The Ducal Palace loomed above, a sprawling edifice of ivory. Solid and resolute, it was more a fortress than a palace. The ground it occupied had once been the site of the Duke's hunting lodge, but his hunting days were a century past. Steps had been carved into the rocks, but the majordomo instead turned right, down a trail framed by manicured cypresses.

“This way,” he said. “The Duke awaits in his garden.”

The gardens fully enveloped the tier beneath the manse. A trail was laid by stone steps pressed into the earth. Ash and elm trees were artfully arranged.

The picturesque scene was abruptly marred by the sight of a corpse hanging from a tree. Evidently, the Duke had indulged his habit of summary execution. The man looked to be one of the Duke’s servants. The majordomo recoiled at the sight, but said nothing. Onward, they continued.

A table had been placed at the cliff's edge, commanding an arresting view of the Jewel Sea. Duke Ferdinand II was seated at the head of the table, slouched in his seat, under the shade of spreading elm tree.

Not for the first time, Leo was struck by how morbidly decrepit the Duke looked. He seemed to lack flesh or blood; he was merely a bag of skin and bone — and the skin was parchment thin and stretched taut over the bone. His hair had rotted away and many of his joints were bent from rheumatism. Leo had seen skeletons with more life than the Duke. Still, there was a strange malevolent energy behind his black eyes, and if he was not entirely sane, he still seemed lucid.

“Tomasso, I did not instruct you to bring guests. But… ah, I see you've brought Rollo.”

Neither Leo nor Vincenzo bothered to correct him on that point.

“I've also brought my associate,” said Tomasso, speaking tentatively. “This is Enzo.” Enzo and the Duke exchanged acknowledgments. “And I've brought this — a gift. A bottle of Lemontillado. Silver label.”

Tomasso handed it to the Duke, but the Duke batted it away. “Vin, put it in the cellar. And while you're there…” He motioned Vincenzo over, and whispered something in his ear.

Vincenzo looked unsettled by his request, but nodded in consent. Then he left with the , leaving them alone with the Duke and his guards, who stood several feet behind the Duke.

“Was the Festival to your satisfaction?” the Duke asked.

“Delightful,” Tomasso said. “Truly terrific.”

“A terrific waste, mayhaps. The Festival is an ode to indolence and debauchery. Each year we lose talents in lost revenue during the holidays.”

“I reckon the people need their bread and circuses,” said Enzo. They were sharp words to say to the Duke; Enzo had always had a vendetta against the rich and the powerful. “What's the point of living if you're always working?”

“To bring glory and riches to their betters — to their Duke? Is that not enough?”

“It's e-enough for us,” said Tomasso. “W—we take no holidays at the Pathfinders guild.”

“And tell me, how is business at the Pathfinders guild?”

“Brisk. Autumn is a busy time of year for us. W-we've just taken on a few new clients.”

“Brisk,” the Duke repeated the word, as though feeling it with his tongue. His skin was so pale and thin you could almost see the whites of his teeth through his jaw. “Is brisk enough to stopgap my losses?”

“Y-your Grace, I-I—“

“I only jest, Tomasso. I trust your business acumen. Have you ever seen a blue lotus flower in full bloom?”

Tomasso and Enzo exchanged befuddled glances, off guard by the sudden change of subject. It was known that the duke had a habit of non-sequiturs. Before they could reply, the majordomo returned, carrying a new vintage and a set of wine snifters.

“What is the purpose of my visit?” Tomasso asked slowly, mastering his stutter. “Why have you summoned me?”

“For an interrogation.” The Duke said it so calmly, and with such conviction, that it made Enzo’s insides squirm.

“About the guild's finances?” Tomasso asked.

The Duke grinned maniacally and waved his hand dismissively. “Let's drink, shall we? Vin, please…”

The majordomo poured each of them a glass of wine. He seemed to be trying to avoid their gaze. Reluctantly, Enzo took a sip. The moment it touched his lips, a surge of old memories cascaded in his mind: selling his first piece of forged art; his botched performance of Himmler at the Vedic Arts Festival; meeting Gianna for the first time. The memories were so real, so visceral, he could almost touch them.

“Are these grapes?” he asked. The beverage had a unique flavor, something that evoked honeysuckle and cayenne pepper.

“An alchemical hybrid conceived by my alchemists. Sweet Lamentations, they call it.”

Enzo was about to take another sip when Tomasso began coughing and then clutching his throat. Spittle and foam dribbled from the corners of his mouth.

“Poison!” Leo shouted, knocking over his glass. “You've poisoned us!”

“No,” said the Duke. “I’ve only poisoned one of you,” said the Duke. “I told you I have an interrogation to conduct.”

Enzo moved to help Tomasso, but the guards stepped forward, swords drawn.

“How do you intend to interrogate a dead man?”

“He's neither dead nor dying. Vin, my vials, please.”

The majordomo, his face crimson, stepped forward and offered the Duke a tin case.

“Knowledge,” said the Duke, taking out a vials and holding it up, “is a valuable commodity. Lesser men employ spies or subterfuge, intimidation or deceit. Their methods are costly and cumbersome. Mine is more elegant. I have truth crystallized. