“This fellow was not elderly.” His hair had held no gray, but his mask hid too much of his face for her to otherwise judge his age. He certainly moved like a younger man.

Mara shifted her position on her bed. “What was the document he stole? Did you ever find out?”

“Something from the Long War days written in Old Sacoridian. The museum attendant called it ‘priceless,’ but apparently it has little market value among collectors. It only has value to historians I guess, though the attendant said they never made much sense out of it.”

“If it was the Raven Mask who took it,” Mara said, “it must have some value.”

Karigan thought back to the thief facing the museum patrons and attendants, holding his rapier in one hand and the document in another. “He called it ‘useful.’”

Mara chuckled. “Maybe it’s directions to a secret treasure. Sounds like the sort of thing the Raven Mask would steal.”

Karigan did not know, nor did she really care to, and if she ever encountered the man again, she wouldn’t give him a chance to explain. No, she wouldn’t kill him, but she would overcome him, and he could do all his explaining to the constabulary.

“And how did Braymer Coyle and his stern chaperone react to this eventful end to your outing?” Mara asked.

Karigan groaned. Braymer had become very solicitous, and had continually stolen looks at her nearly exposed bosom even as she spoke with the constables about the theft. “Let’s say that Braymer has probably set aside his monastic vows for good.” Yes, he had been much more interested in her after the eventful museum visit, in a most clinging and annoying way, as if he suddenly discovered she was female. Her sword work seemed to have excited him.

“Master Styles was unhappy.” During the carriage ride back to the castle, it was almost as if the man had turned to stone. He had refused to speak to her, or even to look at her. “No doubt his report to Braymer’s father will not prove favorable.”

“You don’t sound displeased,” Mara said.

Karigan smiled smugly. “I’m sure the Coyles will find a gentle Rhovan lady more to their liking for Braymer.” As for her father’s stake in this? Served him right. The whole set-up had been a disaster from its inception.

She stood and stretched, reveling in her freedom from corset and dress.

“Leaving so soon?” Mara asked.

“Thought I’d see to some chores before dinner.”

Mara picked up the glove from her bed and extended it to Karigan. “Don’t forget this.”

Karigan frowned. “No, you keep it. I don’t want to see it again.” It reminded her too much of her vulnerability.

In the late hours of night, long after the lights in the homes of Sacor City’s more respectable citizens had winked out, two men met in a seedy inn in a rundown section of the lower city. They sat apart from the other patrons, away from the sooty lamps and the hearth fire, allowing shadows and the haze of smoke to obscure their features.

A third man sat in the darkest corner by himself, a tankard of ale before him and a hood drawn over his head. His back was to the two men who sat opposite each other at a rickety table, but if he listened closely, he could discern their conversation over the drunken carousing of the inn’s other patrons.

“My master has obtained what you seek,” Morry said. He was an older man in common garb, but his refined speech revealed he was more than he appeared.

“Hand it over,” said the second man in a gruff, no-nonsense voice. He wore scarred fighting leathers and a plain cloak, a serviceable sword girded at his side. Like Morry, there was nothing exceptional about him, but those who were keen observers knew that by the way he carried himself he was a soldier, or had been at one time. A soldier with no device, no sign of allegiance.

“Tut, tut,” Morry said. “Show me the payment.”

There was a grunt and the thud and clink of a bulging purse dropped on the table. The man in the corner smiled and sipped his ale.

“Here is what you seek, as requested,” Morry said, followed by the sound of the leather folder scraping across the rough surface of the table. Many moments of silence followed while the soldier examined the document within.

Another grunt. “Excellent. This is the one we wanted.”

“A satisfactory transaction, then,” Morry said.

Leathers creaked and the man in the corner imagined the soldier leaning across the table. “I was instructed to arrange more work for your master upon the acceptable completion of today’s assignment.” He strained to hear the soldier’s lowered voice. “It will be risky, but there will be commensurate reward if he is successful.”

“Tell on,” said Morry, “and I shall convey your wishes to my master.”

The soldier outlined the proposal. The man in the corner listened avidly. “Risky” was an understatement. It was much more than simple theft, much more, but the man had to admit he was intrigued by the challenge and by the revival of the old and once-honored custom it represented.

Morry must have been just as flabbergasted, for it took him a long while to respond. Presently he said, “I shall tell my master all you have said. You mentioned he would be rewarded commensurately?”

“Of course.” The soldier named an outrageous sum, then added, “Half up front, half upon successful delivery. We need to know his decision as soon as possible.”

The man in the corner toyed with the silver moon necklace sparkling on the table before him, a thrill of excitement making his heart pound harder. He already knew the answer to the proposal. Yes, he certainly did.