The Golden Ankh of Serin-Ra had almost been too easy. It belonged to the Queen Priestess of the catmen, and the Queen Priestess was a follower of Bastet, goddess of pleasure, who encouraged hedonistic liaisons among her clergy. It had only taken Caspian three weeks to seduce his way into the catwoman’s bedchamber. By the time she awoke the next morning, he was already on a ship back to the kingdom of Gregora, the sacred necklace safely swaddled in the Queen Priestess’ own silk chemise. True, he’d had to sell it nearly as soon as he returned to the mainland to cover debts, and Caspian still regretted its loss, but the Ankh had been his just the same.

The Eye of Ceridwah had lain undisturbed in its shrine atop Mount Tiana for five hundred years. The monks no longer posted a guard over the egg-sized diamond, trusting in reverence for the sun goddess—and fear of the blessings she had placed on the shrine for its protection—to deter all thieves. But Caspian had long before stopped fearing the power of gods to influence his life, and the monks were all too happy to shelter a fellow Ceridwan brother on a pilgrimage. He had idly wondered, as he meandered back down the mountain path a few days later with the gem in the pocket of his cassock, if anyone would ever examine the "Eye" closely enough to notice that it was now made of glass.

And picking the pockets of Tasir the Lock had been simplicity itself. The old wizard was known far and wide for using his magic to secure the homes of the wealthy against unlawful entry. His Glyphs of Succor, nearly invisible magical symbols that would cause any thief touching the guarded object to fall into convulsions for days, were infamous in the criminal community throughout the Cunnott Peninsula. Even more famous was his enchanted belt-pouch, a leather satchel full of gold and exotic magical materials. Thanks to his magics, it had an appetite for human flesh, and had bitten off the fingers of more than one unwary thief. Caspian never put his hand into danger; he simply arranged for a pretty young dancing-girl to perform on a street corner while Tasir was walking past, and cut the entire purse off the belt while he was distracted. The wizard’s reputation never recovered, and Caspian still used the hungry little bag to dispose of garbage.

Caspian had made his way up and down the coast of Mendreaver’s Sea, and left every realm with his pockets full. He had stolen golden rings from the fingers of emirs in the blazing southern deserts of Calarthia, and exotic hardwood totems from the barbarian chieftains of freezing Bakra. His name was known along the whole of the eastern shore of the continent of Emrock, and every coastal city in Gregora had a price on his head. The law had never chained him for longer than it took for a guard to turn his back.

But Caspian was bored. He’d stolen everything that could be stolen, and several things that couldn’t. He had picked the pockets of the high priest of Hermes, god of rogues. He had cheated the most cunning deathtraps and opened the most impossible locks. Fire had long since been stolen from the gods. The greatest thief who had ever lived was running out of challenges.

There only seemed to be one place left to go.

He concealed the tools of his trade inside his small knapsack—the masters need few accessories—and wrapped himself in a simple green traveling cloak. Caspian turned his gaze inland, to the west, and set out for the home of the only mortal he viewed as his equal.


It is said that in the city of Highmoon, trade capital of the kingdom of Gregora and the largest city on the world known to its people as Galon, a visitor can find anything if he is willing to look long enough. The first thing that all of them find is the wall.

Caspian stopped on the road, allowing the merchants and horsemen and overburdened peasants to flow around him, and stared. He had heard stories of Highmoon, but nothing had prepared him for the sight before his eyes.

The wall was black—a dull, featureless matte black that did not shine in the late August sun. It rose from the short grasses of the Plains of Sorenmere, dominating the landscape for miles in every direction. It was over forty feet high, and smooth as glass. The wall stretched in front of Caspian as far as he could see, and bent out of sight; here, on the eastern side of the city, it was a scant seven miles long, but appeared to go on forever. The top was lined with parapets and watchposts, and the city’s gold and crimson and white banner fluttered majestically in the early afternoon wind. Guards in gleaming armor stood vigil from behind the ramparts, watching the constant flow of people, animals, and wagons through the gates below.

Caspian fell into the press of bodies approaching the gates, slowly drawing closer to the massive edifice. He had seen walled cities many time, and breached a few that for one reason or another denied him entry. Most of the time, he rather enjoyed the challenge. Now he found himself glad that Highmoon’s law allowed anyone who could fit through the gates, save followers of the sinister bat-god Markira, to enter; he would not have wanted to scale these walls. Caspian’s thieving instincts took precedence over his sense of wonder, and he inspected the allegedly invincible wall for flaws and cracks that a lesser thief would miss. He was astonished to find that there were none—the smooth black surface was seamless, free of even the smallest joint, as though it were carved from a single piece of stone. However, it was neither stone nor metal. The walls of Highmoon, immune to both magic and ram, had been created by wizardry over six hundred years ago, and no army in history had been able to do so much as chip the mysterious substance that composed them. The guards at the top of the wall were strictly a concession to tradition. Even I’d be hard-pressed to climb that, Caspian thought, shaking his head. No wonder they call it the Invincible City.

