"I seem to have misplaced the party," he announced to no one in particular.

"The Game's over for tonight," said Illyth from somewhere behind him. She sat down beside him and leaned over to study his eyes. "You've been unconscious for almost an hour. Do you think you can walk?"

"Aid me, dear Illyth, and I'll find out," Jack said. He accepted her arm and gingerly sat upright. His legs were rubbery but serviceable. Very carefully, he reached up to feel his head, and discovered a long knot the size of a hen's egg just above and behind his right ear. "Ooooh," he moaned.

"A hard blow. I'm surprised you woke up at all." Disapproval tightened Illyth's voice, and there was no gentleness in the viselike grip she maintained on his upper arm. "You could have gotten yourself killed, Jack. You're no swordsman!"

"It may seem that my talents lie elsewhere," Jack admitted. "My style is unorthodox, though, and it would be difficult for the untrained observer accurately to measure my skill. Lord Panther simply struck me a lucky blow."

"But you refused to back down, even when you could see that your opponent was better than you."

Jack's wits must have been addled from the knock on his head. Without thinking about it, he told the truth. "I couldn't disappoint you," he said. "I know you've had your heart set on the Game."

"Perhaps you should have considered that before you tried picking pockets," Illyth scolded him. "Honestly, Jack, I'm dumbfounded. You should know better than that!" She walked him toward the door, steadying him with one arm. Jack valiantly ignored the nausea and dizziness and allowed her to lead him through the abandoned banquet hall to the foyer and the driveway outside. Jack's coach was long gone, but it seemed that the master of the house had hired a couple of carriages for the convenience of his guests, and Illyth had a footman hail one. "I can't believe you resorted to stealing clues!" she hissed as they waited for the coach.

"It wasn't quite like that," Jack said. They clambered into the carriage and settled themselves. Then the coach clattered off into the night. They rode together in silence for a few minutes. Each jolt of the wheels sent fiery spikes through Jack's skull; he groaned softly with each rut or misplaced cobblestone. Between bumps he looked over at Illyth, but the noblewoman was glowering out the window at the city streets. Jack winced-he couldn't allow her to become so upset that she'd drop him altogether. If nothing else, he needed her for the Game. He decided to engage her scholarly leanings and change the subject at the same time. "I found something about Gerard today," he offered.

He guessed right; she couldn't resist an opening like that. "Really?" she asked, looking over at him.

"I visited the library of the Wizard's Guild and studied old membership rolls," he said. "You would have been proud of me, my dear, hours with my nose in a musty old book, trying to ferret out a clue!"

"Perhaps you might be salvageable after all," she said. "Go on."

"I discovered that the Guild assigned one Durezil to catalog and close up Gerard's rooms when Gerard did not return from his last adventure."

"Durezil? The fellow who was eaten by trolls?"

Jack nodded in appreciation. "Why, yes, in fact, the very wizard. I'm surprised that you would remember such a thing."

"Oh, the great majority of the adventurers I studied died in very mysterious circumstances. Durezil stands out because his companions not only returned to Raven's Bluff, but they actually recorded the circumstances of his end."

"What of the Sarkonagael or any mysterious books in Durezil's possession?"

Illyth frowned, thinking. "I seem to recall that Durezil's companions sold off most of his belongings and split the proceeds," she said. "I'd have to consult my notes to be certain, but I seem to recall that a wizard calling himself Iphegor the Black might have bought many of Durezil's old books."

Jack grinned. "I know where Iphegor the Black lives," he said. "My thanks, Illyth! I am in your debt."

"I thought you wanted to know about Gerard for some kind of play production, Jack. Is it this book that you're really interested in?"

"Oh, from what I've heard of Gerard, it was important to him " Jack said quickly, "and I'm thinking of increasing the role of Gerard in my play. Or maybe I'll cast the book as the villain and say that it uses its owners to do terrible things. Now what do we know about the Game riddle? Let us pass the rest of the ride by assembling our clues and analyzing them."

The coach rumbled on through the city streets.

The next day passed by Jack in a skull-splitting haze. He tried several times to climb out of his bed but failed on each attempt and finally resolved simply to spend the entire day in bed. He also found himself wishing Lord Panther significant and hopefully long-lasting dysfunctions from the one solid blow Jack had managed during their duel. By early evening he rallied enough to drag himself out for a hot skewer of grilled beef and onions at Nimber's Skewer Shop, little more than a windowed kitchen on a busy corner of the Skymbles. Eating something served to steady him greatly, and Jack thought about his next moves as he sat under a wooden overhang near the skewer-shop and watched people plod through the mud and the rain. Elana, Zandria, Illyth… he certainly did not lack things to do!

Jack spent the rest of the evening and most of the day after making inquiries in various quarters regarding Iphegor the Black. He also wandered past the mage's tower and studied it carefully, thinking about what he would have to do to break in. He considered briefly the notion of knocking on the door and simply asking Iphegor how much he wanted for the book-there might be a tidy profit to be made by acting as a broker in this instance. But three factors dissuaded him from that course of action: first, Elana seemed to be cautious with her purse and probably couldn't afford to buy the book outright; second, Iphegor's ill temper was legendary; and finally, Jack didn't want to put the wizard on his guard by asking openly about the book. If the wizard refused to sell it, of course he would take steps to make sure that the prospective buyer wouldn't resort to thievery.

By the end of the day, Jack had a good idea of what he would have to do to get his hands on the Sarkonagael.

He deliberately ignored his trepidation about the enterprise, assuming an attitude of supreme confidence. If he believed it possible, then it was surely possible, and nothing could prevent the success of any enterprise he cared to undertake. He headed toward the Cracked Tankard to celebrate his resolve and contemplate his coming reward.

Briesa was not there (he recalled that the fifth day of the week was her night off), so Jack simply stood at the bar and ordered a hunk of roast beef and a plate of boiled potatoes to go with his dark ale. He was just about to dig in when a cloaked and hooded figure moved up beside him and clamped a strong hand on his arm.

"Hello, Jack. Why don't we find a quiet table where we can talk?"

"Elana!" Jack exclaimed around a mouthful of potatoes. "What a pleasant surprise!"

He seized his plate and his mug and hurried after the swordswoman, who was already threading her way toward a quiet alcove in the back of the room. It wasn't Jack's usual spot, but it was perhaps even harder to spy on if not quite as close to the room's exits.

As he sat down, Elana drew the privacy curtain shut and lowered the cowl of her hood. Her strong beauty was undiminished-the dark eyes and raven hair, the soft lips, the lean grace. Jack decided that he'd have that book even if he had to fight his way through a horde of guardian demons to get his hands on it. Elana simply watched him for a moment and then smiled sardonically, as if she could guess at what he was thinking and was simply amused by it.