When the rowdies at the far end of the room began throwing their empty mugs, Dumet decided he had made a mistake. Heavy wood tables filled main salon of the Liar's Lair, reaching just to the knees so that the rowdies tripped as they shoved each other over them. On most of these tables and along the plastered walls candles burned feverishly to keep the out the somber night. Smoke mingled with the smells of wine and cumin, olive oil and roasted meats. The other patrons in the salon, whose faces bore scowls and scars, ate their dinners while lounging on pillows or legless chairs and ignoring the scuffle as best they could. No one had made the mistake of sitting near the rowdies. Dumet scanned the room to see if he recognized anyone; some of their names he knew, but no one whose opinion mattered.

Across the table, Dumet's associate Venewros grinned at him. "Relax, chief," he said. "They're just having a bit of fun."

Between them sat a loaf of bread, two cups, and a bottle of wine. Dumet's cup sat untouched. He didn't drink when he was on duty.

An earthenware mug shattered against the wall near Dumet's table. The rowdies, five in all, pointed fingers at each other and burst into raucous laughter. They wore dark colors, rust and twilight and storm-cloud gray, girded with belts that held daggers and swords. Arms raised, one stood on top of their table and shouted, the apparent winner of their game. After a short ritual of grunting, cheering, and swatting each other, they sat down. Two empty wine bottles stood in the middle of their table, and a third was half-full.

"More cups!" one of them shouted.

"Are they always like that?" Dumet asked.

Venewros shrugged. "They're just blowing steam."

One of the rowdies glanced across the room, and Dumet turned to avoid the gaze. He did not want to be recognized. In an effort to blend, Dumet and Venewros had worn civilian clothes instead of armor, but it wasn't enough. With his lean, noble face and his short, wavy black hair, Dumet stood out.

"When do we meet your contact?" Dumet asked.

"Hard to say. He's not one of your conscientious citizens on a tight schedule."

"Do you think his information is reliable?"

"That's your specialty, chief." Venewros tore a piece of hard bread and gnawed on it.

"It better be good. This is starting to feel like a waste of time. I'm tired of the riddles and innuendo in this city."

"You mean the whispers?"

Dumet sighed. "Superstitious nonsense."

"The whispers are real. I saw one." Venewros tilted his head. "Maybe. It might have been a whisper."

"Ghost stories are for children and fools."

"Perhaps we should ride out to Alhynar's villa," Venewros said playfully, "and ask him face-to-face what he's planning."

"Your humor is ill-fit," Dumet said. He tapped the table with his bread. "If Alhynar is planning to unseat Marsinot, we must learn when and how."

"We don't have much to go on. There may not be much we can do."

Dumet slapped the table. "I won't let—" he shouted. He took a breathe and lowered his voice. "I won't let Alhynar drag this city into chaos for personal political gain."

"Of course, chief." Venewros nodded. "We'll just widen the net a bit, not rule out anyone until we're certain."

"Like who?"

Venewros nodded toward the rowdies. "Like that bunch there."

"You think they work for Alhynar?"

"I can't say, but they're planning something."

"Of course they're planning something. You said they were thieves."

"More than a heist. I've heard the hoots and seen the look in their eyes when they whisper. It's something bigger than petty larceny."

Dumet pointed with his thumb. "Those idiots?"

"They're not all idiots."

"OK, I'll play. What do you know about them?"

"The one with the short, dark hair, that's Aegis." Venewros kept his voice low.

Dumet glanced over his shoulder. "The winner of their game?"

"Yeah. He's the leader. His eyes light up whenever there's a fight. He likes to be in the thick of it."

"Does he have a position in the underguild?"

Venewros took a swig from his cup. "I don't think so."

"What about the rowdy bald one with all the tattoos?"

"That's Aksemphos. A pack mule among plow horses, he's got a thick skull and child's temper."

Dumet frowned and rubbed his chin. "Is this the best you've got?"

"Not much else to do until my contact arrives."

"Tell me about this other contact of yours."

"Twice this week I've spoken with an old man here in the Lair," Venewros said.

"Who is he?" Dumet ripped a morsel of bread from the loaf and ate. "What are his credentials?"

"I don't know all that, but he claims to know something about a threat against Marsinot. He said he would only reveal his secrets to a man of matchless courage and virtue. I assume he meant you."

"This is a waste of time."

"It's one of my best leads."

