Jack Nimble sealed his lips and tried not to breathe the green dust raining from the chisel he tapped against the ceiling. Illuminated by a glimmer wand, the dust looked appetizing to Jack. A man from the wizard coast had given him a piece of green candy once, and Jack, remembering the taste, longed to feel the dust dissolving in his saliva. If he gave in to the bizarre temptation, however, it might make him cough -- and if Phillipé, the Platypus, had been delayed, making noise could prove very dangerous.

“Is there anything I can do, Mister Nimble?” Avasa asked from further down the cramped crawlspace. The dark swallowed her brown skin, obscuring everything but her pretty eyes. Jack thought of several answers to her question, but all of them required opening his mouth, and none of them were appropriate.

The chisel broke through and a pinprick of light appeared on the tip of Jack’s long nose. Dust and rubble poured off his face as he turned and pressed an ear to the hole. He nodded to Avasa, then began enlarging the opening with the hammer until it was big enough for him to squeeze through.

Just as the old lady indicated it would, the hole opened very near a wall. A long table stood opposite the wall, affording maximum cover. Jack pulled himself slowly upward and glanced around the room. It was spacious yet Spartan, decorated only with a few bookshelves and the drum Phillipé had hidden in to gain entry. A sound drew Jack’s attention, and his heart skipped a beat. Phillipé and Ozo lay on the table, locked in combat. Jack had been so intent on the far corners of the room that he had missed them entirely.

Avasa’s head came questing out of the hole and Jack pushed it gently back down with the sole of his shoe.

A hulk of a man, Ozo lay on his back, forcing Phillipé’s scrawny arm and red-tinged dagger away. Jack saw tendons standing out through Phillipé’s Platypus costume. Stab wounds marred Ozo’s back and neck and Jack cringed as blood dripped from the table. Pull yourself together, he ordered. He could probably kill a man he had crept up on, if he meditated on it a while first, but found lethal combat distasteful.

Remembering his knife, he tried to pull it from its sheath, but the blade wouldn’t budge. A buckle held the knife in place, and he struggled to undo it.

Ozo’s massive arm snapped straight, sending Phillipé flying across the room. The bookshelves came down on top of him. Ozo swung bulging legs over the table and his glazed eyes focused on Jack. The monster staggered to his feet, then reached out a menacing hand. Reacting almost of its own accord, Jack’s body twisted away. He stabbed at a knuckle, and Ozo grimaced.

Phillipé, his Platypus mask torn over one eye, appeared on Ozo’s head, jabbing the giant’s neck and arms with poison spurs. Ozo flexed his powerful arms to rid himself of Phillipé, then focused once again on Jack. Roaring half-heartedly, Ozo stumbled and fell over dead.

Phillipé stood up and dusted himself off. He limped forward. “I apologize.”

Jack’s brain still couldn’t quite parse how huge Ozo had been. Avasa climbed through the hole and Jack struggled to control the emotions that made his hands shake. “He was supposed to be dead when we got here! What the hell happened?”

“I stabbed him,” said the Platypus. “Repeatedly. I also emptied both spurs into him. I’m sorry.”

“Well, don’t be sorry,” Jack said, softening his tone. “I mean, you did get him.”

Phillipé leaned on the edge of the table, and Jack saw the various cuts and bruises his partner had endured. “I’ve been having problems,” Phillipé said. “My rhythm is off.”

Avasa rushed forward, extending a slender hand, and Jack felt a twinge of jealousy. “Amazing,” she said. “You took out Ozo. You're the new head of the Fourth Family -- and the best assassin in Jengao.”

Phillipé waved a hand, dismissing the notion. Jack wondered what Avasa would make of his partner. Short, with skinny legs and big feet, Phillipé had thin arms with big hands, a potbelly and thinly mustachioed lips that protruded like a duck’s bill.

Jack’s jealousy faded. “This is Avasa,” he said. “Our new associate.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Phillipé. “Excuse me a moment.” He limped over to the door and, standing on tiptoes, undid the latch. Jack knew a corridor lay beyond, with guards posted at the far end. “Your boss is dead,” Phillipé informed the unseen guards. He walked back over to Jack and waved a hand over Ozo’s body. “Perhaps we should get going?”

Jack slid a bracelet off Ozo’s mammoth wrist. In response to Avasa’s puzzled expression, he spun the bracelet on his finger. “Old lady’s heirloom,” he said. “This is what we were hired to steal back.”

