“Try not to sneeze while he’s here,” Radolphus said as he hurried off.

“Mind over matter,” Justinian muttered, standing and looking polite as Radolphus escorted in the manservant. Who didn’t seem the least bit awed or even curious at being allowed to enter the study of a master magician. He planted himself on the hearth with his back to the fire and stuffed his hands in his pockets-blocking the path to Justinian’s favorite chair. The Maestro had to clear the books from one of the other chairs to sit down. Radolphus, long familiar with the condition of Justinian’s furniture, chose to stand.

“You Justinian?” the manservant said. “If you are, the duke sent me to fetch you.”

“I am,” Justinian said. “Welcome to my study.”

His dignity was only slightly undermined by the fact that all his m’s came out as b’s.

“Young for a wizard, aren’t you?” the manservant said. “I thought you were all supposed to have long gray beards and warts.”

Gwynn glanced at Master Radolphus, who fit the stereotype perfectly.

“Master Justinian is the most gifted mage of his generation,” Radolphus said, in his sternest and most dignified headmaster’s voice. “Indeed, of our age.”

The manservant shrugged.

“And you are?” Justinian asked.

“Name’s Reg,” the manservant said. “Been working for the duke a month now.”

“What seems to be the problem up at the castle?” Justinian said.

“Duke’s men caught a pair of anarchists skulking about,” Reg said. “Notified the king, and a party of royal guards comes down to take them back to the capital. Duke goes down to oversee the transfer, and one of the prisoners suddenly falls down bleeding and dies. Duke’s personal physician checks him over and finds a fresh stab wound in his chest. Only nobody in the room had a sword, or even a large knife, just muskets, and anyway, there’s no hole in the bloke’s clothes. We figured a magical attack, but the duke’s personal magician says he can’t detect any magic. So he says for you to come and figure it out.”