Highmoon’s gates were cast from the same black material as the wall, and opened wide to admit the flow of merchants, pilgrims, and travelers in both directions. They were at least thirty feet high and ten armspans wide. Beyond the gates, Caspian could see a short tunnel, passing through the wall’s twenty-foot thickness, and beyond, the daylight gleaming off the cobblestones and rooftops of the city. He thought of the incalculable wealth to be found within, and his palms itched.

The gates were being tended by a dozen men in brassy chainmail, worn beneath brilliant tabards displaying the cross and moon which adorned the city’s banner. Each was wearing a sword and cudgel at his side and carrying a slender, long-bladed halberd. Every person and wagon entering the city was briefly stopped for inspection by a guard. Caspian strode toward the most bored-looking of them. The guard nodded and motioned vaguely for him to approach.

"Welcome to the City of Highmoon," called out the guard. "Are you a citizen?"

"Good afternoon, good sir!" exclaimed Caspian. He smiled brightly and approached the guard with outstretched hand. The watchman’s face registered surprise as Caspian clasped his wrist in the friendly greeting common to the central plains of Sorenmere. "Nay, I am from the city of Mirago on the Cunnott Peninsula to the southeast. It is my first visit to your fair city, and already I am almost speechless with wonder. Such strong walls and bold banners, and such deadly-looking weapons! Truly, my homeland pales before such magnificence."

The guard grinned and looked up at the blade of his halberd. "We keep her pretty well defended," he said, buffing his nails coolly on the tabard over his armor. "I imagine you Southlanders aren’t used to anything this extensive. Everybody wants to rule Highmoon, after all."

"And truly, none would attack my humble city if not for the possibility of using it as a base from which to capture this gem," Caspian replied, half bowing. "Is there a gate tax or other levy required to enter these fair walls?"

"Highmoon is a trading city," said the guard, settling into the measured rhythm of a familiar speech. "We have to make sure every man coming in brings something with him. If you’re not a citizen, you need trade goods that will contribute to the city, valued at no less than ten crown in the King’s gold. That, plus the two-pence war tax, to support the campaign against the elves in the western provinces, and the one-pence gate tax. Can you produce anything of the kind?"

"Alas," said Caspian, putting on a crestfallen face. "I am but a simple traveler, and carry no trade goods."

"How about skills? Have you any tools of your trade you can show me?"

Caspian, whose professional tools alone would be sufficient grounds to hang him in a dozen cities, shook his head. "I am a scholar, and my skills are within me," he said. He opened his eyes wide. "But I must be allowed to pass. I have come so far."

"Sorry, friend," the guard replied, his facing going stony. "The law is important. Only those who can bring something useful to the city are allowed in." He paused, and peered at Caspian out of the corner of his eye. "Unless, of course…you can make a better offer…"

Caspian beamed, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Good sir, I have no commodities, but the King’s gold can be traded in any realm. I heard you say goods valued at no less than ten crown?" He moved his hand conspicuously to his purse.

The guard smiled broadly, and nodded. "That is the usual, yes. And gold is always accepted, of course. I’m sure the High Council would understand."

Caspian made a show of being furtive, and discreetly handed the guard ten crown of his own money. The watchman, still smiling, stepped aside, and motioned for Caspian to pass.

Idiot , Caspian thought to himself as he walked through the entry tunnel, counting the remaining coins he’d removed from the guard’s pockets. But a well-paid idiot, at least. Mirago’s guards would never have fallen for that, and in a month we pay them half what that popinjay was carrying. Even with city prices, I should have enough for a week at a decent inn. By that time, I’ll have found him for certain. And once I’m done…I won’t need to worry about paying for anything. Not for a long time.

He stepped through the inner gates, whose flanking guards paid not the slightest heed to those entering, and into the brilliant sunlight. The city of Highmoon lay before him, open and shining like an oyster’s shell.

Somewhere in that shell, he knew, was a pearl, waiting to be harvested. A pearl named Sycron.


An hour later, Caspian was sitting in the common room of the Golden Urn. The innkeeper, a surly old woman named Mrs. Stoneclaw with a face like a walnut, had acted from the moment he walked in like he was there to rob her rather than rent a room. His immediate response had been to pay for three nights in advance, and he did not pick her pocket. Within his experience, any innkeeper who was suspicious of every patron deserved respect for their keen grasp of human nature, and generally ran a safe establishment.

Caspian looked around the room. It was a comfortable but unassuming inn, good enough to keep out the seamier elements of society but common enough to screen out the snobbish elite. The décor was like that of most inns throughout central Gregora, unpolished without being coarse. The building and common room were of wooden construction, with ceiling beams visible and clean but unpainted walls. The room was well lit by beeswax candles and a greenstone fireplace along the back wall, its mantelpiece bearing short crossed spears. The bar, short and fairly plain, was to the left of the entrance; the staircase leading upstairs, which featured a carved oak banister, was to the right. There was actual glass in the windows, a rarity back in warm Mirago, where most windows were only covered at night by oilskin blinds. The floor was liberally sprinkled with sawdust to absorb spills. An open door between the fireplace and the stairs led to a smaller back room.

