Two hours later they were descending the dirt path back to the royal marina. Tomasso, still recovering from his dose of Immotalus, walked with a limp, supported by Leo.

“I suppose my ignorance accrued to our advantage,” Tomasso said, with a slight chuckle. One side of his face was still paralyzed, so the words were slurred. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what ‘enciphered’ means.”

“Encrypted,” said Nico. “Your cleverness accrued to our advantage as well. I solved the riddle — and you were right. It refers to Duke Ferdinand the First.”

“Then we’re fucked,” said Leo. “Unless we conceive some way to interrogate a corpse. Ferdinand the First is a hundred years dead in his grave.”

“There is a statue of him on the Charles Bridge. A talking statue.” The Charles Bridge was ornamented with statues notable Veronans. Some fool had decided to animate them, giving them some meager semblance of life. They spent most of their time haranguing each other and passersby.

Leo had stopped short, nearly dropping Tomasso. “You’re certain?”

“Positive.”

“Of course… it's so obvious. Why didn't we think of this before?”

Nico shrugged. “Riddles and puzzles are not my forte.”

“Well thus far you're three for three. The escape room, the cryptogram, and the riddle. Not half bad.”

“Three for four. There were two cryptograms; I solved only one.” The one they had found in the Library had required Golgas’ aid.

“Still,” Leo said. “Pretty good.”

Pretty good, thought Nico, but pretty good in an Ilhen still meant death.

***

The Arrow bore them back to Verona. They settled Tomasso in with a local physiker for medical oversight, and then they expeditiously crossed the city to the Charles Bridge. It connected to one of the major arteries leading to Petra’s Hill, where the Pathfinders guild was established. However Leo generally avoided the bridge whenever possible; the chattering statues were an intolerable nuisance.

“Hark! Look at this preening dandy,” said the statue of Paolo Pauli, gesturing to Leo. He was a Veronan mathematician who had advanced the understanding of integral calculus. He was also a pompous windbag. “In my day,” he continued, “men dressed like men, not Edmiri whores. Someone introduce this fop to proper male attire.”

Leo wasn’t even wearing anything particularly fashionable, just his linen gambeson — although it did have silver clasps. He’d also taken it to an expensive tailor to have it carefully fitted.

“Prattle on,” Leo said, “and I shall introduce you to Whisper.” His mystical longsword could penetrate any medium.

“Huh? What is Whisper?”

Leo ignored him and moved on.

The statue of Duke Ferdinand I stood upon a marble plinth. Unlike his neighbors, he was calm and silent, rubbing his chin as he stared wistfully out at the horizon. If the sculpture was a fair likeness, then he was utterly unlike his successor. He had doughy cheeks, a kind face, and intelligent eyes. He seemed a wise and benevolent leader.

“Look who carved him,” Leo said, wiping a layer of grime from the inscription: Ilhen Rimani.

The Duke was quiet, pensive, and seemingly unaware or unconcerned with them. He scratched an itch on his shoulder, still staring unblinkingly at the Jewel Sea beyond, as though pondering some great political dilemma that spanned the Paladisian Empire, its allies and enemies.

“Err, Duke Ferdinand,” said Leo awkwardly, “We would like to know where the key is kept… err…” He shrugged at Nico. “It feels weird talking to a statue.”

Duke Ferdinand I turned his kind eyes down upon Leo. Although the statue was hewn from marble, Ilhen had endowed the Duke with bright green eyes that made him seem uncanny and lifelike. He bent down, kneeling on his marble plinth.

“Hello, child,” he said in a slow, sonorous tone. His lips barely parting, but the words were carefully enunciated. “You are on a Quest. But great peril lies ahead of you.”

“And behind,” said Leo. “We just survived a social encounter with your deranged son. Alas, peril is the spice of a good Quest. Do you know where the key is kept?”

“I do,” Duke Ferdinand I said. “But are you sure that you want to know? Some doors, once opened, cannot be closed. They lead to places you never imagined.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Leo said, growing bored of the statue’s philosophizing. “The key — tell us where it is kept.”