Avasa nodded. “We should see what else is around.”

Jack frowned. “Just because I’m a thief doesn’t mean I go around stealing and murdering willy-nilly. I do it according to a code.”

Avasa looked at the bracelet. It was a nice piece, but obviously not worth the risks they had taken to get it. “Then what’s in this for you?” she asked, voice rising in a way Jack found adorable.

Jack shrugged. “The usual. Eternal life, world domination. In that order.”

Two guards entered the room. One looked worried, the other incredulous. They stared at each other, deciding how to react to this unprecedented situation.

Phillipé looked pointedly at Jack. “Off we go,” said Jack, slipping back through the hole. They found the room with the window through which they had entered, and Phillipé secured the grapple.

“So,” Jack said, bracelet still twirling on his finger. “Celebration?”

“Yes!” Avasa exclaimed, a little too loudly. Jack cocked his head, but heard no sound of pursuit. He figured it would take the compound at least twenty minutes to decide how to react, especially when Ozo’s killer didn’t step forward to claim leadership of the Family. “I know a great inn,” Avasa began. Jack grimaced and was gratified to see that Phillipé, halfway out the window, had done the same.

“Inns are out,” said Jack.

"The Bathhouses?” Avasa asked dubiously.

“Good idea, but they’re almost as far as the Old Quarter. I do, however, know some great teahouses. Platypus, are you with us?”

“No,” said Phillipé. “I have to be up early. I’m going somewhere in the afternoon.”

Jack suspected he knew where Phillipé was going, but kept his mouth shut. The Platypus slid out of the window, and Avasa replaced him on the ledge. Gemlettes glittering in the moonlight, Jack watched the twirling bracelet and allowed himself a smile. After this little stunt, the Guild would have to give him everything he wanted.

Off the left bank of the river Prescience, near the centre of Jengao, where the less fortunate citizens clustered, the tall towers and bridges dropped sharply, revealing a landscape of crumbling walls and mounds of garbage. A watery yellow sun looked down on Phillipé, and he pulled his fur coat tighter about his shoulders. A small house, the site of his afternoon appointment, stood at the edge of the ruin.

An old couple scavenged through the rubble, and Phillipé tossed them a few coins. Known as Gloom, the district was aptly named. Phillipé always brought a full purse.

He climbed the creaking wooden steps and knocked, thinking again what an odd place this was to find an oracle. The door opened to reveal Melinda, thin shawl on her shoulders, and the unmistakable aura of wisdom in her smile. Taking in his fur coat, her smile broadened.

“Baby,” she teased.

“I have a low core temperature.”

“Where are we going? The poles?”

He found her humor troubling. “I thought maybe we could just walk around the neighborhood.”

She closed the door, not bothering to lock it, and bounced down the steps. Phillipé noticed her lock had been broken. Again.

“Business or pleasure?” she asked, stepping deftly over the uneven ground.

“Both,” Phillipé said. He tripped over the last remnants of a broken wall, and stumbled a few feet. “I hope.”

Melinda took his arm. “Is the prophecy going the way Jack wants?” Less than a minute and she had already asked about him. “I try to mention it to everyone who comes to see me, but it’s not easy to work it into conversations.”

“Yes,” Phillipé said. “That’s going fine. I think.” They passed two members of Melinda’s flock -- men dressed in ragged women’s coats -- and Phillipé gave them some coins.

“He won’t even need the prophecy to bolster his reputation, pretty soon,” said Melinda. “I heard about the Fourth Family.”

“No big deal.”

She stopped, balancing on a fallen beam, and ran a finger along a cut on Phillipé’s forehead. “I see,” she said.

“My rhythm’s off. I can’t explain it.”

They resumed walking. A large assemblage of planks and canvas had been fastened together in this area, and it made walking easier. “Is the problem physical or spiritual?” she asked.

“I don’t know if I’d call it spiritual,” Phillipé said, “but it’s definitely not physical. My heart’s just not in the assassination business like it used to be. Somewhere amid all the scheming and killing, I lost sight of the passion.”

Melinda giggled, and Phillipé realized the absurdity of what he’d just said. “I wish I could be like Jack,” Phillipé said after a while. “He’s just crazy enough to believe we can succeed.”

“It’s not him that’s crazy,” said Melinda, “it’s the system. Modern life. Society. Jack is a product of his times. In a sense, he is the sanest one among us.”

Phillipé raised his eyebrows at that, and Melinda laughed. “Well, maybe I’m overstating just a little.”