The inn’s only other patrons at the moment, save two dusty-looking laborers at the bar, were in that back room; they consisted of three individuals huddled around a corner table. Caspian watched them with interest. A tanned, rough-looking man with a long scar beneath his left eye, whose mannerisms and watchfulness of the room betrayed him as a mercenary, sat in the corner chair. Opposite him was a pallid young woman with striking black hair, dressed like a commoner but carrying herself like an aristocrat. She wore a fine torc about her neck, and concealed a dagger so cunningly that Caspian only noticed it because his own weapon was hidden in the same way. Between them sat a dark-skinned Calarthian in a turban, his lips curled in a perpetual sneer, with a ghastly spiked flail hanging from his belt. Leaning back casually in his own seat, Caspian tuned out the loud voices of the laborers at the bar and tried to listen to the words being spoken by this curious gathering.

His spying was cut short when a heavy pewter tankard abruptly slammed onto the table in front of him, causing the ale to slosh loudly within. "Here’s your ale," snarled Mrs. Stoneclaw, scowling fiercely at him. "I suppose you’ll be wanting stew as well, won’t you?"

"Certainly," Caspian answered cheerfully, smiling at her. She narrowed her eyes and hurled down a bowl of grayish porridge that she’d apparently already been carrying. "All you people from out of town coming in here, looking for food and rooms," she growled. "Don’t have good enough sense to stay home. We’ve got enough troubles in this city without outsiders bringing more." That this outsider was paying good gold up front did not improve her temper in the slightest.

Caspian gave up on trying to listen to the conference in the back room; as interesting a collection of people as it was, they were not whom he was looking for. "The guards at the west gate seemed friendly enough to travelers," he replied. "And I’m helping you stay in business. So do you know Highmoon well?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Mrs. Stoneclaw. "I’ve lived here fifty years longer than you’ve been alive."

That’s probably as close to a "yes" as I’ll get, he thought. "You might be able to help me, then," he began.

She folded her arms across her chest. "I don’t know where any of the cathouses are, and I’m not telling you anyway."

"I’m not looking for cathouses," Caspian said, inwardly sighing. If only innkeepers weren’t the best source of cheap information …. "I’m looking for a wizard. A very powerful wizard. I assume you’ve heard of Sycron the Collector?"

"That old spellpusher doesn’t know where the cathouses are, either."

Caspian took a long pull of his ale before replying. "I’m trying to find out where he lives. I have…business with him."

"It figures," she grumbled. "Sooner or later I knew he’d get bored. Playing with the High Council like chessmen and building towers that change heights isn’t enough for him. Now he’s bringing in outsiders for entertainment. Next thing you know he’ll be conjuring demons in the street. You just wait and see." She glared at him with an air of triumph.

Caspian put his hand on the secret pocket in his sleeve that contained his dagger, and then moved it away. "It’s more for business than pleasure…"

"Ha! Everything Sycron does is for pleasure. Just because he knows more spells than any other wizard in the world, he thinks he can do what he pleases."

"…and I just need to know where to find him," Caspian finished smoothly. "Can you tell me where to look, or is he too foul for you to speak of any further?"

Mrs. Stoneclaw stared fiercely at him for a few seconds before replying. "Well, if you want to go deal with him, I can’t stop you. Just don’t you bring any magic back here, and if you bring him, he has to pay for his drinks in advance. He lives in the big white tower in the Mage’s Eye."

Caspian frowned. "The ‘Mage’s Eye?’"

"It’s what we call a district ," she snarled. "I don’t suppose you have them wherever you came from. You’re in the Craft District, where all the craftsmen work. The Mage’s Eye is where the mages live. It’s about eight blocks west of here." She paused. "Do you have blocks where you come from?"

"No, we simply arrange all our huts in a circle at nightfall," Caspian replied airily.

Mrs. Stoneclaw nodded. "That’s what I figured," she said. "Anything else you want to know, or will you let me go back to my kitchen now and start making supper for all of you ingrates?" She cast a fearsome glare at the laborers at the bar, who quickly busied themselves with their drinks.

"Actually…there is one more thing," Caspian said. "Does Sycron keep his… collections…here in the city?" If not, then I’ve wasted a trip, Caspian thought. If so…then I have my challenge at last.

"They’re all in that tower," she snapped. "All those weapons and weird animals and evil spellbooks and magic wands and snuffboxes and whatever else he keeps. That man’s a walking bazaar. Probably uses his magic to steal all that stuff anyway. One of these days, someone’s going to get in there and steal something dangerous from him , and then where’ll the city be?" She turned and stalked away, still muttering imprecations about Sycron to the room in general.

One of these days, Caspian thought, sipping at his ale. A few days sooner than you think, Mrs. Stoneclaw. Sycron’s souvenir collection will be a little smaller. And the city will be right where I leave it afterwards.