The statue of Duke Ferdinand I smiled sadly, nodding his head. “Consider this:

East the Jasmine River

South the snowcapped sierra

'neath the lee of spreading elm trees

Find one secret, two numbers, and a golden key

In the cellar the prize awaits”

***

Cosimo, to his credit, barely reacted when Leo apprised him of recent events.

“Another riddle? I suppose it’s not surprising.”

“This one is a little less cryptic, at least. It's clearly referencing a geographical location.”

Cosimo nodded contemplatively. “Maps,” he said. “I have an abundance maps. I'll get them, I'll get Maximilian as well… the man is a sloth and a drunkard but he’s a font of useless trivia. Maybe he can help…”

Cosimo returned first with the maps. It was indeed an abundant collection, some old and frayed, weathered and torn. Some were sketches by surveyors, intricately detailed but incomplete. Others were artistic but of dubious accuracy. Nico sifted through them, collecting the most promising charts.

“Jasmine River,” Leo muttered, “I recognize that name…” He pored over the charts, “somewhere in the east, if I’m not mistaken… far to the east…” Long ago when Leo had trained as a ranger on Saville Island, his erstwhile tutor Ariadne Onasis had drilled him on geography. He’d spent many nights with a candle in his bedroom, hovered over ancient maps, studying rivers and mountains and capital cities. Time had faded much of that knowledge, but there were some things he still remembered.

“Here,” he said after about a minute of searching a map. “The Jasmine River, a stream that meanders the tropical forests of Wuhabi in Parthia. It’s said to be quite picturesque.”

“Tropical forest? Where are the snowcapped mountains? South the snowcapped mountains, the riddle said.”

Leo shrugged. “Beats me… maybe it’s—”

Leo was cut off by Cosimo, who burst into the room with Maximilian and Bjørn in tow.

“Maximilian knows where the Jasmine River is.”

“Wuhabi,” said Leo. “We already know.”

“A Jasmine River is in Wuhabi. But there are no snowy mountains in that realm. It is not the Jasmine River you seek.”

Leo crossed his arms. “Then enlighten us. Where is it?”

“Should I, though?” Maximilian crossed his own arms, glancing around the room, looking mighty smug. “It’s so fun, seeing your ignorant, slack-jawed expressions groveling for my help.”

“Just fucking tell us,” said Cosimo through clenched teeth. The enmity between them was such that Leo was surprised Cosimo had never made him walk the plank into shark-infested waters.

“Fine,” Max said. “It’s the Gellbruk River in Nordia. Gellbruk means Jasmine in the native Nordian tongue. Isn’t that right, Bjørn?”

Bjørn grunted and shrugged. "Bjørn does not know. Maybe. Naming mountains — in Nordia that is women’s work.”

“It means Jasmine. I can prove it; I have a translation guide.”

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“What about elm trees?” Nico said. “Are there elms in Nordia?”

“Well, no,” Maximilian said, somewhat reluctantly. “But — well, in the south there are some deciduous trees… perhaps elms grow there. They've got to. Or perhaps it's a poetic flourish.”

Nico had his doubts.

“Work it out,” said Cosimo. “Find me a location.”

“We will,” said Leo.

“I will,” said Maximilian. “And I don’t need their help. I only need Bjørn’s.”

***

Mountains, they learned, were sacred to the Nordians. Every hill and hillock, every mound and molehill was christened a name. Maximilian and Bjørn conducted a methodical search, relying on Bjørn’s encyclopedic knowledge of the terrain. Bjørn would provide the native Nordian name, and then Maximilian would translate the name to Common, hoping to find one with snowy mountain or elm tree connotations.

He adamantly refused any help from Leo and Nico.

Hours passed. Cosimo had put his ship out to sea, and the Mint was now sailing gracefully in a northwesterly course, bound for the frigid climes of Nordia. They could have tried using the Skyborn’s Nexus portal to Fjordur, but it was so far north and so remote that Cosimo had opted to sail to Nordia instead.

That evening Leo had joined Gianna for a game of Citadels to bide time. Bjørn and Maximilian were at the table across from them, busily conducting their search.

Leo played the black pieces. Black had an inherent advantage over white, but it didn’t matter. He would never beat Gianna in a game of strategy — or a game of anything, really. The girl was cunning and ruthless and overly competitive. He played his pieces somewhat recklessly, waiting for an opening he could exploit, but Gianna was already picking off his front line of defense.

