“Then we’ll have to do it while I work,” Cimorene declared. She turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen, full of annoyance. She had been feeling almost friendly toward Therandil—he had been worried about her, after all—until he said he wanted to talk. Cimorene was quite sure that what he wanted to talk about was rescuing her, and she was annoyed with him for being so stupidly stubborn and annoyed with herself for being annoyed when he was only trying to do the best he could.

Therandil followed her into the kitchen. “What is all that?” he asked as Cimorene put the apron full of jars on the kitchen table and began lining them up.

“Some things I’m checking for Kazul,” Cimorene said. She picked up a small jar made of carved jade and pried the lid off. It was half full of green salve. Cimorene put the lid back on and set the jar aside. “What was it you wanted to talk about?” she asked, reaching for another jar.

“You. Dragons. Us. That looks interesting. Can I help?”

“As long as you don’t break anything,” Cimorene said. “Some of these are very fragile.” Maybe opening jars would make him forget about You. Dragons. Us, for a while.

“I’ll be very careful,” Therandil assured her. “This one looks like metal. I’ll start with that, shall I?” He picked up one of the larger jars, made of beaten copper with two handles. He frowned at the top, then reached for his dagger, and as he tilted the jar, Cimorene saw that the neck was stopped up with lead.

“Not that one!” She said quickly. She didn’t remember picking out that particular jar. It must have been one of the last four or five that she’d scooped up when she heard Therandil calling.

“Why not?” Therandil said, sounding rather hurt. “I said I’d be careful.” The tip of his dagger was already embedded in the lead.

“Kazul said to leave the ones with lead stoppers alone,” Cimorene said. “So put it back.”

“If you insist,” Therandil said, shrugging. He pulled on his dagger, but it was stuck fast in the lead. “Drat!” he said, and twisted the handle. The dagger came free, and the lead stopper came along with it.

“I should have known,” Cimorene said in a resigned tone.

A black cloud of smoke poured out of the jar. As Cimorene and Therandil watched, it condensed into a dark-skinned giant wearing only a turban and a loincloth. He was more than twice as tall as Therandil, and the corners of his mouth were turned down in a stern frown.

“What is it?” whispered Therandil.

“Trouble,” said Cimorene.

“Thou speakest truly, O Daughter of Wisdom,” said the giant in a booming voice that filled the cave. “For I am a jinn, who was imprisoned in that jar, and I am the instrument of thy death and that of thy paramour.”