“He once tasted glue,” Phillipé said. “He thought it might taste like egg-nog.”

“Yeah,” Melinda admitted, “he’s certifiable. That’s what gives him his edge. What gives you your edge?”

The question startled Phillipé. A number of people had gathered at the far edge of the makeshift road, and Phillipé brushed his hand over his concealed dagger, drawing comfort from it. He focused his gaze on the crowd, and considered a response to Melinda’s question. “I don’t know anymore.”

“Well, what does Jack need you for?”

“Killing.”

Melinda stopped and placed her hands on her hips. “You believe, Phillipé. Jack is the planner, the organizer. You’re the mystery. The part of a person that can’t be measured, or discussed in words.”

Phillipé considered that. It was a lot to take in. He glanced again at the people, dirty and half-starved. In the unlikely event that they tried something, he would have no trouble killing them all.

“That’s why I’ve always been drawn to the platypus,” he said. Melinda frowned, confused. “You know,” he said. “He’s a mammal, but he lays eggs.” Melinda shook her head. Her frown deepened.

“It’s mysterious,” Phillipé explained.

“Oh,” said Melinda. “I always thought it was because of how you... I never knew that was why.”

“Well, if I don’t get this sorted out soon, I’ll wind up dead. People in my line of work don’t last long once they start slipping up.”

“You need to recover the mystery.”

“How?”

“I can’t tell you that, Phillipé.” Melinda let a smile play on her features. “It’s a mystery.”

Phillipé stared at her.

“That’s a little joke,” she said.

“My life is on the line, and you’re joking about it.”

“First lesson,” she said, taking his arm again, “is that you can’t be serious all the time. The world is made up of two components, Phillipé -- the temporal and the eternal.”

“And what are those?” There were people to the front and sides now. They were definitely being surrounded. Phillipé didn’t worry, though: the soft tick of his spurs on the wooden boards reassured him.

“The temporal is what exists now,” said Melinda. “The so-called real world. Neither of us has ever been too comfortable in it.”

Phillipé had to acknowledge that. They had built their friendship on it.

“But there’s another world that exists alongside it,” she continued. “The eternal. You need to find that, Phillipé, because that’s where your heart dwells.” Melinda seemed to grow in stature, and her voice took on the weight of authority. “In the temporal, your heart will vanish and fade.”

They approached the end of the patchwork field and the people in front of them spread into a line. The men were gaunt-faced, the women miserable. If they wanted money, Phillipé would gladly give them his purse.

The line parted, and Melinda turned to stand with them. She looked at Phillipé, then indicated the spot beside her with a tilt of her head. Cautiously, he took his place.

“Ready?” Melinda asked, loud enough for all to hear. Together, they lifted the patchwork covering. It swayed precariously on one side, where more canvas than wood had been used, but they managed to flip it over. Some of the people clapped, but most had brought baskets or bags and began filling them immediately.

Phillipé stared at the field of large, dark mushrooms -- enough to feed the people for weeks. Awe filled his being.

“You don’t just find mystery,” said Melinda. “You make it.”

The sight of Melinda’s broken lock rekindled Phillipé’s protectiveness. “That was quite an agricultural feat this afternoon,” he said.

Her eyes twinkled. “And we set up stage two today. When we flipped the shelter, it covered new land. These mushrooms are from the Anarchy -- fast growing, and full of nutritional value.”

“Have you ever considered taking the magistrate up on his offer to relocate you to the country to bring luck to the agricultural base?”

Melinda stared at him. “The peasants call me the Goddess of Gloom,” she said. “Besides, you know I’m happy here. I’ll be fine.”

She bounced back down the steps and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for the walk.”

“Thank you,” said Phillipé. She went inside, and he headed back to the heights.

Heff, one of the boys Jack and Phillipé sometimes bought gossip from, caught him just as he left the bubble of poverty. “Big news,” Heff said between puffs.

“I haven’t got any money on me,” Phillipé said. “I gave it all away.”

Heff waved a hand, still trying to catch his breath. The boy had picked up the mannerism from Phillipé, and Phillipé couldn’t help but find it endearing. “This one’s free,” said Heff. “Jack. There’s a contract on him. Tonight.”

“At the Hall of Masters?”

Heff nodded.

“I won’t forget this.”

Heff shrugged. “If Jack dies, my money dries up. I need better shoes. To run faster.”

Jack had taught the boy well. It may have just saved his life.