Walking eight blocks to the Mage’s Eye was no less eventful than eating in the common room of the Golden Urn. Along the way, Caspian encountered two elven rajahs from the southern kingdom of Gradesh, riding a pair of elephants laden with crimson carpets; evaded a greasy man who approached him walking sideways and followed for two blocks, trying to sell suspicious city maps from under his tattered cloak; and removed the hand of a prepubescent thief from his belt before the lad lost his digits to Caspian’s special pouch. The boy was not the only pickpocket in the streets. Highmoon’s populace was, by and large, more cautious with its purses than that of most smaller cities. Nonetheless, Caspian was still able to recover the cost of his room and board within a few blocks and without significantly slowing his pace.

Presently the shops and simple houses of the neighborhood around the Golden Urn gave way to larger buildings, and stone began to compete with wood as the dominant material for construction. The streets were not as packed here, and those who wandered them were an atypical crowd, many clad in monastic robes or the ink-stained smocks of scribes. A nenley , one of the wooden-walled roofless temples to the scholarly wind-god Aeros, squatted atop a small rise. To its west was a columned marble academy in the style of the province of Crinon, complete with white-robed students and bearded masters debating philosophy on the portico. But there were no mages in the streets, and none of the ubiquitous "magic shops" Caspian had seen in other cities. Is this the Mage’s Eye? he thought. Maybe that old hag was just trying to get rid of me…

Abruptly, the sound of clattering feet echoed from a nearby alley. Caspian stepped back, his hand moving to his concealed dagger. A moment later, a figure in an outlandish purple cloak and wide-brimmed hat leapt out of the alley and into the street. The man looked at Caspian and grinned maniacally. "Ha ha!" he exclaimed, and his eyes flashed with a brilliant blue light. With a flourish of his cloak, the man dashed off down the street. Before Caspian had finished staring, a blonde-haired young man in mage’s robes rushed breathlessly out of the same alley. "Where’d he go?" he gasped.

Caspian pointed wordlessly down the street. "Thanks," said the mage. He uttered a few arcane syllables, rose two feet off the ground, and flew off in the direction of the purple figure.

"Must be the Mage’s Eye after all," Caspian mumbled to himself. He shook his head. Magic-users. I don’t know which thought is worse…that they don’t know what they’re doing, or that they do. He continued around a corner.

…And there, before him, was the tower.

Caspian blinked, and looked again. Against all logic, it was still there. There was no possible way he could have missed this structure from so close, but he was certain it hadn’t been there a moment ago. I don’t care how powerful a wizard he is, he thought . Two-hundred-foot towers just don’t rise up in an instant.

The tower occupied a quarter of a city block. It thrust proudly against the sky, reaching higher than any other structure Caspian had seen in all of Gregora. It was easily five times the height of the wall; he could not conceive how he hadn’t seen it looming over the city as he approached. The tower was a smooth cylinder perhaps fifty feet in diameter, its length decorated at no regular intervals by windows, balconies, and milky white gargoyles on graceful perches. Caspian could not see the roof from where he stood. The entire tower was composed of a pure white marble, as monochromatic as the city walls, and gleamed so brightly in the sun that looking at it directly was painful. Its base was lost in the center of a low rectangular building, no more than fifteen feet tall and perhaps twice the width of the tower, constructed of the same flawless marble. The odd building was elaborately detailed with intricate whorled carvings and panels, but had no windows.

At the front and center of the building were three steps leading up from the street to a simple oak door with a round, unadorned brass knocker. There were no visible guards, fences, or gates of any kind.

No nameplate declared this the home of Sycron Avernes, called Sycron the Collector, Lord Mage of Highmoon, High General of the Army of the Wand in the legendary Magebane War. No memorial plaque boasted that this was the residence of Galon’s most powerful archwizard, a man who was over four hundred years old and collected the skeletons of dragons as a hobby. No signpost warned that, in spite of its invincible walls, Highmoon’s half million people could very conceivably be destroyed from within if the master of this tower became angry. But the simple white tower that could not be seen from a block away conveyed all these messages more eloquently than any writing ever could.

For the first time in his life, Caspian was not embarrassed to admit that he was impressed. He stared unabashedly at the tower, and was pleased to see that he was not alone. Perhaps one in twenty of the people passing the tower paused to look as he did, and nearly half of them gave it at least passing attention. After a few moments’ examination, he shook himself and broke his gaze away from the structure. No time to act like a farmboy; I’ve nearly found him, and there’s much to do. By dawn tomorrow, I’ll have already been in there and left with my bag full.

Caspian sidled up to one of the pedestrians who’d stopped to watch the tower, a young man in a scribe’s smock. "Pardon me, good sir," he said quietly. "Are you a citizen of the city?" The man nodded slowly, and Caspian leaned closer. "Then perhaps you can tell me…who do I see to get an audience with Lord Sycron?"

"You don’t see anyone," the scribe replied, grinning. "Just walk up and knock on the door, and be ready to give him something."

Caspian frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Lord Sycron’ll see anyone who comes to him with something new for his collections," the scribe went on. "He doesn’t bother with appointments or anything like that. You just have to have something interesting."

