“It in’t there,” she said, answering their unspoken question. Perhaps her voice was sharper than it should have been, but she was tired.

There was a brief silence as the two men digested her news. Finally, James spoke. “What do you mean?”

“I flipped the whole room—the dresser, desk, the chest at the foot of the bed. No jewelry box.”

“You searched the entire room?” James raised an eyebrow.

Kyra spat on the ground. “Look, unless he sleeps with the rock in his smallclothes, it wasn’t there.”

“Maybe you went to the wrong place.”

There was a hint of derision in his voice, and it galled Kyra. Trying hard to control a flush of anger, she reached into her belt pouch for the handkerchief she’d taken from the noble’s dresser. She flicked it at James, who snatched it out of the air with surprising quickness.

“This handkerchief’s got the fatpurse’s initials embroidered on it. See if it matches your mark.”

Kyra made no effort to hide her frustration as James inspected the embroidery. Payment for the job depended on handing over the jewel, so she’d taken a long and dangerous night’s work for nothing. She felt a hand on her shoulder. Flick, knowing her temper, was silently warning her not to push anything too far. Kyra gritted her teeth. James studied the handkerchief, after a while not even looking at it, but through it. Finally, he looked up, and his demeanor abruptly changed.

“Very well,” he said, voice now smooth and agreeable. “Mayhap he didn’t bring the stone to the Palace.” James untied a pouch from his belt and tossed it at Kyra, who almost didn’t react quickly enough to catch it. “That’s the agreed-upon price, plus some extra. I believe this will cover your effort.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away.

Two

T W O

The Drunken Dog was an establishment that awoke at night and slept during the day. Every evening, the small tavern brightened with the clink of flagons, loud talk, and the occasional song (often led by a slightly inebriated Flick). But come sunrise, the place dimmed. Pale sunlight shone through the small windows but couldn’t match the warmth of the Dog’s evening revelry. By the time Kyra and Flick walked into the main dining room an hour after dawn, only a few stragglers remained.

Brendel, the new talesinger, was packing up his lute. He raised his hand in greeting. “Ho, Flick, will you be here tonight? I’ll be playing ‘Lady Evelyne and the Felbeast.’” Brendel was a journeyman, and for his masterpiece—the work that he hoped would promote him to a master—he was putting the popular legend to song.

Flick grinned. “Let me sing the felbeast, and I’ll grace you with my presence.”