Holding his breath, Seregil stole silently to the door and inched it open. All was dark beyond. Listening intently for watchmen or wandering servants, he found the servants’ doorway behind a tapestry in the hallway near the kitchen and crept up to the second floor. Fortunately the stairs were solid and well maintained. They hardly creaked at all.

The library was at the front of the house, down a long corridor that branched off the one leading to the household sleeping quarters. An ornate Zengati carpet ran the length of the hall and muffled his footsteps nicely as he hurried along.

The simple lock on the library door was enough to keep servants and nosy guests out, but not Seregil. He pondered suggesting something more complex to Malthus the next time they met, but decided it would be an awkward topic to work into casual conversation.

Once inside he checked the locked drawers of the desk, finding little of interest, then searched the room for hidden compartments. Once again, it was all too easily found, in the wall behind a small tapestry. Dust had collected around the edges of a square of wood paneling, making it obvious to a trained eye. In Seregil’s experience, the more honest the person, the easier it was to burgle them. Feeling a little guilty, he carefully pried out the panel and found a flat wooden box hidden in the space behind it. Roughly square, the box was about a foot wide and half that thick. Seregil carried it to the desk and inspected it closely with the lightstone from his tool roll. Finally, a lock with a little spirit to it! Perhaps even a nasty device incorporated into the lock or brass plate. Smiling to himself, he took out the slender pick he’d designed for just such a situation. It was purposely bent so that it could probe the lock while keeping the hand out of range of any needles or other dangerous deterrents that might pop out.

It was a good thing, too. Malthus had been much more careful with this; a burst of white flame flared from the keyhole, melting the pick and catching the edge of Seregil’s rolled-up shirtsleeve on fire.

“Bilairy’s—!” Seregil struggled out of the shirt and hastily threw it away from him. He knew this magic. He’d seen Thero—who had a peculiar fascination with all things flammable—place it on various objects to protect them. This sort of magical fire could consume flesh if in contact with it for more than a few seconds. For all Seregil knew, Thero had placed the magic on the box for Malthus himself. Unfortunately it set anything else it touched ablaze, too, and he’d thrown the shirt a little too close to the drapes behind the desk.