Phillipé broke into a run. There was no time to summon backup, no time to plan. If he wanted to save Jack, he would have to run like the devil, infiltrate the Thieves' Guild -- without getting caught -- and find a way to determine exactly who it was that wanted his partner dead.

The Hall of Masters was the most beautiful chamber in the Thieves’ Guild, and Jack loved it. Banisters the color of almond tea flowed up wooden staircases to the viewers’ gallery, down to the place of the accused -- where Jack always stood -- and back up to the High Seats on the opposite end of the hall. Jack longed to slide on the banisters, or to swing from the bronze nose of Ezrod the First, whose weasely visage gazed down from the ceiling.

Mental gymnastics, he cautioned himself. Dazzle them.

“I’d like to start,” he said, as if the Masters testified before him and not the other way around, “by asking a question. Why do we profess to follow the dead god’s destiny?”

High Master Umdread smiled ruefully. “Now just a minute,” he said, a trace of good humor in his old voice. “We’re asking the questions here, Mister Nimble.”

Umdread led the guild and had a soft spot for Jack. Agrag Lol, the Middle Master, did not. A large man, Lol stroked his thick black beard and frowned intimidation. Jack yawned and looked away.

The Low Master, Magagie Swall, had been elevated to the High Seat only a month before, so Jack had defended himself before her only a handful of times. She seemed even-handed, and above personal influence. Still, she was a woman, so Jack assumed she would side with him.

“We follow the dead god’s destiny, Mister Nimble,” said Swall, “because it is our highest law.”

“We claim to follow it,” Jack corrected. “But do we really? The dead god’s destiny says that people help Jengao by helping themselves. A good thief helps the economy by redistributing wealth. An assassin keeps the municipal organism fit by killing the weak.” Jack lowered his eyes and shook his head as if contemplating a deep injustice. “But what about the common man?”

“Hello!” came a voice from the gallery. Looking up, Jack saw Avasa. She wasn’t a member of the guild yet, and Jack had no idea why she had come. She made her way along the narrow staircase. “May I come down?”

“Who is this?” Umdread demanded.

“Avasa Calistar,” Jack said. “She’s a thief I recruited.”

Swall raised an eyebrow. “I thought we were still debating the legality of your employing other thieves.”

“Yes,” Jack said as if Swall had condemned the debating. “But I had to take action.”

“Let me guess,” she said. “For the common man.”

Jack smiled.

“Why do you want to come down, young lady?” Umdread asked.

“I just heard we were to stand before a tribunal.”

“You do not stand accused,” said Swall.

Avasa reached the floor and fell into place beside Jack. “I stand with my colleague.”

Jack would have felt touched by her show of loyalty -- especially since he had only hired her as a prelude to seducing her -- but it was at that moment that he noticed Phillipé sitting in the thieves’ gallery. The disguised assassin pointed to his eyes, a gesture that said he watched Jack’s back. It relieved Jack to have someone watching his back, but worried him that his back should need watching.

“Where were we?” he asked, a little flustered.

“The common man,” said Swall, in falsely weighty tones.

Jack mimed offence at her sarcasm. “Right now, only guild members are able to participate in the dead god’s destiny, but I believe everyone should be so empowered. I empowered my client by stealing for her.”

“I thought,” said Swall, “that we were still debating the legality of your taking clients.”

Jack gestured to the giant clock hung on the east wall. “Tick-tock, Master. Justice waits for no one.”

“Common man,” Umdread snorted. “No common man could afford your prices. Who was your client?”

“Mildred Lalumière.”

The entire room gasped. Punishing Jack for his latest innovation would be very difficult with a family as rich and politically influential as the Lalumières behind him.

Jack glanced up at the gallery, but Phillipé had disappeared. A young page hurried down the staircase, then made his way up to the High Seats to whisper in Lol’s ear.

“I must be excused,” the Middle Master said to Umdread. “The dogged intestine market has dropped thirty points.”

Umdread made a distasteful face, but granted Lol’s absence.

Jack turned to the gallery members. “The dead god had a vision for Jengao, but we’ve strayed, haven’t we? We are supposed to be working to bring about his destiny, to keep the realm strong by keeping Jengao strong. But more and more, things turn on nepotism, or pressure from the Five Families, or the mystery cults that flock to the Anarchy.”

The gallery leapt to its collective feet, hooting and clapping, and Jack did his best to look humbled. Two cloaked figures in the front row threw back their cowls and leveled modified crossbows. And sometimes, Jack thought as the first arrowheads flew, things turn on me.

