With an arch sniff at his wine, Vargo flipped the mask he'd been examining back onto the table. "Not very original… best you could do, Iron-Biter?"

Echoes bedeviled Pinch's ears, taunting him with words he could almost hear.

"I chose them to show restraint, milord," the dwarf rumbled like a kettledrum. "… appear modest during the ceremony. It will not do for the chosen… decked out like a harlequin."

Vargo glanced over his shoulder at Iron-Biter, deigning to give the man the least of his attention. "I… calling for the ritual in the… masque… undignified enough. You… advising… a fool of me?" With a gentle brush at his mustache, Vargo sipped at his wine.

Behind the pillar, it was hopeless for Pinch to hear their conversation clearly, and he dearly needed to. They were plotting, and plots discovered were what would give the rogue the edge. He needed to be closer. Carefully he scanned the ground between himself them. On the opposite side of the hall and much closer to his quarry was another line of pillars, a good spot to lurk and pry. The morning sun and the flickering stubs of the night candles cast a weave of half-shadows across the floor between here and there, not quite darkness and not quite day. A quick, quiet shift and he would be in position to hear all.

With the care of a carnival tightrope walker, Pinch sidled away from the shelter of the pillar. Iron-Biter seemed absorbed in the presence of his lord, and Vargo viewed the world with bored indifference, but Pinch knew the latter, at least, was a lie. His elder cousin was the hawk who never quite looked on the world with closed eyes.

With one eye to the floor and the other always on his adversaries, Pinch drifted across the gap to the other side. Years of practice made the move look effortless, indeed casual. He took care never to move fast enough to catch attention, stepped softly so that the kiss of leather to stone would not give him away. Nonetheless, his blood raced at the thrill of risk. There was little question that if Pinch was discovered, Vargo would find some excuse to let his sadistic underling play.

Precaution and skill carried the rogue to the blind safety of the other colonnade. Once there, he quickly flitted from pillar to pillar until he was so close he could have reached out and poured a sample of Vargo's wine.

During the time it took to reach his new position, Pinch had been focused on silence, not words. The conversation had gone on without him. Vargo was asking something, a question in response to Iron-Biter's plottings.

"And what makes you certain I will be king?"

The huge dwarf bent his knees in the best imitation of a bow that he could manage. "Are you not the most worthy ruler of Ankhapur, milord?" The flattery was oily and insincere, though it did not presume on Vargo's talents. The lie was couched in the vagaries of the choosing, for even a priest could not attest to the will of the higher powers and the creaking wheel of fortune.

"Besides, milord," Iron-Biter continued, fully knowing the weakness of that explanation, "there will be no other choice. The test be damned. You will seize the throne as is your right. Throdus is a coward. Before the masque, he will have heard one hundred reasons not to challenge you."

Vargo nodded agreement but held out a finger in caution. "True enough, though it must not be too obvious. The lords who support him have considerable backing."

"It shall be discreet, milord."

"And Marac? He has more spirit. My youngest brother will not be bullied so easily."

Iron-Biter shrugged, his massive shoulders grinding like a builder's cranes. "Perhaps you are a better judge of him than I." The words held a cocksure arrogance, not quite openly challenging the lord. "His power is weak, his support thin among the nobles and the army. Most of the guests at the masque will be your vassals. Challenging you at the festival will be impossible, complete folly. If you act forcefully and proclaim yourself king by right of possession alone, Marac will not dare challenge you."

"What about Bors-and Cleedis? The troops are more loyal to him than anyone."

From where he was hiding, Pinch could barely see Iron-Biter grin. "Bors is an idiot. Even the gods wouldn't choose him. Let him take the Cup if you want-but only after the other two have declined. When Bors fails, it will only confirm that you were meant to be king.

"As for Cleedis-well, he is only the chamberlain. If he protests, I will kill him for you. After all, he will be a traitor to the state, won't he?"

Pinch couldn't see him, but he heard Vargo chuckle. There was a clink as another glass of wine was poured. "The Feast of Wealth." Vargo's thin hand came into view, holding a glass

The dwarf accepted the drink. "To your coronation, Your Highness."

Pinch smoothed himself against the cold, polished column as the two left the hall. He understood so much more now. The masks made sense and so did Manferic's haste. The Carnival of Wealth was coming, that time of year when the city erupted into riotous gaiety. He'd been away too long, forgotten the days, the dates, and the order of things. Every year the city celebrated its greatest resource and its greatest benefactor-gold-in a three-day celebration of greed and cunning. There would be drinking in the taverns, feasts sold in the markets, dances and celebrations, and all culminating in the Great Masque held at the royal court itself.

And this year, it would be the scene of a royal coup. Pinch had to admire the plotting, the sheer boldness of the crime. In all his years as a rogue, he'd stolen just about anything that had come across his bow, but never had even he imagined a robbery as bold as this. Vargo proposed to steal an entire kingdom, to rob his brothers of even the chance at their heritage. Oh, Pinch dearly wished that he could someday plot such a crime.

The festival had to be soon. Feeling chagrined to have forgotten it at all, now memory rushed in. He remembered it was always on the new moon. That part was clear, for the fat purses he found on those dark nights had always meant good takings for him, a youth learning the cutpurse's trade. After fifteen years, though, he'd lost track of the dates and must have assumed the festival had already passed. It could surely be no more than a week or less away.

That did not leave much time for plans or action. There were too many players in this game for Pinch's taste, and too many unexplained things. What was the voice he'd heard in the tunnels? Who had saved him from death? Was Manferic truly something undead, or was this a trick on Cleedis's part? Did Manferic or Cleedis or both suspect Vargo's plans? What was their reason for switching the regalia anyway? Should he betray them to Vargo? Or should he betray Vargo to them?

And how did he stay alive and on top, when all was said and done?

Pinch puzzled away at these as he resumed his mission through the morning-chilled halls.

Therin's strong hand seized Pinch's doublet just as the thief came even with the bottom rail of the balcony.

"Up you are, then!" the Gur grunted as his fingers dug into Pinch's shoulder and, with a strained heave, he hauled the regulator half onto the platform.

Pinch was hardly surprised that Therin was there and waiting. Climbing was never the regulator's strong suit, and he'd made enough noise to sound like a bull elephant to a thief's trained ears. Sure enough, Therin, Sprite, and even Maeve-looking clearer-headed than usual-were there to greet him.

With a certain lack of dignity, Pinch kicked his legs over the rail and flopped to the wooden floor of the balcony. Easy climb or no, the effort, combined with a full day and night of no sleep, was exhausting.

"Gods, dearie! You've been hitting the blackjacks a bit, haven't you?" Maeve exclaimed. The regulator was a sight, at least by his own standards-rumpled clothes, bleary eyes, and a full day's crust of grime. He hardly looked their leader, the one who kept himself urbanely polished and clean.