"Is that all?" Caspian said with surprise. I couldn’t have asked for better. Here I am wondering how to infiltrate the home of an archwizard without dying in nine magical traps at once, and he’ll let a peasant with a bauble walk right in. This gets better all the time. "Thank you, kind sir, for your trouble, then." Caspian flipped one of the silver pieces he’d stolen from the man back to him and lost no time in approaching the door. In spite of the simplicity of the arrangement, his heart pounded against his ribs as he mounted the marble steps. Standing before the door, he took a deep breath and rapped the knocker three times.

As he waited, Caspian became aware of a silence in the street behind him, the expectant silence of people who had stopped to watch. He resisted the urge to turn around and look at his audience, and focused on the door itself. A full minute passed, and then another. The silence behind him remained curiously unbroken. Caspian had just lifted his hand to knock again when the knob turned, and the door slowly swing inward. The thief looked within…and felt his stomach drop when he saw what the people in the street had been waiting for.

Behind the door and hovering three feet above the ground was a massive sphere of shiny, mottled brown flesh. The creature was an armspan in diameter, and seemed to be floating by some internal force. Fully two-thirds of the front of its body was dominated by a massive eye, a great yellow orb with a black pupil that watched him without blinking. The remaining third was filled primarily by a long, tooth-filled maw that could easily have swallowed him to the waist. Atop its…body? Head?…was a cluster of a half dozen writhing tentacles, each as long as his arm, and each ending in a fist-sized yellow eye. Currently, all seven of its eyes were trained on him.

Involuntarily, Caspian took a step back. His mouth went dry. By Hermes, he thought. It’s a beholder. I thought they were just legends . But the monster hovered in the air before him, and he had no doubt that the stories were true. Each eye would have its own magical power: one would numb his flesh with a beam of cold, one would charm him and bind him in place so he couldn’t run, one would levitate him off the ground and bear him slowly to that terrible mouth….

"Good afternoon," the creature said, in a low, deep, and oddly accented voice.

Caspian blinked.

The creature did the same, opening and shutting its seven eyes in series, so that six were always open. It did not appear perturbed by his sudden silence, inasmuch as Caspian could judge the reactions of a legendary monster. "What business have you here today?" it went on.

Caspian finally found his voice. "I…I’m here to see Lord Sycron," he managed. "I have a new piece for his collection."

The creature tipped its floating body forward in a bizarre parody of a bow. "Very well. Please follow me." The beholder turned silently in the air so that its scaly brown back faced Caspian, and floated down the corridor behind the door. Hardly able to believe what was happening, Caspian stepped in after it. He was not at all surprised when the door closed of its own accord behind him.

Caspian found himself in a gleaming white foyer. The walls were the same marble as the exterior of the building, with similar carvings and panels. A large mirror on the west wall reflected both himself and the beholder. Against the east wall was a fine oak coatstand. White candles burned in sconces around the walls of the foyer. In the center of the north wall was an arched doorway. The beholder was floating through it, and down a corridor decorated in the same style as the foyer. "Come," it said without turning. Caspian followed in silence. They passed four more wooden doors identical to the front entrance, down to the doorknockers. Caspian barely felt inclined to wonder what was behind them. Gods protect me , he thought. His butler is a beholder. I just might be in over my head this time.

The beholder stopped before yet another door at the end of the passage. It paused, and a beam of gray light lanced out of one of its small eyes and touched the brass knocker in the center of the door. The knocker lifted and tapped three times. So that’s why he has indoor knockers, Caspian thought vaguely.

"Enter," came a muffled voice from the other side.

The light shined again, this time on the doorknob, and the door swung open. The creature floated in first, and then drifted off to the right of the door to admit Caspian entry. He stepped through.

The room opposite the door looked nothing like the corridor outside it. It was wooden-paneled and square, and decorated in a nautical theme that reminded Caspian of home. Nets full of colored fishing floats hung from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with harpoons, gaff hooks, a large oak helm, and other accouterments of the sailor’s life. Small islands of furniture were scattered throughout, reminding him of the clusters of tables and chairs in a dockside tavern. A large wine rank stood against the eastern wall, and a massive gray stone fireplace dominated the wall to the north. A roaring fire filled the grate, in spite of the heat of the day outside, but the windowless room was pleasantly warm. Caspian vaguely recalled that the building had no visible chimney on the outside, but small matter; the fire did not seem to be giving off any smoke.

Before the fire, in a large straight-backed chair, was a lone figure. Even sitting, he was tall, and slender of build. He was clad in a loose-fitting white tunic and trousers and a flowing white cape, rather than the expected archwizard’s robes. A black sash at his waist supported a single small pouch of black velvet. Hanging around the figure’s neck on a slender chain was a gold medallion half the size of Caspian’s palm. He wore a ring on each hand, one a plain silver band, the other an octagonal sapphire set in gold. Both hands were currently clasping a dark brown porcelain mug of something that steamed. The man’s face was smooth and angular, almost like that of an elf, with high cheekbones and aristocratic planes. Sharp eyebrows, small and carefully groomed, were poised over a pair of chocolate-colored eyes. He appeared to be in his late thirties, but there was a stateliness about his bearing which suggested much greater age. His hair was short and brown and neatly combed back. The man smiled as Caspian stepped in.

