Seregil held up the small container. "Right here. Want to see it work?"

"Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable items." Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf, he ushered them into the casting room.

Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible, Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle flame to its contents. A small fountain of white sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.

"Incredible!" murmured Thero, nudging the remaining shavings about with a small glass wand.

Seregil watched him surreptitiously, recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see what maintained Nysander's hopes for the young man—the keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero's cold facade.

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Thero asked, turning to Nysander.

The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed at the smoke left behind. "It's a sort of incendiary metal, I believe. It's called Sakor's Bite or Sakor's Fire for obvious reasons. Very, very rare but" — Nysander paused to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil—"found in greater quantities in certain regions of Plenimar."

Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec.

"Looks like we've got ourselves a decent bit of work at last."

Over the next few days Alec and Seregil shadowed their man closely, but learned little more than that Rythel was annoyingly regular in his habits. He rose early, gathered his crew, and worked the day through without leaving the site. At night he took supper at his lodgings and turned in early.

Lounging across the street from the Sail-maker Street tenement the fourth evening, they saw a broad, ruddy young man step out into the street.

"That's the landlady's grandson," Seregil whispered to Alec. "He's been down to that tavern on the corner every night so far."

True to form, the fellow set off for the corner tavern, stopping to chat with neighbors along the way.

Seregil stood up and stretched, still following the young man with his eyes. "He looks like a talker to me. I think I'll nip in for a pint and try to strike up a conversation."

It was a clear, windless night, but cold. Moving restlessly from one cold doorway to another, Alec watched the house, and the half moon sailing slowly over it. It had gained the chimney by the time Seregil reappeared, chuckling to himself and smelling warmly of beer.

"You look pleased with yourself," Alec muttered, shifting his frigid feet.

"I am." Seregil threw his cloak back and presented him with a wooden cup of the Dog and Bell's best lager. "Let's go home. Rythel's unlikely to stir out for another couple of nights yet."

Alec took a grateful swallow of the watery beer as they headed back to the court where they'd left their horses. "Then you did get something out of the grandson?"

"Our smith appears to be equally disliked by almost everyone who knows him, with the exception of his landlady, who judges her tenants solely by how punctual they are with their rent. Her grandson, young Parin, has had a few run-ins with him around the house. Apparently harsh words were exchanged when Parin entered the smith's rooms unexpectedly one day. "Mind you" "grinning, Seregil mimicked Parin's somewhat slurred complaints—""he was only messin" about with some drawerings. Not like he was tupping nobody or nothin'. Just drawerings, for the love a' hell! He's a queer one, and a miser, for all his high and mighty ways."

"A shrewd judge of character, our Parin," Seregil said with a chuckle. "He wasn't much help about the nature of the 'drawerings," but he did tell me that Rythel always keeps to his rooms on work nights, but come end of the week he goes on a regular spree."

Alec's hunter instincts stirred. "Tomorrow night."

"That's right. According to Parin, he appears downstairs in gentlemen's clothes, sends Parin next door to hire a horse, tips like the miser he is, and rides off not to be seen again until dawn or the next night."

"That explains how he came to be in the Street of Lights."

"And I'm willing to bet he makes a few other stops along the way. I think it's time Lord Seregil put in an appearance."

Alec shot him a sharp look. "Just him? What about me?"

Seregil threw an arm around his shoulders and playfully ruffled his hair. "Well now, if Master Rythel is out gambling and whoring all night, what better time for a bit of housebreaking?"

The following evening Rythel rode out from Sailmaker Street just as expected. The streets were busy, making it an easy matter for Seregil to follow him up to the main city. A heavy cloak masked the fine surcoat and breeches he'd put on for the evening's role.

The smith rode easily, apparently enjoying the evening air, and ended up at the Heron, a stylish gambling house on the eastern fringe of the Merchant's Quarter.

That's a lucky turn.

Seregil grinned to himself, watching from a distance as Rythel disappeared inside. Lord Seregil was well known at the Heron from the days when he'd made his living in such dens. And gaming-house friendships were easy enough to manage.

Leaving Cynril with a groom, he strode inside.

The elderly doorkeeper took his cloak with a bow.

"Good evening, my lord," the old man said. "It's been some time since we last saw you. Will anyone be joining you?"

"No. A canceled engagement has left me at loose ends." Pausing, he slipped a discreet coin to the man, murmuring, "Any new blood tonight, Starky?"

Stark palmed the bribe and leaned closer. "A few, my lord, a few. Young Lady Lachia has become quite addicted to bakshi since her marriage, but her husband's with her tonight and he may know you rather too well from times past. There's a country knight, Sir Nynius, with plenty of gold and a passion for eran stones who plays badly as a rule. And there's a third, a newcomer. Not noble, but well turned out. Calls himself Rythel of Porunta."

"How will I know him?"

"He's tall and fair, with quite an impressive beard. I expect you'll find him in the card room. A bold player, as I hear it, though not always clever. He's become a regular over the past month or so and takes both wins and losses philosophically."

Seregil slipped him a second coin and a wink.

"Illior's luck to you, my lord."

The Heron was a modestly opulent establishment divided into a number of large rooms. Those near the front featured various sorts of games open to all corners; smaller rooms at the back were reserved for private affairs.

Seregil found Rythel in one of the latter, settled down to a round of Rook's Gambit with several rich merchants and a few officers of the Queen's Archers.

A number of them knew Seregil and invited him to join in. He took the empty chair nearest Rythel and set his purse on the table.

"Good evening, Lord Seregil," Vinia the wool merchant greeted him, gathering up the brightly painted cards for a new deal. "The hazard is three gold sesters, the limit eight. As the new player, you begin the bid."

Keeping one eye on Rythel's style, Seregil played conservatively for the first few rounds, managing to collect a modest pile of winnings. He chatted with the others as they played, spicing the light banter with investment advice and allusions to recent successful ventures, including an interest in the privateer fleet being overseen by Nyreidian.

Rythel listened with polite interest, saying little until the deal came around to him again.

"I suggest a change of game," he said, gathering the pack. "Sword and Coin? There are enough of us to partner two games."

The other players were agreeable and when the chairs and tables had been shifted, Seregil was not surprised to find himself sitting across from Rythel. With a silent nod to Illior, he settled down to make his partner a richer man.