Dumet rubbed his throbbing temples. He had received this assignment after his interrogation skills had earned the attention of King Persis. But interrogation required establishing an advantage, often trading secrets as currency, whether for extortion, shock, or provoking rage. Now, in a city far from his home, secrets were hard wrought. Dumet had to build a new network of contacts, maneuver a new order of political alliances, and delve into a new framework of underworld structures. It was a tedious process.

Dumet frowned. "Who are the two stupid-looking ones?"

"Kon and Maronis," Venewros said. "They truly are idiots. Once they stole itching powder from an alchemist and nearly scratched themselves raw."

"What about the last one?" Dumet stole a glance at the fifth one, a man with shaggy hair and wild eyes.

"That's Gazho. He and Aegis run together. He's mad, but there's art beneath his madness. And rumors say he has twelve toes."

"Did you hear that from the whispers?"

"Funny," Venewros said. He dipped a corner of his bread into his wine and ate it.

"Any idea what they're planning?"

"Nothing solid, except last night Aegis started shouting at Maronis. He nearly strangled the guy, and he threatened to kill him if he botched their plan. Something about how they could all end up dead."

"Sounds big."

Venewros dropped his voice to a whisper. "Maybe this is our chance to find out."

Dumet turned and saw Aegis and his companions approaching. Gazho and Aksemphos stood on Aegis' right; Kon and Maronis on his left. Aegis glared at Dumet. "Hey, roppos, What's your problem?"

"No problem," Venewros said.

"You've been staring and pointing at us since you came in here."

"You put on quite a show," Dumet said.

Aegis stared at him. "You've got some jewels coming here with that Burdenian accent and Burdenian haircut. Time for you to go back to your palace."

"I think we'll stay."

"Nothing here for you, except trouble from me."

Venewros leaned forward. "Truthfully, it's not our palace, and we're here to talk business—with you." He rose and gestured to Dumet. "Aren't we?"

Venewros' sudden deceit caught Dumet off guard; he preferred more direct means of obtaining information. On the other hand, contradicting the lie gained nothing. Dumet stood and nodded. "That's right."

Aegis wrinkled his nose. "Me? What business?"

"We represent an Akheran noble," Venewros said with a self-possessed ease, "who wants to support Alhynar's return to the seat of the wazaeda."

"Why talk to me?"

"We know you have connections with Alhynar," Dumet said.

Aegis shook his head. "You're mistaken, roppos."

"Come now, you can't stand for a Burdenian to rule Vecma," Venewros said.

Gazho nodded. His shaggy mane twisted in every direction like a sprawling bush. "Every day he rules is an insult to all Akherans."

Aegis swatted Gazho's arm. "Shut up."

"Don't you want to see Alhynar reclaim his title?" Venewros asked.

With a defiant glare, Aegis jutted his jaw. "Alhynar can kiss my ass."

"Tell us," Dumet said, "what did he hire you to do?"

"You got it wrong."

Dumet kicked the table, suddenly impatient with their evasiveness. "Answer the question."

A silence stilled them, like a panther waiting to strike. Aksemphos and Aegis slid their hands to the weapons at their belts. As an officer of the king, Dumet was obliged to settle disputes without bloodshed—unless necessary. He hoped that it would become necessary.

Gazho sneered at Dumet. "You lied. You don't work for any Akheran noble."

"Answer the question," Dumet growled.

Aksemphos stepped toward Dumet, tearing the curved bronze kopis from his belt. "Don't tell us what to—"

With catlike speed and grace, Dumet drew his sword and smacked Aksemphos' hand with the flat of his blade, hard enough to knock the weapon from Aksemphos' hand.

Aegis growled and pulled at his sword. "Grim reaper coming for you."

Dumet lunged, quick as flickering candlelight. He halted with the tip of his sword pressed into Aegis' tunic a few inches below the belt. Aegis' weapon was still only half-drawn.

"Tell them how you want this to end," Dumet said.

Slowly Aegis held his hands up. For a moment no one moved. Then, casually, he began to back away. "Burdenian haircut and Burdenian steel." He spit on the floor. "Not worth our time. Let's go."

Kon and Maronis retreated without hesitation, then Aksemphos picked up his weapon and sauntered away. Gazho was the last to move. With a flicker of malice in his eyes, he tapped his finger to his nose and stared at Dumet. Finally he turned and trotted away after Aegis.

Dumet watched the rowdies file out of the Liar's Lair. He sheathed his sword and nodded to Venewros. "I'm finished waiting. Let's go."

