"You heard? Janrath has orders not to hurry; you've got four days, mayhap five, before Ergluth gets a letter written and delivered to Laspeera. I need you to investigate everything the war wizards can't-or daren't. Do you agree?"

"Aye," said a muffled voice inside the closet.

The seneschal smiled grimly. "Good," he replied, and went back across the room to find a cloth to wind around his cut fingers. It took longer than he'd expected.

When he was done, he frowned and looked up, wine decanter in hand. "Well, you can come forth now, Arkyn-unless you like spending the night in a closet."

There was no reply. The seneschal's eyebrows rose, and then drew down into a darker frown. "Arkyn!" he called sternly. "Wake! Rouse!"

He went to the closet and pulled the door wide. The gruff jest he'd drawn breath to bark became a gasp of horror. The decanter found the floor, shattering in a thousand skittering shards.

The Harper agent was standing in his accustomed place in the closet, among the weather cloaks, but he wasn't wearing his usual grin.

Arkyn Hornblade was headless, encrusted with his own dried blood. Renglar's gaze traveled down the dirty brown trails to find the Harper's staring, severed head. It had been set neatly down between his boots.

"Gods!" the old seneschal gasped hoarsely.

The headless Harper moved, lunging forward for one heart-stopping moment before toppling to the floor. He landed with a heavy thud-but no blood flowed. Arkyn had been dead for hours.

The seneschal swallowed, spun around to strike the call-gong on the wall by the door-and froze.

A moment later he pivoted again, grabbing for the knife at his belt. If Arkyn had died so long ago, who'd answered from inside the closet?

Nothing moved. The dead Harper lay sprawled on the carpet, and silence hung heavy in the room. The seneschal spat out an oath and kicked open another closet door to snatch his hanging sword from its scabbard. With blades gleaming in both hands, he shifted from closet to closet, kicking open door after door. He panted in mounting fury, waiting for a killer to burst forth. There was no one lurking in any of his closets; the doors swung almost mockingly as he stared at them, breathing hard.