattle. It was not the time to think about Great Art; it was a time to gape at Bleach-Hair Petrov as he and two cronies walked into the rotunda. The trio were once more disguised as Harmonium guards… and dangling at their sides hung three ruby-glittered firewands.

It hadn't happened this way: the fireballers hadn't arrived till later, maybe half an hour after I'd brushed off the centaur. Hezekiah had been with me then – Hezekiah who had teleported me away from blazing death. It was too early, the Clueless boy was nowhere in sight… and Petrov was moving toward the center of the rotunda.

What to do? The sword at my side had vanished – I hadn't been wearing it that day at the courts – and a bare-handed attack on the false guards would buy me nothing. All three were broad-shouldered brawlers, more than able to hold their own in a fist-fight with me; even given the element of surprise, I'd be lucky to deck a single one of them before the other two roasted me in my boots. There were a pair of genuine Harmonium guards flanking the front entrance, but they would be no use. Even if I had time to run across and persuade them to help, we could scarcely approach the fireballers without being noticed. As soon as they saw us coming, Petrov and his henchmen would start blasting.

Of course, I did have time to run – to dash down the closest corridor and lose myself in the warren of Guvner offices before the carnage started. I even considered standing my ground, doing nothing: this was an illusion, wasn't it, sent by Shekinester to test me. With an iron will, I could ignore the flames from the firewands… but could I ignore the screams of the people as they burned? The high whistling shrieks of throats too ruined to make any other sound…

No. There are some sounds willpower can't shut out. And there are times when a man has to fight with the only weapons he has.

I snatched up a stick of charcoal from my box of art supplies.

The top of my canvas was filled with curlicues, but the lower two thirds was still blank. That was where I would draw my picture. Closing my eyes for a moment, I thought of the image I wanted to draw, re-creating every detail in my mind. There wouldn't be time for details, for flawless accuracy or technique – just a thirty second sketch that conveyed a message so powerful it would freeze the hand of a killer.

Taking a deep breath, I began to draw.

The outlines of a man's body. A short scepter in his hand. A face, Petrov's face: I had no time to spend on every feature, but I could show a man weeping in agony.

Flames ravaging Petrov's flesh as Unveiler burned.

Rivi, simpering at Petrov's pain.

It was all suggestion, all sweeping lines and rough edges… yet I knew what I was drawing, could see it clearly in my mind's eye. Petrov in the machine room of the Glass Spider, forced to do Rivi's will – forced by her to hold Unveiler while ungodly heat shriveled his arm.

I had no time for niceties. The finished picture was scarcely a picture at all, just allusions of horror and suffering; to other eyes it might be jumbled nonsense, but to me it was as clear as the most fastidious rendering.

I had captured the essence, not the image. Pray that Petrov saw what I did.

Ripping the canvas off the easel, I held it high above my head. The false guards had gone into their huddle in the middle of the room, concealing their actions as they drew their firewands. I walked toward them, arms high; and people, looking at the swirling sketch over my head, shuffled back out of my way. Each viewer's eyes opened wide. Mouths dropped open, and a few hurried around in front to get a second look. The centaur, now standing across the room, squinted at the canvas, then softly began to applaud.

Throughout the rotunda, the noise of the crowd changed. Many fell silent, just staring. Those out of position to see the sketch whispered to one another, asking what it might be. The Harmonium guards at the front entrance stepped inside, hands reaching for their swords; no doubt they had heard the hush and thought it meant trouble.