Prom Andoris's bedchamber-where the homunculus was safely locked away-came a nervous, worried voice.

We don't like this case, it said, wringing its hands. It reminds us of The similarities are superficial, Andoris told it. Be quiet.

He stared expressionlessly at the arcanist who was giving testimony. Algar Ptack, a man with a high forehead and thinning blond hair that hung to his shoulders, was pacing back and forth in front of the chairs in which the two judges sat. He wore an alchemist's leather apron over his trousers and a loose white shirt. The cuffs of his sleeves were dusted with yellow, and the smell of burned sulfur clung to his clothes, suggesting he'd come straight from his laboratory to give testimony. His eyes were enormous behind clear glass lenses that floated just in front of his face. As he gave his testimony, he peered nervously at the two women held inside the magic circles.

Every now and then he glanced to the judges, as if for encouragement, but failed to find it in Wentar's blank mask or Andoris's emotionless expression. The mantle Ptack had been ordered to wear while giving testimony- a cape of fine-spun gold-billowed out behind him as he paced, humming like the strings of a melodious harp with each word he spoke.

"You know I can't lie-not with this thing on," Ptack groused. "I'm telling you the truth. Shiris Blamira is the thief. I'd engaged her as a consultant for my, ah… my latest research. I needed her expertise on magic that reaches into other planes and demiplanes. She guessed what my research notes contained and figured out how I'd… where I'd hidden them." He grimaced. "To think I trusted her! I'll never work with another wizard again- especially one from the Shadow Consortium."

From the walls above came a rustle of subdued voices as Ptack's words spiraled up the ivory inlay. The crowd of spectators had been growing throughout the day, as whispers spread that a disciple of Shadow was on trial for stealing state secrets.