They were ejected, sometimes by force, from any number of drinking establishments. On one such occasion it was because Kemper had grabbed at the buttocks of a passing serving wench. His hand went right through her skirt, of course, but she felt something. Her face had gone quite white and she dropped her tray and then whirled around in bitter anger to confront her molester—only to find Malden sitting alone on a bench, looking innocent. It was all he could do to stumble his way out of that place—only to find Kemper in the street outside, laughing boisterously. At the first sign of trouble, the card sharp had merely ducked backward through the wall and to safety, leaving Malden to bear the barmaid’s wrath.

When he realized what Kemper had done, he could only laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Then he was sick, over the side of a bridge. Afterward he felt weak and queasy, and Kemper assured him the best cure for what ailed him was more ale. Malden enthusiastically agreed.

The carouse ended only slightly before dawn—but on a sour note. They had wended their way down to the city walls without really meaning to, and Malden came up short when he saw the green common of Parkwall ahead of him. He was right back on Hazoth’s doorstep.

“Kemper,” Malden said. “Kemper.”

“What?”

“The wizard who cursed you, who made you like unto—unto . . . The sorcerer who cursed you, was his name Hazoth?”

Kemper laughed until he wheezed. “Hazoth? Ye think ’twas him, the grandmaster of sorcerers, the auld bastard? Sadu’s eight index fingers, save me skin from such a fate! Oh, laddie, nay. Nay, it was but some hedge wizard, in a blighted village a hunnerd miles from here.”

“But this hedge—hedge wizard—must have been, you know. Very powerful. To do this to you.”

Kemper shook his head violently. “Nay, in comparison, the bugger who got me—that is, compared to yer Hazoth—he was like hawkin’ a gob o’ spit next t’the ocean.” He sat down hard on the grass. “Magic’s strong stuff, it is. E’en a mild curse’s no joke. Yet what Hazoth could do t’ a body, I shudder t’think. Strip the flesh right off o’ your bones and make it dance a jig, maybe. Or just crack th’earth open, right at yer feet, and drop ye into the pit like a pebble in a well.”

“Oh,” Malden said, and threw up again. Partly from strong drink. Mostly from fear.

“Izzat his place, then?” Kemper asked.

“This is the place,” Malden said, pointing across the grass toward the sorcerer’s villa. “The crown must be inside.” Over the course of the night he’d told Kemper everything—including the fact that he had no choice but to break in there and steal the crown back. “It’s not like he’ll just give it to me,” he said.