When Ealstan looked at himself, he could see no change. Even a mirror wouldn’t have helped. That was the sorcery’s drawback. Only someone else could tell you if it had worked--and you found out the hard way if it wore off at the wrong time. He plucked at his beard. It was shaggier than Algarvians usually wore theirs. They often went in for side whiskers and imperials and waxed mustachios. But a lot of them were more unkempt than they had been, too. He thought he could get by with the impersonation--provided the spell had worked.

Only one way to learn, he thought again. He strode out of the building. He hadn’t gone more than half a block before two Algarvian troopers walked by. They both saluted. One said, “Good morning, Lieutenant.” Ealstan returned the salute without answering. He spoke some Algarvian, but with a sonorous Forthwegian accent.

He shrugged--then shrugged again, turning it into a production, as Algarvians were wont to do with any gesture. He’d passed the test. Now he had several hours in which to hunt down that son of a whore of a Spinello. The stick he carried was more likely to be a robber’s weapon than a constable’s or an officer’s, but that didn’t matter so much these days, either. If a stick blazed, Mezentio’s men would use it.

Algarvian soldiers saluted him. He saluted officers. Forthwegians gave him sullen looks. No one paid much attention to him. He hurried west toward the riverfront, looking like a man on important business. And so he was: that was where he’d seen Spinello. He could lure the redhead away, blaze him, and then use a counterspell to turn back into his proper self in moments.

He could ... if he could find Spinello. The fellow stood out in a crowd. He was a bantam rooster of a man, always crowing, always bragging. But he wasn’t where Ealstan had hoped and expected him to be. Had the Unkerlanters killed him? How would I ever know? Ealstan thought. I want to make sure he’s dead. And who has a better right to kill him than I do?