They returned to the Mint the following morn. The ship’s Quartermaster met them at the taffrail, but Maximilian rudely shoved him aside, eager to apprise Cosimo of events the past few nights.

“That brigantine returned the other night,” he said. “The ship with the black sails. I commanded the men to turn our guns on it. My courage and decisiveness just may have saved the Mint. Four shots from our cannons was all it took. We haven’t seen her since.”

“My cannons, not our cannons,” Cosimo said. He snapped his fingers at one of his servants, demanding a fresh changes of clothes. He wanted to swap his furs for silks. Then he turned back to Max. “Four shots. You should have only needed one. Did you put any iron in the brig’s belly?”

“Well… no. Or maybe we did. I could hardly tell… it was so dark. But the important thing is —”

“Were you able to see the name of the ship?”

“As I said,” Max said, cheeks turning crimson, “it was dark. Pitch black. Remarkable we could even glimpse her in such conditions.”

“And yet you wasted four shots.”

As Cosimo and Max bickered, Leo and Nico detached themselves, striding to the quarterdeck where they found some semblance of privacy. “I assume Cosimo has a raven or two on board,” Nico said. “I’ll send word ahead to Tomasso. He’s going to be meeting the Duke today. We need to join him.”

Leo smiled winsomely, putting his right hand upon the pommel of Wraith. “Ah yes, interrogating the Mad Duke for clues about a mythical deathtrap. Alternatively, perhaps I can draw a pair of nooses on the Mint’s yardarm and we can hang ourselves. Might save some time and effort. A nice clean death instead of a messy one.”

Instead of whatever fate awaits in the Oculus, Nico thought with a shudder. The Oculus was the headquarters of the Black Cabal, an ominous tomb-like structure which sat on a hill overlooking Verona. It was rumored the Empress’ enemies were sent there, their lives prolonged indefinitely so that they could be subjected to eternal torments. Nico dispelled the thought.

“We need to speak to the Duke,” he said. “I see no alternative.”

“No,” Leo said, the sarcastic smirk sliding from his face. “Nor I. We’ll leave Gianna behind of course. No need to imperil her with this expedition. It will be a memorable occasion no doubt.” His lips curled to a frown. “If we live to remember it.”

***

A crewman took Nico to the Mint’s rookery, where he dashed off a letter to Tomasso requesting to accompany him when he met with the Duke. And then Nico went to his room, relieved to finally have some time to experiment with his new attunement. There is nothing so tantalizing, he thought, as an unread and unopened book. Especially one which promised to teach magic.

He cracked the tome open for the first time since acquiring it in the Spire. He opened it halfway to a random page curious what he would find. He found nothing: the page was blank. He flipped through some more pages; all were blank. Some kind of trick? It would be only fitting for an Illusion spellbook to be scribed with invisible ink. Il-ibn was notorious for skulduggery.

Nico flipped over to the tome’s opening pages, relieved to find text. The opening chapter recapped foundational knowledge about Illusion magic, the principles and precepts Nico had mastered reading Hofstadter’s text. Nico raced through all this, flipping forward several pages, where he found this:

Practical Lesson #1: Complexion. The casting of Illusion magic never requires an incantation, for stealth and discretion are precious commodities to the budding Illusionist. The key ingredients to a successful Illusion spell are time, concentration, and faith. To channel the energy of Il-ibn you must focus single-mindedly on the Disguise you wish to cast.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Find a quiet space. Expel all distractions from your mind and consider your right hand. Gaze upon it for a full minute. Consider your palm lines, the seams of your joints, the lengths of your fingers. Now close your eyes and recall with as much detail as you can imagine. You must do this for at least one minute. Then alter the image in your mind: whiten or darken your hand’s complexion.

Open your eyes and review the results. On your first try it is unlikely to have had any effect. On successive attempts, you will note blotches of discoloration on palms and fingernails. Only with continued perseverance will you be able to pigment the entire hand.

Nico tried it, vividly imagining his own hand, bleaching his own complexion. This much was trivial. His eidetic memory, and his past as a forgery artist, made it easy to recall every minute detail, from the faint blue veins to the whorls of his fingerprints. He could recall it with near-total fidelity.

When Nico opened his eyes, his entire hand was milky white. He did this on his first try.

The page opposite, which had been blank, now showed the following text: Well done. You are an adept.

Those words then vanished and were replaced with:

Practical Lesson #2: Hair

Smiling, Nico dived into it eagerly.

***

Leo was on the main deck, where he’d found Gianna playing a game of Citadels with Bjørn. She was playing a standard variation of the Despot’s Gambit, while Bjørn was … well, Leo had no idea know what strategem Bjørn was employing, but he seemed to have effectively maneuvered his cavalry into a pincer tactic, and he had the upper edge. Leo was impressed.

“Bjørn, playing a mean game of Citadels,” he said. “You truly are a man of hidden depths.”

Bjørn did not even deign to look upon Leo. “All Nordian men play Citadels,” he said. “Nordia invented Citadels.”

“Hmm that… that doesn’t sound right… You say Nordian men play Citadels. What about the women?”

“Nordian women do not play games. Games and sports and war, those are the trades of men. Women are for cleaning and fishing and hut-building and basket-weaving and child-rearing and husbandry.”

“Wow. You really are building quite the gender paradise up there in Nordia,” Gianna said wryly, advancing one of her archers within range of Bjørn’s citadel. Her sarcasm was lost on Bjørn.

“Yes,” he said, rearranging his cavalry in response to her move. “Nordia is paradise.”

Out of the gray sky a raven emerged, fluttering onto the table and knocking over a few Citadel of Bjørn’s knights. Bjørn groaned in rage and moved to swat it, but Leo stopped him.

“Wait! It’s for me, I think.” The bird held out a message that was tied to its leg. Leo untied it and unfurled the note, finding Tomasso’s spidery penmanship. It was his reply to Nico’s own letter.

Have you taken leave of your senses? Why would you want to meet the Duke? Don’t answer. Meet me at the docks at noon.

-T

Leo crushed the note, cramming it into one of his many pockets. Gianna was giving him a quizzical look. Before she could inquire about the message, Cosimo’s voice cut the air like a whip.

“Are the rumors true?”

“What rumors?” Leo turned to face Cosimo. He back to wearing his flowing red and blue silks. Between his bright outfit and his many sparkling gemstone rings, he looked like a peacock.

“The rumors about Ferdinand. They say he’s a madman. They say he’s over 150 years old, kept alive by alchemies that have robbed him of his wits. I hear he has a penchant for abducting citizens at random and breaking them on the wheel.”

“You haven’t heard the half of it,” said Leo. “Duke Ferdinand II has a volatile temperament. Each day is a coin toss, and if you catch him on one of his bad days…” Leo shook his head.

“You’ve met him, I take it?”

“Once. He called me Rollo — the name of his deceased son. Then he tried to shake hands with a tree, thinking it was the King of Russo. Ferdinand can be both kind and cruel, magnanimous and miserly.”

“I’ll settle for honest and accommodating. I want answers.”

“Will you be joining us?” Leo asked.

“Of course not,” he said, eyes glittering malevolently. “Why should I? I pay you to take these risks.”