«That's the problem then,» Wheezle said. «We entered the building through a portal from Plague-Mort. Well, not directly from Plague-Mort… from a chapel outside of town, dedicated to nagas.»

«Little berk's got a thing about nagas,» Feathers observed. «His doc must have a lot to say about that.»

«I don't have a doctor,» Wheezle snapped. «We are just passing through on our way to fight an evil albino.»

«Albino naga?» Tortoise-Shell asked with interest. «That's what you might call a provocative image.»

«The albino's not a naga,» Hezekiah retorted, «she's a psionic. She's sucked all the power out of my brain twice, but I won't let her do it again.»

«Good thinking,» Feathers said. «I sure hate it when albinos suck power out of my brain.»

«If you berks got a thing about albinos,» Tortoise-Shell asked, «why are you all wearing white? Some self-punishing identification-with-the-enemy thing?»

«They are wearing white,» Irene announced, «because they are three royal princes come to marry me.»

«All three gonna marry you at once?»

«They're princes,» Irene answered. «They can do whatever they want.»

«Just the kind of attitude that gives royalty a bad name,» Tortoise-Shell observed. «Shame on your highnesses.»

«Majesties!» Irene corrected.

«A prince is Your highness,» Feathers said. «Your majesty is for kings and queens.»

«Is that how it works?» Hezekiah asked. «I always wondered.»

«They are all majesties,» Irene insisted, «because they will marry me and make me a queen.»

«Even if they're only princes themselves?»

«Maybe,» Hezekiah suggested, «if you marry three princes at once, you become a queen. It could be cumulative.»

«All right, that's it!» I snapped. «Much as my companions belong in a barmy bin,» I told the guards, «we have to get out of here. So here's my proof that we aren't really inmates.»

In a split-second, the tip of my rapier was poised a hair's breadth from Tortoise-Shell's right eye. The cat gulped and froze. Feathers followed suit.

«Follow my logic, if you please,» I said. «Patients surely aren't allowed to carry weapons, right?»

«Right,» the guards answered in unison.

«I am carrying a very sharp, very lethal sword… right?»

«Right,» they chorused again.

«Therefore, I must not be a patient, right?»

«Got me convinced,» Tortoise-Shell said, swallowing hard.

«Pass, friend,» Feathers added, carefully dropping the leg that barred our way, and nudging the door open.

Wheezle smiled and trotted out, followed by Hezekiah. As Irene glided regally past the guards, she stopped and whispered, «Please forgive Prince Britlin's impulsiveness. He is the eldest, and has endured many long years of chaste abstinence, waiting for our union.»

«Perfectly understandable,» Tortoise-Shell answered, now cross-eyed from staring at the tip of my blade. «A cutter gets keen, I can sympathize with that.»

«Explains all the talk about nagas,» Feathers agreed. «You have a nice honeymoon now.»

I kept my sword at the ready as I backed out the door, but the guards made no rash attempts to nab us. As we hurried away from the asylum, I saw Tortoise-Shell raise the flask in our direction and drink off a hearty toast.

The Gatehouse Asylum imposed its doleful presence on one of the least desirable zones of Sigil's Hive district… and since a sensible person would rather play leapfrog with a unicorn than visit even the best parts of the Hive, you can imagine what a sordid neighborhood we walked through now. Beady-eyed kobolds watched us passing, their boney fists clenching and unclenching with hate; but there must have been something imposing about our band – something in Irene's stateliness, or our ethereal white clothing, or maybe just the gleam of my rapier – that kept the hostility restricted to venomous glares. Within minutes, we had reached the relative safety of a patch of blighted grass, just outside a fortified Harmonium squad-station.

«Do we go in?» Wheezle asked.

«I'd prefer to report directly to Lady Erin,» I said. «Our story is too addle-coved to foist on a Hardhead desk sergeant. Still, we could beg for an escort between here and the Festhall; it's coming on night, and we're in a dangerous part of the city.»

«I might be able to teleport us to the Festhall,» Hezekiah offered.

«Back in Plague-Mort,» I reminded him, «you said you'd never tried a jump with more than two people.»

«I feel stronger now,» he answered. «Since I came out of Shekinester's flame —»

«Save it,» I interrupted. «This is not the time to try anything risky. We get some guards, we have them march us across the city, and we tell Lady Erin what we know. Let's keep it simple.»

Normally, a station like this one would have muscle posted at the front door, just in case some local bully-boys barged in. At the moment we entered, however, the guards had left their post to take part in a free-for-all behind the front desk. The cause of the brouhaha was a gigantic minotaur, fully eight feet tall and bellowing drunken curses as four of the Harmonium's finest tried to wrestle him to the ground. A fifth, the desk sergeant, had given up on grappling and was bashing the creature's head with a truncheon; but minotaur heads are noted for horns, not brains, so the sergeant's cudgel was having precious little effect.

«Should we help?» Hezekiah whispered, gaping at the fight.

I shook my head. The Harmonium don't take kindly to interference from strangers; besides, with so many people fighting already, we'd just get in the way. «Wait till they're done,» I told the boy. «They won't take long.»

Soon enough, I thought, the minotaur would gore one of the guards with his bull-like horns; and the moment Harmonium blood was spilled, the Hardheads would draw their swords and butcher Mr. Mino like an Aberdeen Angus. To my surprise, however, no matter how bubbed up the bull-man appeared, he retained some particle of prudence: he kept his horns to himself, never giving the guards an excuse to slice him to ribbons. Even worse, the sergeant with the truncheon was more gifted with zeal than accuracy – he clubbed his own comrades as often as he whacked the minotaur, thereby keeping the fight even for several minutes.

It was only when the guards were finally getting the upper hand that Hezekiah tugged on the hem of my jacket. «Britlin…»

«Not now,» I told him, «I have to talk to the sergeant.»

The sergeant, hearing my voice now that the ruckus had subsided, looked up to see who had come in. His eyes opened wide with surprise… I told myself a snow-white outfit had that effect on people.

«Britlin, this is important,» Hezekiah said, still tugging.

«It can wait,» I snapped, giving the sergeant a smile of apology at the interruption.

«Honored Cavendish,» Wheezle murmured, «perhaps this deserves your immediate attention.»

I sighed and held up a finger to the sergeant. «Back in a second,» I said, and whirled on my companions. «What?»

Hezekiah pointed to a row of six WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE posters tacked on the wall of the office. The faces were all too familiar… but frankly, the pictures must have been drawn by an untalented chimpanzee, given the abysmal quality of the sketches. When had I ever had such a protruding forehead? Why had they made Wheezle's ears so hairy? How could they depict a beauty like Yasmin as a blowsy draggle-tail?

On the other hand, the picture of Hezekiah was pretty good.

Yes, we were all there… including Miriam and even November. A hefty bounty rode on all our heads, authorized by «Her Honor Lady Erin Darkflame Montgomery, and His Worthiness Capt. Sarin (Harmonium Fact.).» Apparently, my companions and I had committed, «Numerous Acts of Sedition, Murther, and Most Grievous Crimes of Arson on Divers Public Buildings.»