"Greetings," he said in a rich contralto. He did not stand. "Do come in and make yourself comfortable." He turned to the beholder. "Kasharin, provide our guest with whatever refreshment he desires."

The beholder’s multiple orbs turned once again to Caspian. "Wine, please," he said quickly, hoping to remove their stare as fast as possible. The creature floated to the wine rack and gray lights flashed again; Caspian heard the pop of a cork and the sound of pouring. A moment later, a glass of red wine drifted through the air and came to rest in his hand. "Dabarnian sherry, 653 PD," the beholder said, its deep voice sounding bizarre in discussion of something so simple as a glass of wine. "Is that acceptable?"

Caspian’s eyes went wide. The wine was more than thirty years old. "Certainly," he said, and took a sip; there was not a hint of vinegar. Across the room, Sycron smiled with satisfaction. "Kasharin, you may go," he said. "Please, Caspian, join me here by the fire." The beholder turned and drifted back out the door, which closed behind it.

He knows my name. Why does he know my name? Almost against his will, Caspian’s feet carried him to the next chair nearest the fireside, about six feet away from Sycron. He sat down slowly, never taking his eyes off the archwizard. "It’s an honor to meet you, Lord," he began.

Sycron waved his hand dismissively. "You need not bother with that silly title. My name is Sycron; that shall suffice." He studied Caspian over the top of his mug. Here, by the firelight, it was possible to see his face more clearly, and it wore an expression Caspian could only describe as cheerfully arrogant. "You’ve come a long way to visit me here," Sycron continued. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Caspian chided himself for hesitating before responding. Why in all the Hells is he bothering to ask? What doesn’t he know about me already? A second glance at the archwizard’s face gave him answer enough. By Hermes, that woman at the inn was right. This is all a game to him. Well, I can play too.

"Word of your greatness reaches as far as my homeland, Sycron," said Caspian, meeting the other man’s gaze. "I have come, in truth, to see your collections. I had wondered if the legends were true."

"Legends?" said Sycron, raising one delicate eyebrow. "And which legends are these, Caspian of Mirago?"

"They say…you collect everything, my lord," he replied. "That you have one of almost everything in existence. Is it true?"

Sycron smiled a little wider. "I do keep a few trifles around here," he said. "And my interest are fairly broad. But there are several things I have no desire to keep. Morodian poetry, for instance, has always struck me as too harsh for the discerning ear. And I fail to understand the perennial fascination with coins as collector’s items. The only good use of currency is to convert it into something more enjoyable, don’t you think?"

Caspian could only nod. Has this man ever paid for anything in his life? Does he need to?

"But nonetheless…I do suppose my collections are fairly extensive," Sycron went on. He gestured toward the room around them. "You may look, if you like."

Caspian took his eyes of the wizard for the first time since they had begun to speak. They were no longer in the nautical den. Instead, they sat in a long marble-walled gallery, in the same chairs they’d occupied in the other room. Caspian gaped with wonder at the abrupt change of surroundings. Then he saw what the gallery contained, and the sight took his breath away.

The gallery was twenty feet wide, and over a hundred feet long; somewhere in the back of his mind, Caspian realized it was larger than the tower which contained it, and his reeling brain shelved the thought for later. All around him were cases, shelves, and pedestals bearing the most wondrous assortment of objects he had ever seen in one place. A massive book, three feet square and bound in iron, lay open on a lectern to which it was secured with slender chains; its pages were covered with runes that seemed to squirm under Caspian’s gaze. An antique suit of Meren plate mail, its gauntleted hands clasping a gleaming sword as long as Caspian was tall, stood against a wall. A heavy table was covered with a full set of alchemical glassware, complete with oddly colored fluids in several of the alembics and beakers. Coats of arms on shields hung from a large rack; Caspian recognized among them the blazon of the attained House of Dragonbrande from his home city, and several others whose families, now infamous, would never be permitted to bear arms again. Two bookcases were packed with heavy tomes, neatly tied vellum scrolls tucked in pigeonholes, and heavy clay tablets covered in the ancient script of the fallen Garrite Empire. A display case, like something out of a museum, contained an assortment of gemstones in the whole rainbow of colors; any two of them could have ransomed a king. A stuffed griffon, its wings spread as if about to take flight, occupied its own flat stand in the center of the chamber. Busts of kings and generals peered at him from atop granite pedestals; the walls flashed with brilliant tapestries of battles and dragons. A large shelf contained the widest assortment of tavern mugs and tankards Caspian had ever seen, as well as an unbelievably ugly ceramic hobbit. A box of wooden buttons, in a bewildering array of shapes, sizes, and styles, rested atop a bale of ostrich feathers. And these were only the items within immediate sight. The gallery stretched on and on in both directions, filled with wonder upon wonder, mundane items and priceless treasures alike, crown jewels displayed side by side with the mounted heads of jackalopes.