A haggard voice croaked from the darkness behind Dumet. "If there is a grim reaper, as the legends say, he will be busy in the city of Vecma this summer. Alhynar will see to that."

Dumet turned his attention to the voice. It came from an old face, wrinkled and crowned with wispy flowing hair like smoke rising heavy from a smoldering fire pit. The man hunched over a small table with no candle. His eyes were bright and penetrating. A tattered cloak wrapped his shoulders and hung over his shirt, yellow with age.

"That's him," Venewros whispered.

Dumet pointed. "Him?"

Venewros nodded.

"An ill stroke", Dumet said. "Our best lead is a vagrant". He looked the old man over. "What do you know about Alhynar? We know he's plotting something."

The vagrant coughed. "Or so say the whispers."

"Keep your diseased rumors, old man." Dumet beckoned Venewros with a nod. "Let's go."

The vagrant cleared his throat and spoke again. "The wrath of Alhynar will not wane until he has reclaimed the Scepter of Vecma and he sits again on the throne of the wazaeda. Even in exile he has stirred an unrest in Vecma."

Dumet now stepped closer to the old vagrant, who wore an expression of arrogance more adolescent than elderly. Something about that expression planted a seed of doubt within Dumet. "Go on," he said.

The vagrant wheezed, his breaths like gusts across a graveyard. "A quiet discontent prowls the city. It mingles with the smell of rotting fish in the shanty slums after sundown. It lingers on the palates of wealthy hosts after their dinner guests have gone home. From the sea port to the great market to the temple row, the city of Vecma waits and watches. The year of Alhynar's exile has nearly ended, and he will return this summer filled with pride and bitterness, rage and ambition."

Dumet sat on the floor across the table from the vagrant. He absorbed the man's words with a mixture of skepticism and excitement. "How do you know this?"

"Or so say the whispers."

Dumet groaned and scratched his forehead.

Venewros sat beside him. "You told me you knew of a threat against Marsinot. Tell us, please."

"Like his fathers before him," the vagrant said, "Alhynar once ruled Vecma as its wazaeda and wielded the Scepter of Vecma, which the ancients enchanted with power in its forging. The scepter is the key to ruling the city."

"Alhynar wants the scepter?" Dumet said. "Why?"

"The scepter is more than just a symbol of the wazaeda's authority." The vagrant's voice rasped, and he locked his index fingers together. "It connects the wazaeda to his people, and the people to him."

"If that is true, then why cannot Marsinot use it to unmask this conspiracy? He is now the rightful owner of the scepter."

"The traditions of four centuries weigh against him. The Scepter of Vecma has strengthened Marsinot's position, but his policies have made him unpopular, especially with the artisans and merchants. Potency with the scepter requires study, practice, and time. Some day, perhaps, he could learn its secrets, if he can survive that long. Time is something Marsinot doesn't have."

"What do you mean?" Venewros asked.

"Alhynar's return is at hand."

"Everyone in the city knows that," Dumet said.

"Yes, but you must beware what you choose, Dumet, son of Tagonet, for you may sway the outcome."

"What?" Dumet sat upright. "How do you know my name? Or my father's name?"

"I know many things about you. About your past. You must decide where your true loyalties lie."

Dumet seized the vagrant by the cloak at the shoulder. "You question my loyalty? You speak slander! Who is feeding you such lies?"

The vagrant shook his head, strands of hair flopping like spider silk in a breeze. "Or so say the whispers."

"Enough!" A hot frenzy possessed Dumet, and he jerked the vagrant toward him. "Tell me what you know, and speak plainly!" Forgetting his strength, he shook the old man but immediately regretted it. Dumet feared he would break the frail man in half, for he seemed to weigh nothing.

Then Dumet blinked, one moment driven by fury, the next unwilling to believe what his eyes no longer saw. The old vagrant was gone, and only a few wisps of smoke hung in the air where he had been. The old cloak in Dumet's hands felt gritty and it, together with the shirt, dissolved into a rough powder that sprinkled to the floor.

Venewros cleared his throat. "We've both seen a whisper now, chief. No maybe about it."

"I don't know what good it will do us." Dumet wiped his hands and stood.

"We know he's after the scepter," Venewros said. "That's a start."

Dumet flung two silver coins on the low table where they rang like funeral bells. Sometime during the ruckus his cup had spilled its wine, which now dripped in red pools on the floor. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."