"That is the very problem!" Ontrodes suddenly appeared at the door, yanking it open with a grunt of effort. He stood there blinking, a short, paunchy man dressed in a wine-stained robe. White tousled hair crowned his red face, and a haze of untrimmed whiskers clung to his round jowls. "I sell my learning for the benefit of all, yet vagrants like you come and pick through my knowledge like curs sniffing through a heap of offal, refusing even the courtesy of a proper payment. Thus am I compelled to buy cheap, miserable Ravenaar wine instead of some more noble brew from Procampur or perhaps even fair Chessenta. And I awaken with ten angry goblins holding a war dance inside my head! Now, unless you have good gold in your pockets and some cure for my screaming skull-ache, leave at once!"

Jack bowed deeply and offered his most earnest smile. He dropped a small purse with a handful of Elana's gold pieces in Ontrodes's hand, and then he drew from his blue doublet a small silver flask. "Gold for your wisdom, and a fine elven brandy for your skull. The sublime bouquet is guaranteed to waft your perception to noble heights and charge your peerless mind with grand designs and astonishing visions." He laughed aloud. "If nothing else, I have improved your spirits, haven't I?"

The old sage slapped one meaty hand to his face and stood there for a moment as if to keep his brains from fleeing his head outright. Then he looked Jack in the eye. "I can see that you have no mercy in your heart. You might as well come in, then."

"Excellent!" Jack replied. He could feel a successful conclusion to his mission no farther away than a cheap brandy-flask and a terse, to-the-point discussion.

"So, my dear friend, whose wisdom knows no bounds," Jack began, "have you perchance ever heard of a book called the Sarkonagael?"

He lounged in a vast, overstuffed easy chair in the first (and only safe) floor of Ontrodes's tower. The tools of Ontrodes's trade-books both old and new, well-known and obscure, mundane and magical-stood in great stacks throughout the cramped chamber or threatened to spill out from crowded bookshelves. The stuffing of the chair reeked of mildew, and a pile of tiny mouse droppings was located atop one arm in the exact spot that Jack wanted to rest his hand. He deliberately noted the location of the offending material and kept his hand in his lap.

Ontrodes squinted in thought and allowed himself a swig of the brandy. "Well, my dear boy, whose idle flattery knows no shame, I do not believe I have ever heard that name before." The sage laughed harshly, which led to a small fit of coughing. "You may have wasted your ten gold crowns and your cheap brandy this morning."

Jack frowned. As far as sages went, Ontrodes was not very reliable. There was a reason he was widely known as the disreputable sage Ontrodes, but he worked for next to nothing, and for exactly nothing some of the time, since his constant dissipations required a steady stream of small amounts of cash. Adventurers, rogues, and other ne'er-do-wells with a shortage of funds could usually obtain some useful scrap of information from the sage, when a well-researched answer from a real sage might cost far more than they could afford. He waved his hand at all of the books stacked head-high in the room.

"Surely you must have some hint of it somewhere in all this?"

"My particular area of expertise lies in wines, brandies, cognacs, sherries, and other exotic elixirs," Ontrodes rumbled. "No living mortal knows so much about such concoctions as I. Anything else I happen to pick up is merely incidental to my study of wines and liquors. I can say without hesitation that the Sarkonagael is not a vintage known to me, nor is it a book in which vintages are discussed, since I should then own it."

"That is not extremely helpful. How about a mage named Gerard, who would have made a name for himself as an adventurer about eight or ten years ago?"

"Can't say I've heard of him." Ontrodes said after a moment's thought, "A book called the Sarkonagael owned by a mage named Gerard, eh?"

"Something like that," Jack said with a wave of his hand. He had to remind himself to watch where he set it down. "Are you sure you don't have something about it in one of these books somewhere? I admire your intellect, but I cannot believe you have committed the entire content of your library to memory."

"More than you might think," Ontrodes said. He took another swallow from the silver flask. "For Sembian swill, this is not so bad. It's a shame you couldn't get your hands on some real elven brandy. That, my friend, is the very nectar of the gods."

"I'll see what I can do next time," Jack said. He pushed himself to his feet and discovered that he'd parked his right hand directly amid the mouse droppings. He winced and brushed it off on the other arm of the chair. "I thank you for your time, dear Ontrodes. If your wisdom fails me on this occasion, it is surely due to my inability to ask the right questions, as opposed to a degeneration of your mental faculties brought on by age and excessive drink.''

"A moment, Jack," Ontrodes said wearily. "What did you call it again?"

"The Sarkonagael?"

Ontrodes scowled and cast one bleary eye over the formidable piles of books littering the chamber. "I'll take a look, but only if you swear to bring me real elven brandy if I find something."

"I so swear, instantly and without reservation," Jack said. "Thank you, my friend!"

"Save your thanks. The real brandy costs more than a hundred gold crowns for a flask this size." Ontrodes sighed and dismissed him. "Now, leave me alone. I have work-"

There was a knock at the door. "Hello? Ontrodes?" called a woman's voice from outside.

The sage mumbled imprecations under his breath. "It appears that everyone desires my wisdom at an unreasonably early hour today," he said. He shuffled to the door and opened it. "I am Ontrodes," he said. "Who are you?"

On the doorstep, a tall woman dressed in red silk and leather waited. A curved dagger was thrust into her belt and a slender wand was sheathed in a special holster on the other side. Her eyes, green and wide, smoldered under a short-cropped shock of brilliant red hair. A fine blue tattoo of an arcane sigil marked her left cheekbone. She crossed her arms imperiously in front of her and glared at him.

"I am the Red Wizard Zandria," she said. Her voice was sharp and commanding. "I understand that you know everything there is to know about wines, brandies, and other liqueurs. Is that true?"

Ontrodes blinked in surprise. "Why, yes. Yes, it is true."

"Good. Then perhaps I can retain your expertise in this matter." Without waiting for an invitation, she marched into the sage's cottage, studied the armchair doubtfully, and then settled herself on the corner of the desk. She was strikingly handsome, with a pert figure and a challenging strength of character in her fine-featured face. She glanced at Jack and asked, "Your business with the sage is done?"

It was more of a command than a question. Jack smiled and bowed deeply, reaching for her hand, but Zandria didn't offer it. He quickly recovered and straightened. "In fact, I had just concluded my business with Ontrodes. I am delighted to meet you, my lady Zandria. I am called Jack Ravenwild, and I possess no little expertise-"

"A pleasure to have met you, Jack," Zandria interrupted. "Perhaps well see each other again soon. Please, do not allow me to delay you any longer."

The rogue spread his hands and forced a smile onto his face. He'd suffered through enough condescending dismissals to know one when he saw one. That didn't trouble him at all; he would have loved to plumb the limits of Zandria's courtesy by deliberately ignoring her not-so-subtle hints. Not only did he delight in baiting beautiful women, but Zandria was clearly a mage of some skill and confidence-a Red Wizard of Thay, no less!-and she had urgent business with the most inept sage of the city. Jack smelled clandestine deeds and secret doings, and the mystery grew moment by moment into a consuming obsession he was helpless to resist.