Only one thing to do, then. Jack bowed deeply and swept his hat from his head in a courtly bow. "As it so happens, I have great toils and wondrous works to attend. Farewell." He turned to the sage. "Ontrodes, I'll be back tomorrow to see how your search progresses."

The old sage was still gaping at Zandria. Apparently he was so used to dealing with rogues and empty-headed swordsmen down on their luck that he'd never expected to have a competent, confident professional seeking his advice again.

"My search?" he managed to ask.

Jack sighed. "The S-thing, once owned by the man named G," he hissed as he passed by.

"Oh, right, of course, I'll get right to it," Ontrodes said absently. Without looking, he waved a hand at the rogue. "I'll see you later then, Jack."

Mustering what dignity he could, Jack made his way outside and stood in the drizzle at the sage's doorstep, looking up and down the street. He nodded at a passing pair of porters carrying heavy casks on their shoulders, and then dashed quickly around the back of the sage's house. Splashing through ankle-deep mud, he circled the tower and found a shuttered window facing the alleyway. He scrambled about three feet up the tower's side, just high enough to lay his ear against the damp wood of the shutter.

"-the crypts," Zandria was saying, speaking rapidly in her clipped, clear voice. "The Lady Mayor has taken an unusual interest in the relics of Sarbreen of late, and I have long suspected that the guilder's tomb conceals an entrance into an extensive hidden vault. But I cannot actually find the place! All I have is this unfathomable riddle of an inscription."

"It's quite odd," Ontrodes agreed. "'Mark carefully the summer staircase and climb it clockwise thrice.' That makes no sense at all, does it?"

"Not really. I'd hoped you would understand it."

"Understanding may yet come to me, my lady. Cedrizarun is well-known to me. I have often wished that I had lived six or seven centuries ago, so that I might have sampled some of his works, all handmade and lovingly aged by the old dwarf himself." The sage cleared his throat; the floorboard creaked as he moved inside. "See here, this part of it: 'At the center of all the thirty-seventh.' That clearly refers to Cedrizarun's incomparable Maidenfire Gold of '37, claimed by some to be the very finest dwarven brandy ever distilled north of the sea."

"You mean this?" Zandria asked. "I thought that might be what it meant."

Jack could hear Ontrodes's gasp even through the shutter. "Oh, my lady," the sage said with awe in his voice, "I will gladly give you five hundred gold crowns for that bottle of brandy."

The mage laughed aloud. Her brusque, commanding manner vanished in her laughter; it seemed to bring out a carefree girl Jack never would have suspected. Then the glimpse was gone. "I fear not, sage. First of all, I paid far more than that for this bottle. Second, I will not uncork it or allow it to be uncorked until I am certain that I know the meaning of this riddle. I have a feeling that the Maidenfire Gold wouldn't fare well in your care."

"On the contrary, my lady, it should fare very well indeed! Who else could appreciate it more than I? Who else could revel in its exquisite bouquet, delight in every depth of its perfect flavor, comprehend with each loving sip the work of a master craftsman at the apex of his art? Oh, it would be a disservice to the world-and to dead Cedrizarun himself-if I allowed any but the most discerning and educated of connoisseurs to sample that liquor!"

Jack knew in that very instant that, regardless of the consequences to follow, he would have to get his hands on the brandy and drink it with complete and total disregard for its marvelous reputation. The notion struck him as so humorous that he snickered out loud, turning his face into his shoulder to stifle the sound-a moment too late.

Zandria threw open the shutter with a gesture of her hand, dislodging Jack from his perch on the tower wall. He flailed for balance for one long, comical moment before falling flat on his back in the muddy alleyway behind Ontrodes's home. Staring up at the gray sky and the gentle raindrops, Jack grimaced in disgust.

"My new clothes are ruined," he observed.

"Count yourself lucky if that's all I ruin," Zandria snarled. Jack raised his head from the muck and looked back up at the window. The red-haired mage glared at him, the wand in her hand. "I don't much care for eavesdroppers, thieves, swindlers, or whatever you are under all that false charm and pretentious manner."

Spread-eagled in the mud, Jack adopted the most earnest expression he could find. "I would only insult you if I made any attempt to deny that I was listening to your conversation, my lady. I did eavesdrop, and you have my most humble and sincere apologies." He smiled in what he hoped was an apologetic manner, and then added, "I only listened in because I so desperately wanted to help you. I allowed my instinct to aid others in need to momentarily overthrow my common sense."

The mage blinked in astonishment. "You expect me to believe that?" she said.

"I never lie," Jack said. He slowly picked himself up off the ground, doing his best to brush the mud from his clothes. It was of little use. "Why don't you show me the inscription you were speaking of? And that bottle of brandy? Maybe I can piece together your riddle for you. I have a real knack for that sort of thing."

"I believe I'll solve it without your help!" Zandria rapped her wand sharply on the windowsill. "Now get out of here before I turn you into a toad or a newt or something worse!"

Ontrodes peered over her shoulder at him. "I believe she means it, Jack," he said. "Shame on you, listening at my window! My learning is my livelihood. When you make use of it without paying, why, you are stealing from me!"

"I shall begin to investigate this matter on your behalf this very instant," Jack assured Zandria. "How else can I demonstrate my good intentions? I'll let you know the moment I make any progress."

"Get out of my sight this instant!" the mage shrieked.

Jack gestured and mumbled the magical words. He faded into transparency as the spell of invisibility settled over him. "As you wish, my lady," he called out. Then he squelched off through the mud, phantom footprints appearing one after another as he strode off boldly. He hummed merrily until he was out of sight. "Two riddles, two ladies, and two mysterious prizes! What next, I wonder?"

Absolutely confident of immediate success, Jack spent the rest of the day visiting every bookseller he knew of, obliquely inquiring after the Sarkonagael. He was careful to come around to his point slowly and without excessive enthusiasm, but as it turned out, Jack's precautions were wasted. He didn't find a single glimmer of recognition among any of the six booksellers he spoke to. Grudgingly he conceded the possibility that the mysterious Elana might have already investigated the obvious possibilities. That was unfortunate, since it meant that Jack might have to work and work hard to unearth the book. He considered quitting outright, but then he found himself thinking about her raven-black hair and her perfect face. The prize just might justify real exertion.

At sundown, Jack turned his steps toward the Cracked Tankard. It was too early for the familiar crowd, but he was hungry and thirsty, and he hoped against hope that he might encounter his lovely employer again. He took his accustomed spot and handed Briesa one of Elana's five-crown pieces for a huge trencher of beef and boiled potatoes, plus a sturdy mug of the Tankard's best ale.

"Keep it," he told the barmaid. "We'll call it a line of credit."

"Don't you owe us some money already, Jack?" Briesa said with an impish smile.