Baruk's gaze intensified. Below, the street workers seemed to spend more time arguing than working. An assassin's war could be trouble. Vorcan's Guild was strong, but the Empire was stronger, if indeed these newcomers were Claws. But something felt decidedly odd about the whole thing. In the past the Empress used such local guilds, often recruited from them. The alchemist could discern no purpose behind such a war, and that was even more disturbing to him than the war itself. Hearing a shuffling behind him, he remembered his agent. He turned and smiled. 'You can go now.'

Something flashed in Kruppe's eyes that startled Baruk. The fat man rose in a single fluid motion. 'Kruppe has more to tell, Master Baruk.'

Bemused, the alchemist nodded for Kruppe to continue.

'The tale is arduous and confused, alas,' he said, striding to join Baruk at the window. His handkerchief had disappeared. 'Kruppe can only surmise as best a man of innumerable talents may. In moments of leisure, during games of chance and the like. In the aura of the Twins an Adept may hear, see, smell, and touch things as insubstantial as the wind. A taste of Lady Luck, the bitter warning of the Lord's Laughter.' Kruppe's gaze snapped to the alchemist. 'Do you follow, Master?'

His eyes riveted on the man's round face, Baruk said quietly, 'You speak of Oponn.'

Kruppe looked back down at the street. 'Perhaps. Perhaps a grim feint meant to mislead such as foolish Kruppe—'

Foolish? Baruk smiled inwardly. Not this man.

'- who can say?' Kruppe raised a hand, showing in his palm a flat disc of wax. 'An item,' he said softly, his eyes on the disc, 'that passes without provenance, pursued by many who thirst for its cold kiss, on which life and all that lay within life is often gambled. Alone, a beggar's crown. In great numbers, a king's folly. Weighted with ruin, yet blood washes from it beneath the lightest rain, and to the next no hint of its cost. It is as it is, says Kruppe, worthless but for those who insist otherwise.'

Baruk was holding his breath. His lungs burned, yet it was an effort to release them. Kruppe's words had drawn him into something – a place, hinting of vast stores of knowledge and the sure, unfailing, precise hand that had gathered it, marked it on parchment. A library, shelves of black wood in sharp relief, tomes bound to shiny leather, yellowed scrolls, a pitted, stained desk – Baruk felt he had but stolen a single glance into this chamber. Kruppe's mind, the secret place with its door locked to all but one. 'You speak,' Baruk said slowly, fighting to pull back into reality by focusing on the wax disc in Kruppe's hand, 'of a coin.'