His Platypus costume had bunched up under his disguise, and his false beard itched, but Phillipé enjoyed Jack’s performance. Most professionals never appeared before their Masters, but Jack had stood before his over a dozen times this past year alone. Phillipé imagined a Jengao where justice was determined not by the absolute word of an arbitrating magistrate, but argued between professional arguers, with penalties assigned by the common folk.

The silly fantasy vanished as Phillipé focused on two thieves in the front row. They wore cowls, and probably concealed weapons. Phillipé assumed they were there only for backup purposes, since the other thieves in the gallery would surely kill them if they started firing on Jack.

A scuffling sound drew Phillipé’s attention to the rafters, where he saw a man crawl into the hollow bronze head of Ezrod the First. With everyone’s attention focused on Jack, Phillipé pulled off the beard, pulled himself into the rafters and followed the man into Ezrod’s head. The man knelt at the far end, aiming a crossbow through one of Ezrod’s large, open eyes. Phillipé didn’t recognize the man as belonging to the Assassins’ Guild; he was a hired man, then -- easy prey. Phillipé pulled his mask over his face and moved forward -- and his spur clicked loudly on the bronze. The man spun and fired his weapon.

Twisting to the side, Phillipé found himself teetering precariously on the edge of the head, the missile lodged in a rafter next to his shoulder. Recognizing the Platypus costume, his opponent hesitated. Phillipé pitched his weight forward and tackled him. The great head shifted on its beams.

The man came up first and punched Phillipé hard in the mouth. Time slowed and the world began to spin. Phillipé had time to feel disgust at the bumbling creature he had become, to wonder how he could let himself be pinned by an amateur and to see the bloody fist come in for a second blow. There were teeth-marks in it: Phillipé’s. He stopped looking for ways to fight. Force would not win this battle.

Wrenching his head to the side at the last possible moment, Phillipé listened for the deep clang as his opponent’s fist struck bronze, but he heard nothing. A horrified expression came upon the man, and his knees grew lax on Phillipé’s chest.

Pushing the man away, Phillipé rolled to a crouch. The man’s fist had gone through the statue's eye, leaving blood and skin along the narrow ends of the oval. The man pulled pathetically at his forearm, but it was stuck. Phillipé moved to grab his opponent’s head -- to dash his brains out against the cold bronze -- but he couldn’t do it. What was wrong with him?

He slipped a dagger from his belt and slit the man’s throat with it. The dying man slumped forward, blood pooling in the bronze crevices.

Panting, Phillipé collapsed beside the would-be assassin and stared through the other eye. Movement flickered behind the High Seats: the Medusa, Phillipé’s chief competitor. That’s who had hired the man, he realized. And if she had also hired the archers in the gallery, she probably did intend for them to shoot. And to die. The Medusa considered anyone she interacted with a liability to be disposed of at the earliest opportunity.

Phillipé saw Jack spin around, and realized too late that the two in the gallery had made their move. Dozens of quarrels flew from their modified crossbows. Jack was as good as dead.

Nothing. Jack felt neither anger nor sadness, merely a heightened awareness of his own subjectivity, like one might feel at the end of a game of cards. Acting on its own, as it had when Ozo attacked, Jack’s body twisted away. Missiles ripped into the beautifully carved dais and destroyed the table at which Jack had stood. He watched his own acrobatics from afar, pleased that he led the shooting away from Avasa and Umdread.

Joy filled his heart as he realized he was dodging the quarrels. In front of a full gallery, too; that would enhance his reputation some. He leaped on the dais, slid down the banister -- exercised every secret gymnastic yearning. And no missile reached him.

Their weapons empty, his assailants stared, slack-jawed. Swall and Umdread stared, too, as did the thieves in the gallery. Jack looked over at Avasa, on the other side of the room now, and the moment of stillness ended. The thieves in the gallery yanked the bowmen off their feet, and daggers flashed.

Jack walked over to Avasa and placed a hand on her bloodstained collar.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Avasa looked at the blood and frowned. “No,” she said. Another drop splattered and Jack looked up, tracing the source.

“Ezrod is weeping,” he said. “Tears of blood,” he added, making sure his voice carried.

He heard a thud, and Avasa’s eyes went wide. Spinning about, Jack saw that Phillipé had dropped onto Lol’s abandoned High Seat. He disappeared behind it, and a lithe green figure with wild hair came bouncing down the steps.