And the man who owned it all simply stood and smiled. "Feel free to explore," Sycron said. "I don’t often have visitors."

A few trifles… Caspian rose from his seat and wandered among the displays. This chamber was a thief’s paradise. His mind reeled as he attempted to calculate the value of the items within, and gave up. Some of the things he saw he did not even understand. Sycron followed a few paces behind him, beaming like a proud parent.

Caspian passed a table covered with animal skulls and paused before a glass case. A single parchment page rested within. He leaned close to read it. " ‘We set forth this day, resolved in the names of our respective gods, to henceforth end our conflicts and live as brothers….’ " Not believing what he was seeing, he turned to Sycron. "This is the Treaty of Golar. The one that ended the first Elven War."

"Indeed. I see you’ve studied your history."

"But…this is the real thing," said Caspian incredulously. "Not a copy. It’s got General Telore’s tearstains on it. I saw it only two months ago, in the King’s Museum in Ransta. It’s on permanent display there."

"Most people think so," Sycron said mildly.

Trying not to let his mouth drop open, Caspian continued. And another case caught his eye. He rushed over and looked at the object within. He looked again, to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him.

"The Golden Ankh of Serin-Ra?" he said. "But I…that was stolen from the Queen Priestess of the Catmen five years ago. How did you get it?"

"Is it really that?" said Sycron, giving Caspian a knowing smile. "And here I thought it was just a pretty bauble. I acquired it in your home city, of all places, from a pawnbroker near the South Docks. The price was quite fair, I thought."

Something inside him trembled. He stared at the Ankh in disbelief. Seeing an item he’d stolen himself here….

A loud bellow suddenly echoed from somewhere further down the gallery; it sounded like a trumpet fanfare mingled with razors blades. "Oh, dear," said Sycron, a concerned expression crossing his face. "I haven’t fed my manticore yet today. He does become upset when he hasn’t eaten." He turned his amused smile back to Caspian. "If you’ll excuse me just a moment…feel free to keep browsing." The archwizard snapped his fingers and vanished.

"Don’t manticores only eat people?…" Caspian asked the empty air.

I shouldn’t be here. This is too much. It’s not worth the effort. His butler is a beholder and he has a legendary treaty in his guest gallery. I should just leave right now, while I have the chance. He can keep his collections. There’s got to be a passage back to the door somewhere.

But the Ankh lay there before him, glittering in a case without a lock. It had once been his, as had its first owner. He’d never wanted to sell it. And a thought took hold in Caspian’s mind.

If I can get this…and return it to the Queen Priestess…I’ll be remembered forever. The man who robbed Sycron the Collector and charmed the queen of the catmen. I could tell her I’ve been hunting it down since this night it was stolen while we lay together. She’ll probably make me her consort. I’ll be a god among thieves. Hermes himself will want me as his herald.

Before he had even consciously decided to go through with it, Caspian knelt to study the case. Practiced eyes roamed its joints and hinges, looking for traps or levers or secret panels. It only took a few moments to detect the faint rune traced beside the Ankh in clear oil.

Of course. A Glyph of Succor. Those were old Tasir the Lock’s favorite trick, other than the man-eating pouch. Every mage worth his robe knows how to make one now. I should have known Sycron would never leave his prizes unprotected…

Caspian looked around wildly. Sycron was nowhere in sight. The manticore bellowed again.

You’re crazy. He’ll feed you to that thing when he finds you. Or lock you in a room with the beholder. Or with himself.

There’s no way to pick it up. I’ve seen these things before. Even a hook in my hand will set off the glyph. I’d need something to dispel the magic. Or something else to pick it up for me, a trained monkey or something like they use to get around these in Calarthia…

The answer hit him in a flash of brilliance. Good old Tasir.

Caspian unstrapped the living pouch from his belt. Looking around once more, he swiftly opened the case and dropped it facedown on top of the necklace. The pouch, trained through long experience to protect wealth, scooped up the Ankh in an instant. The Glyph of Succor, its convulsive power wasted on an entity with no muscles or nerves, flared brightly for a second before fading out of existence.

Caspian removed the pouch from the case with a trembling hand. He tickled its underside as he had learned to do years before, and upended it over his palm. The Ankh lay in his hand, cold and smooth and marvelous as the first time he’d held it. He dropped a gold coin where it had been, so that something would glint when the display was viewed from a distance, and grinned madly as he closed the case. Now I’ve got to find a way out of here while I still can.

"I take it you’re rather fond of the Ankh, Caspian. You’ve come quite a long way for it."

His blood froze. But twenty-five years of conniving and schemes, backed up by the shock of the moment, threw his creative mind into high speed. Caspian turned to face Sycron, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back, still smiling the same satisfied smile. "Indeed I do, my lord," Caspian said. "It’s a prize I parted with dearly. And I’ve come here today to make a deal for it."

