He choked back a bitter reply, seized by a sudden, superstitious pang. Perhaps they were right. These were ominous times, no doubt, and it seemed he was squarely in the middle of every bad omen.

Protect me, O Lord of the Hot Wet Stone, he prayed. Protect your straying servant. I have done only what seemed best for my friends and family!

His god did not send any reply that would make him feel better, only the echo of the Metamorphic Brothers shouting after him, ordering him to repent and come back to the faithful.

The castle above was in chaos. Soldiers were everywhere, and the narrow streets were so crowded that he needed twice as long as he’d expected to make his way through the Outer Keep. Chert began sincerely to repent one thing, at least—agreeing to return to Brother Okros.

Those few big folk who even noticed him stared as though he were some unclean animal that had slipped into a house when the door had been left open. Several bumped hard against him in the most crowded passages and almost knocked him over, and the men driving ox-wagons did not even bother to slow when they saw him, forcing him to dodge for his life in the muddy street among wheels taller than he was.

What madness is this? Why such hatred? Are we Funderlings to blame for the fairy folk across the bay? Or for the autarch trying to conquer Hierosol? But anger, he knew, would do him no good; better simply to keep his eyes open and avoid confrontation wherever possible.

To add to Chert’s miseries, the soldiers at the Raven’s Gate also seemed inclined to give him a difficult time. He had to wait, furious but silent, as they mocked his size and made doubting remarks about his errand to Brother Okros. He heard the bells of the great temple begin to toll the noon hour and his heart sank: he was now late to a summons from the Royal Physician. His fortunes improved a moment later with the arrival of a wagon driver looking to enter the Inner Keep with his huge, overloaded cart of wine barrels and no proper authorization. While the soldiers gleefully began to confiscate the shrieking driver’s cargo, Chert slipped past them into the heart of the castle.

Why could Okros not have met me in the Observatory as he did last time? Chert thought bitterly to himself. That is only a few hundred steps from the gate to Funderling Town. I would have been there already and not had to stand and be mocked by the gate guards. But the summons had said Chert must come to the castellan’s chambers, where Chert supposed Okros must be involved in other business. Does that mean he has carried the mirror all the way across the castle?

Chaven Makaros had been delighted to see the summons from his treacherous onetime friend. “Praise all the gods,” he had cried, “that means Okros still has not solved it yet!” The physician had actually trembled with relief as he read. “Of course you must go to him again, Chert. I will give you various paths to offer him that will lead him astray for weeks!”