Arclath swallowed. He could see right through her, armor and long sword at her hip and all, and by the way she peered and turned her head from time to time, it was apparent she could hear but not quite see the two wizards as they stood talking, just outside his wardrobe.

“Grave enough,” the Royal Magician was saying, “but hardly a surprise. You didn’t call me here just to tell me that. What else?”

“The Royal Gorget of Battle is missing from its case,” Vainrence replied flatly, “which stands otherwise undisturbed, all its spells intact. And it was there an hour ago; I happened to walk past and saw it myself.”

Arclath raised an eyebrow. The gorget was old. An Obarskyr treasure that had lain in its case, proudly displayed in the Warhorn Room, for as long as he’d been old enough to remember what was where in the palace.

“Elminster again.” Ganrahast sighed, slamming a fist against the wardrobe doors in exasperation.

One of them shuddered a little open, freezing Arclath’s heart again. However, its movement caused the spell to wink out, restoring darkness and snatching away the furiously staring ghost.

Neither of the wizards seemed to notice either the door or that momentarily visible glow. They must be upset.

Through the gap, the young noble saw Vainrence nod and say eagerly, “However, this time we’ve got him. I thought he’d go for the gorget-he seems to prefer the older magics-so it’s one of the twoscore I’ve cast tracers on. We can teleport as near as we choose to wherever he’s taken it, just a breath or two after you give the order; the team is ready. Right now, Elminster’s in the wildest part of the Hullack, and not moving. No doubt sitting around a campfire with his bedmate, the crazed Witch-Queen, as they melt down the gorget together and feed on its power. Therlon reported in an hour ago; she blasted another steading to ashes, three nights back.”