Danieli came to join them to spectate. She was wearing a loose orange shift, so thin and translucent that her pert breasts were visible through it. Her purple lipstick made her look like some kind of evil, sexy warlock. She rested a cold, clammy hand on Leo’s arm and leaned to whisper in his ear.

“Leo… I need you to meet me… in my room,” she whispered, her lips so close that they grazed his ear.

Leo gave her a puzzled look. “Sorry love, I’m not that easy. You have to at least buy me dinner first.”

“I have been scrying the portents,” she whispered in the same sultry tone, each word punctuated with a pregnant pause, “and they are dire indeed. There are things you need to know, Leo… things that are happening at this very minute… things involving a person you hold dearly in your heart.”

“What are you blathering about?” Leo said. “Speak plainly.”

Gianna was watching this scene unfold with boundless amusement. She had continued maneuvering her army, and Leo was still playing with his same listless enthusiasm. The game was nearly at an end.

Danieli licked her lips, staring deeply into Leo’s eyes. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something important. She leaned close again. “Follow me… or you shall forever rue the day you declined my aid…”

Danieli stood up and left the room. Gianna was giggling uncontrollably. Leo’s face was red.

“I … uhh, I need to go,” Leo said.

“Yeah, sure,” Gianna said. “Just remember Leo, you’re a big boy now but venereal disease is the number one leading cause—”

“Oh, fuck you.”

***

Leo met Danieli in her room. The room was exactly the same size and shape as Leo’s own, though its configuration was mirrored. The smell of sage incense filled the room, and the desk was topped with various potions and a pack of Tarot cards.

She was sitting on the bed waiting for him.

“Your blouse thing really doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

“Sexual arousal is conducive to the art of divination. It opens the mind, leaves the subject exposed and vulnerable.”

“Right. How about you just tell me what the fuck you wanted to tell me.”

Danieli took his hand into her own and brought him to her desk. She pointed to some Tarot cards that had been splayed out.

“That’s you,” she said, pointing to a card featuring a knight with a rapier.

“First off, no. A rapier is a terrible sword for armored combat. Rapiers are for pirates, not armored knights. You would never catch me dead —”

Danieli put a finger to Leo’s lips, shushing him. “Tis but a symbol. A symbol of the warrior. You.”

Leo wanted to argue that he was neither a warrior nor a soldier, but Danieli had already made up her mind. She reached down and slid two cards from under the warrior. One featured a melting clock; the other was solid black.

“Only once before have I ever encountered such a dire portent, Leo. I must read you, but I need your help. The prophecy concerns you, so your mind can be a conduit.” She took his hand and led him to her bed. He didn’t know why he complied but he did. No sooner had he sat down than Dani let her shift fall to the floor. She was completely naked. She lowered herself into his lap.

In spite of his intentions, Leo felt himself stiffen against her. He did not actively pursue sex or romance, but nor was he asexual. And Danieli, it could not be denied, was a very alluring woman in her own strange way.

He placed his hands on her hips. She cradled the back of his head, but she did not lean in for a kiss. She stared deep into his eyes, looking from one eye to the next as though searching for something.

“Oh… Yes…” she said in her faraway voice. “Now I know. Oh dear…”

“What? Is my breath stinky?”

“It is your guildmaster, Leo. He has been seized by the Duke's forces.”

***

Nico spent several hours that evening honing his Illusion attunement. It was one thing, he found, to alter a single aspect of one’s appearance (like complexion or eye color). But to orchestrate multiple alterations in service of a greater disguise was another matter entirely. It also required an abundance of time, meaning he could not (or at least not yet) apply and discard identities at will.

His Disguise spellbook was cracked open about halfway.

Practical Lesson #57: Verbal tics

Each lesson proved a trifle more difficult than the one preceding, though Nico was propelled by the words of encouragement from Il-ibn, who on multiple occasions had dubbed him a prodigy. In one note, Il-ibn had urged Nico to return to the Spire to test his abilities further and seek an elevated attunement.

