The fear that never left him reminded him that this particular guest was never to be kept waiting. He hastened off his stool and through the curtain.

“S-sorry, lord,” he stammered. “I-”

“I know you are, Sraunter. No matter, and no apology needed. Commerce must come first. Not to mention the damage to your trade if Nechelseiya Sammartael thought you’d slighted her. Word of it would be all over Suzail before sunrise.”

“Ah, indeed,” Sraunter agreed, leading the way past the man who’d conquered his mind so easily three nights back, to reveal what until then had been his greatest secret.

Alchemists were more feared than loved, and if they desired long careers, they needed powerful secret weapons. These were to be his latest-if he ever learned some manner of commanding them. Until then, they could at least serve as a deadly trap against thieves. Or so he’d schemed, before Manshoon had stepped into his life.

In his fearful haste, Sraunter had some trouble with the locks, fumbling with the chains and the dummy padlock. Twice he dropped the key that opened the hidden coffer that held the real key.

Manshoon smiled an easy smile. “There’s no particular haste, diligent alchemist. Unless, of course, Goodwife Sammartael takes it into her head to return for something else.”

That horrible thought made Sraunter drop the padlock on his toe.

His involuntary roar and hopping ended as swiftly as he could master himself. He was still wincing, teeth clenched, as he put his shoulder to the door and flung it wide in a loud rattle of chains.

His guest stayed right where he was.

“There’s no particular need to move them, is there?”

“N-no, lord. None at all.”

Sraunter hastened into his strongroom and across to the cage Manshoon had come to see. His guest could take his home and shop and everything in it-blackfire, his very mind!-whenever the whim took him, after all.