“Hence the disguise,” Gyre said, testing the consistency of the goop in the bowl with one finger.

“Which you’re going to blow as soon as you use this idiot code word to announce yourself.” Lynnia leaned her head back and sighed. “I know how much you want this, Gyre. You’ve been looking for Doomseeker ever since you first heard his name. But all this means is that the dux knows it, too.”

“Maybe.” Gyre scooped the goop onto his finger, squinted in the mirror, and started layering it across his face. “We’ll find out.”

“I have no idea how you’ve survived this long.” Lynnia glared at him. “And if you don’t come back, what am I supposed to tell Yora afterward?”

He paused, goop dangling from his finger. “The truth. That I got myself killed doing something stupid.”

“All right!” Lynnia got to her feet. “Don’t listen. Not that you ever do. And”—she glared at his pack—“not like you ask before borrowing my supplies. I’ve been keeping you out of trouble since they dumped you half dead on my doorstep, but what do I know?” She clomped up the stairs.

Gyre turned back to the mirror and reached for more goop.

Disguises were hard when you had a twenty-centimeter scar through your left eye. People tended to remember a thing like that. The muscles around the socket were too badly damaged for Gyre to use a glass eye, and in any case the vertical cut Va’aht’s power had drawn across his face twelve years ago was clearly visible as a long, raised line.

Fortunately, among Lynnia’s many alchemical interests were the pastes and powders used by stage actors, and she’d taught Gyre a few of their tricks. About the only way to cover up a highly visible facial scar was with a bigger, even more visible facial scar, and Gyre had gotten quite creative with these. His current attempt was shaping up to be a masterpiece of the genre, a mottled mess of badly healed burns that covered his eye, his cheek, and part of his jaw. He combined it with a silver wig and a bit of facial hair backed with sticky gum, and he was fairly sure nobody would recognize him.

He went upstairs an hour later, carrying a pack filled with useful supplies. Lynnia was in the sitting room, furiously drinking tea.

“You look hideous,” she snapped.

“Good,” Gyre said. “That’s the idea.”

Lynnia scowled and stared into her tea. Gyre walked past her to the door.

“Gyre.”

He paused, hand on the latch. “What?”

“What will you do if it is Doomseeker?”

Gyre straightened slightly. “He’s the only man who’s ever found the Tomb and come back.”

“So rumor has it, anyway.” Her skepticism was apparent. “You’re going to ask him to show you the way?”

“Something like that.”