Sycron appeared entirely unruffled. "You realize I could take it back in an instant," he replied. "You are a thief in my home. The law allows me to protect my property. And I could hand you in to any city on the coast for the bounty of my choosing."

"Yes," Caspian agreed. "I’m entirely in your power. The gods know you could kill or stop me a dozen different ways before I could so much as scream, and the law would never know or care. But you haven’t yet…and I’ll tell you why." Caspian took a deep breath before continuing. "I know about you, Lord Sycron. You value trinkets more than treasure, and you’re just like me. You’ve seen it all, and you’re bored with the world. So let me make you an offer." He paused dramatically. "I am the greatest thief who has ever lived. You are the greatest wizard who has ever lived. Surely there is something you still desire. So amuse both of us, and make a trade. I’ll acquire for you anything you want. Name it. Make it as difficult as you can. For your entertainment and your collection, I will bring it to you. All I want is the Ankh in exchange." Not exactly what I came here for, he thought. Then again, I didn’t know what I was going to take...this is as good as anything else. And if this works, I get my neck with it as a bonus.

Sycron clapped his hands together. "A truly magnanimous offer. You intrigue me, Caspian of Mirago. Anything I desire?"

"Anything, my lord." Gods save me, it worked. I’m not going to die. And I’ve got a real challenge at last.

Sycron nodded. "Then…since we understand each other so very well, I believe there is something I want after all. Follow me."

Sycron strode to a case containing Black War vintage soldier’s uniforms. He pressed his hand to an apparently ordinary spot on the glass, and the case slid noiselessly aside, revealing a narrow passage. The archwizard lifted his hand, and a small sphere of pale blue light appeared above his outstretched palm. "Come, then," he said, beckoning. "Join me in my private gallery."

His heart pounding in his ears, Caspian followed. The glorious rush of victory made his feet so light he thought he could have floated down the unfinished stone corridor.

The pair traveled for perhaps a hundred yards. There was no door at the end, merely a narrow opening that led into a vast chamber. The only light was the tiny sphere above Sycron’s hand.

"My most prized collection," the Lord Mage whispered.

By the faint light, Caspian could make out several rows of tall glass cases, each about seven feet high and three wide. Other, larger cases, their dark contents indiscernible within the shadows, lurked further back in the room. He approached the nearest row. The first case he came to contained…Caspian could not believe what it contained.

A figure stood within the case. It was a naked female elf, in the prime of life. She stood with her arms outstretched, palms forward, her silver eyes unblinking. Wispy white hair floated around her head, as if frozen in the moment after a breeze lifted it. A faint white glow surrounded her. Words in the flowing script of the elven language were etched on a small metal plate at the foot of the case. The air was suffused with a faint hum.

To her right was a young male elf, arranged in the same posture. And after him, male and female humans. And dwarves. And goblins…the gallery went on and on. Every sentient species Caspian had ever heard of was here, and several he had never seen before as well. A row of cases stood silent and empty at the end of the chamber.

By all the gods…the ultimate collection. At least he already has humans….

He turned to Sycron. "Are they alive?" he whispered.

The archwizard nodded. "It has taken me three centuries to acquire them all. Each is the most perfect specimen of their kind I have found. They sleep here, and although I have never been under the spell myself, I am told they do not dream."

Caspian looked at the cases housing the humans again. "But you have every race I know, my lord," he said. "I do not know what is left for me to bring you."

Sycron’s gaze pierced Caspian, seeming to stab into his soul. "You have already brought me what I need," he purred, and his smile was suddenly terrible.

Cold terror seized the thief’s heart. "But…my lord…you already have a human male…and he is far finer than me…"

"Indeed," said Sycron. "I have no need for a human male. It was, in fact, the first specimen I acquired. But you have pointed out to me what I do not have." His eyes seemed to glow in the light of the blue sphere he held before him, which cast his face in dancing shadows. "I do not have the world’s greatest thief."

Caspian suddenly felt the ground drift away from beneath him. A ghastly white vapor was rising from the floor. It surrounded him, seeming to mold itself to his body. He heard the distant sound of a case unlocking. The mist shifted at a gesture from Sycron, and Caspian began to float, slowly and inexorably, toward the end of the row.

"You can’t do this to me!" he screamed, struggling helplessly against the invisible force that held him. "I’ll give you anything you want! We had a deal! We had a deal! "

Caspian’s body slid into the case, and the white mist wrapped itself tightly around him. His arms were forced into the same posture as the other figures in the row. The Ankh dropped to the floor with a metallic clatter. He could no longer close his eyes. Caspian fought to scream, but his throat was as paralyzed as the rest of his body. The faint humming sound he had heard from the other cases now echoed in his ears, almost but not quite drowning out his terror.

The archwizard walked into his line of sight. "Oh, I have not forgotten our bargain, Caspian," he said, his voice sounding strangely distant. He picked up the Ankh and put it around the thief’s neck. "You may keep your favorite prize. I can think of no better place to display it. Don’t you agree?"

Sycron smiled, and shut the glass door of the case.