The Medusa. Jack drew his dagger and went to stand over her.

“What is going on?” demanded Umdread.

“She was behind the attacks, your honor,” said Phillipé, stepping into view.

“And who, in the name of the Anarchy, are you?” Umdread wanted to know.

“He’s my partner,” Jack spoke up. “The Platypus.”

“The Platypus is your partner?” asked Swall. Jack couldn’t be sure, but he thought she sounded impressed.

He nodded quickly. Neither Umdread nor Swall would begrudge the inter-guild partnership after the Platypus saved their lives.

The Medusa looked up at Jack, cruel green eyes radiant against the black of her eye-mask. Unwillingly, he traced the lines of her body, transfixed by the mixture of beauty and danger she represented. Her right hand moved slowly across the floor, serpent-shaped dagger moving for his calf. She was an ordinary woman who had simply chosen the Medusa as her assassin’s totem, but she was so pretty that Jack felt as if certain parts of his anatomy were turning to stone.

A brown shoe collided with the Medusa’s head, smacking it into the polished wooden floor. “Watch out,” said Avasa. She smiled, then looked toward the High Seats.

Phillipé walked carefully down the stairs and stepped over the Medusa’s prone form. He looked at Umdread. “If I may?” he said.

Umdread looked surprised. “You wish to speak?”

Jack tried to catch Phillipé’s eye, to let him know what a bad idea speaking would be. Other professionals were not allowed inside the Thieves’ Guild. Phillipé’s presence had been overlooked so far, but they needed to leave on a high note, not draw further attention to themselves.

“I do,” said Phillipé. Jack cast a worried look at Avasa. Phillipé could be strangely formal sometimes, and he probably wanted to thank the guild for allowing his transgressions.

“I would like to plead for my fellow assassin’s life,” he said.

Jack couldn’t believe it. If Phillipé had popped open like a jack-in-the-box, Jack would not have been more surprised. He waved an arm, trying to catch Phillipé’s attention. Right now, the Medusa was the enemy, and they were heroes. Phillipé’s bizarre request blurred those lines by linking him to the Medusa.

Phillipé did meet Jack's eyes, then, his expression needful. Jack softened his gaze. Gratitude flashed in Phillipé’s eyes.

“I would like to take her back to my own guild. She came here to assassinate, I came here to save. Now, I suspect you all have a lot to do, in light of what’s happened. We assassins should not be privy to it. Let guild business stay guild business.”

Jack wouldn’t have gotten away with it, but something about Phillipé’s soft voice and earnest tone carried his straightforward argument. Even before he spoke, Jack could see that Umdread had been swayed.

“Have her bound,” said the High Master, “and release her to Mister Platypus.”

“Thank you,” said Phillipé.

Several thieves came down from the gallery with rope and bound the Medusa. Jack noticed that the other thieves showed him a certain reverence now, and avoided touching or jostling him. He liked it.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered to Phillipé.

“Avasa,” Phillipé said, handing her a dagger, “please walk behind the Medusa. She’s a tricky one.”

“The Assassins’ Guild won’t do anything,” said the Medusa, contempt in her voice. “What I did was perfectly legal.”

“I know,” said Phillipé.

The Medusa narrowed her eyes. “You’re trying to get under my skin. Keep me in your debt.”

Master Swall waved them out a door near the High Seats. Once in the corridor beyond it, Jack asked Phillipé why he had saved his rival.

“It’s a mystery,” Phillipé said. “That’s a quantity I’m short on these days.”

Phillipé walked ahead, but his words had stopped Jack in his tracks. “No you’re not,” Jack called. "You're absolutely overflowing with it."

Phillipé glanced back and smiled. It had been a long time since Jack had seen him do that. “You and Avasa are going to have to sneak back in here and get the corpse out of Ezrod’s head.”

Jack blinked astonishment. “See?” he said, pointing. “Mysterious to the last.”

They passed through another door, which opened onto the street, and Jack couldn’t help smiling himself. The story of his incredible death-dodge and the miraculous weeping of the head of Ezrod would be spreading by now, and he ought to look sober and contemplative. But he couldn’t do it. The glow of success was about him, and he savored it like an expensive tea. There had been some twists and turns on the way -- a lot of twists and turns, really -- but things were finally going according to plan.

The moon waned gibbous, and Jack traced the Earth’s gossamer shadow with his eyes. It seemed so fragile. And, one day soon, it would all be his.