"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Sure," I answered, "someone has to keep them all out of trouble, so-"

She put her hand on my mouth. "Shhh." Her fingers stayed against my lips. "They're ready. I'm ready. Are you ready?" Her hand didn't move. "Don't make jokes or speeches. Are you ready?"

I was too proud to nod obediently; nor could I shake my head no. After a moment, I took her hand from my lips, then leaned in and kissed her on the mouth.

It felt like a good answer. Apparently, we were all ready.

The stand of spruce beyond Death Hotel wasn't big enough to be called a forest-it was just a thick windbreak separating the mausoleum from the farm fields beyond. Even so, the woman we pursued must have had trouble pushing through, thanks to snarls of undergrowth and drifts of un-melted snow. We couldn't take the horses into those woods; we had to go back to the road and trot to the far side while Impervia followed the tracks under the trees. She came out damp and disheveled, spruce needles clinging to her long black coat… but one look at the taut expression on her face, and none of us said a word.

"The tracks went straight through," she reported, pointing downward. The mystery woman's bootprints were visible in the mud at Impervia's feet. "And look at this."

She lifted the lamp she'd been using to follow the tracks. With the other hand, she held out a few scraggly threads of crimson, frayed on the ends. "I found these snagged on bushes."

The Caryatid shucked off one sleeve of her overcoat and laid her arm close to the fibers. The red of the threads matched perfectly with the Caryatid's crimson body sheath. When she looked up, we nodded in understanding. Centuries ago, the first Sorcery-Lord of Spark designated that particular shade of red as the "Heraldic Hue of the Burdensome Path" (i.e., the proprietary color of sorcery). There was no explicit law against others wearing that color, but nonsorcerers still avoided it. You shouldn't pretend to be something you're not; it's even worse when your presumption annoys people who can cast powerful spells.

"So our quarry is a sorcerer," said Pelinor. "Or rather a sorceress. And a powerful one, if she could blow out the side of that mausoleum." He glanced my direction. "You're the history buff, Phil; was there ever a major sorceress entombed hereabouts? You know the type-wickedly strong, diabolically evil, locked up for all time because not even the Sparks could kill her."

I made a face. "I haven't heard such stories, and wouldn't believe them if I did. The Sparks can kill anyone… and if by some miracle there was somebody they couldn't rip into constituent atoms, they wouldn't just leave her in an unguarded crypt. They'd bury her ten klicks underground, and surround her with the most god-awful traps they could devise, not to mention alarm systems, sentries, and heaven knows what else."

"Enough chat." This came from Impervia, who'd hopped back onto her horse while Pelinor and I were talking. "The trail goes this way. Let's move."

We moved: into the dark muddy field, the horses' hooves making soft sucking sounds through the wet.

The bootprints led in a straight line for fifty paces, then turned toward the road. Those fifty paces must have been how long it took the sorceress to admit that slogging through muck was a waste of strength-the winding road might not be as direct as trekking cross-country, but its OldTech asphalt made travel much faster. Once the sorceress reached the pavement, her footprints left a dirty trail for another twenty paces. After that, the mud had worn off her boots and there was nothing for us to follow.

At least we knew which direction she'd gone: toward the lake and Dover-on-Sea, the same way we'd been riding before we got sidetracked. We headed forward with all due haste… which wasn't too quick, given that the horses had to move carefully to avoid potholes in the road. It didn't help that we were traveling with minimal light to prevent the sorceress from seeing us; all we had were candle-sized flames tight to the ground, guided by the Caryatid at the speed of a shuffling walk.

In this manner we proceeded-silently peering into the darkness. Each time we rounded a bend my nerves would tighten, expecting to spy the sorceress ahead… but nary a sign did we see of her, ever. She too must be traveling in near darkness: walking fast, perhaps even jogging, and always keeping at least one bend farther in front.

Thus it continued all the way to Dover.

Dover-on-Sea is several hundred kilometers from the nearest ocean. The so-called "sea" is actually Lake Erie, entirely fresh water… for a sufficiently loose definition of the word "fresh." (Lake Erie is actually quite clean these days, now that it isn't being poisoned by run-off from OldTech mega-cities; but the people of Simka love to infuriate Doverites by pretending the lake is still a stinking cesspool. One of those regional rivalry things.)

Dover's harbor is the center of a thriving fishing industry and home to what the town council calls the largest inland fleet in the world. I view that claim with suspicion-the councilors have been known to invent spurious accolades ("Voted the prettiest village on the Great Lakes" or "Universally regarded as the best source of handicrafts in all Feliss"). The council then disseminates these accolades at genuine tourist attractions like Niagara Falls in an effort to attract gullible visitors to Dover's overpriced "country boutiques." Nevertheless, Dover's harbor is filled with a huge bevy of boats… many of which catch fish only one day in ten. The rest of the time, they devote themselves to grand-scale smuggling.

Dover-on-Sea is definitely the Smuggling Capital of Feliss province… though the town council never mentions that distinction in their advertising. Each time Governor Niome tries to stimulate the provincial economy by taxing imports, the benefits are first felt in the back streets of Dover: each new tax creates a new line of business for the smugglers. On any given night, so-called "fishing" boats drop anchor in shadowed inlets along the nearby shore, offloading contraband liquor and linen, not to mention all manner of illegal substances from narcotics to necromancy aids.

At least, that's the gossip I'd overheard in sordid places like The Pot of Gold. I had no actual proof of unlawful activity, or I would have been obliged to tell the proper authorities. Assuming I could find some customs agent who wasn't in the pay of the smuggling cartel. Also assuming I didn't care if I suffered some nasty retribution. The smugglers wouldn't try to break my legs, but I would never again be allowed to buy the extra-special "handicrafts" available to "favored customers" in the back rooms of Dover's aforementioned "country boutiques."

At the very least, no more peach-scented soap for Gretchen Kinnderboom.

Who, incidentally, lived in Dover-on-Sea. Gretchen owned a mansion on the lake (or rather on the bluffs overlooking the lake, with a canopied walkway down to the water) where she sponged off her family fortune and allowed me to visit when she had no one better to do. Our relationship was mutually nonexclusive; but like most people in an "open" arrangement, I tormented myself that she was laughing behind my back as she rutted like a maniac mink. I could picture her bedding a different lover every night, turning to me only when a scheduled beau was forced to cancel because he had to sail to Amsterdam to corner the market in diamonds… whereas I passed my nights getting drunk with platonic "chums" like Myoko, and inventing fantasies about women throwing themselves at me (including Annah and every other eligible female who passed within reach).