What form that attunement might take remained a mystery, though in his running correspondence with Il-ibn Nico gained more insight about how things worked. There were four subfields of Illusion magic: Figment, Glamour, Shadow, and Specter. Nico's own Disguise spell was considered a Glamour, a spell which altered how people perceived him, without modifying the physical substrate itself.

Nico's expectation was that, if he were to re-enter the Illusion Spire, he could either advance his Disguise spell to Level 2 or obtain a new spell, and either way it would boost his overall mana. Although aspirants were prohibited from discussing their experiences within the Spire, it was rumored that after three successful trips to a Spire, a mage gained the ability to learn spells "in the wild", by studying spell books and other arcana.

But all that would have to wait. This whole Quest, the search for Ilhen’s Seventh, the debt that saddled the Pathfinders guild — it was all a monkey on Nico’s back. An intractable problem. The odds seemed stacked against them. All he could do was focus on the predicaments of the present moment, crossing one obstacle at a time…

Later, when he tired of practicing the Disguise spell, he wandered back over to the Captain’s Quarters, settling into one of the many cozy armchairs, admiring the art on the wall opposite. Maximilian came up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Have you solved the riddle?” Nico asked him.

“Well, no not yet, but the location has got to be somewhere in Nordia, hasn't it? It will take us three days to reach Nordia. By then we'll have it worked out.”

Nico wasn't so sure. Thus far, all the clues were not what they appeared to be on surface.

Max gestured to the painting Nico had been admiring.

“An original Rosco. I met him once in Arkimides, you know. I asked him how he creates such a unique chiaroscuro effect in his paintings. Do you know what he said?”

“No.”

“Nothing. He’s deaf and dumb, apparently. And not just mute-dumb but brain-dumb too, quite stupid. Imagine he were blind… what beauty we would be deprived of.”

“I once knew a blind musician who theorized the deprivation of one sense heightened acuity of the others.”

“An intriguing notion. Genius always takes its toll; madness is oft the price.” He sighed heavily, as though pondering a great burden. “I consider myself one of the lucky ones, for my genius is boundless and yet I have no physical or mental impediments. I am even strikingly handsome.” He sighed again. “Cosimo tells me you have some artistic talent yourself?”

“In my youth I forged art in a Manarolean atelier. Rosco was one of my specialties.”

“Forgery, tut tut. That’s mimicry, not art. It’s plagiarism. I should know — I am myself an accomplished artist, in addition to my many other talents.”

“Are you a Romanticist? Like Rosco?”

“Romanticism is beneath my prodigious talents. I am an abstract expressionist.”

Nico nearly choked. Abstract expressionists made abstract forms by dripping art haphazardly on canvas. Many aficionados of art, Nico included, did not hold abstract expressionism in high esteem.

“Splatter art?”

“We abstract expressionists shun that term. It is derogatory and diminishes the effort we put into our craft. Abstract expressionism towers above all other art forms. A sculpture of a tree will only ever be an tree. Its form is immutable. But a work of abstract expressionism can be anything. A viewer can map any emotional state onto it.”

“Artmancy artwork is mutable.” Artmancy was the magic of art; there were many sub-branches, but overall the field was neglected. “What is your opinion of lithomancy? Of artificium?”

Max scoffed. “Artificium? No true artist holds artificium in esteem.”

It was true — artists shunned artificium just as they shunned abstract expressionism. Artificium was an alchemical ink that allowed a painter to evoke motion on canvas — like a swaying tree. Likely they shunned it because it was novel and strange and difficult to use. Artists and mages went together like oil and water. In fact there was only one man who dared mix the two, only but one skilled practitioner of it. Telemachus of Arkimidea.

Who was, Nico thought wildly, incidentally Ilhen Rimani's mentor.

A thought occurred to him. There was a painting in the Musea… Among the Sierras it was titled. He shut his eyes, imagining the piece in his mind's eye, illustrating it within his imagination to vivid clarity, and...

It aligns with the clues in the riddle.

He stood up suddenly, edging past Max and rushing out of the Captain’s Quarters, seeking Cosimo. He found him on the quarterdeck, barking instructions at his crew.

“Don’t disembark,” Nico said, interrupting his conversation. “The riddle — I think it leads to a painting!"

“What?”

“Turn the ship around. We need to visit the Musea Art Gallery.”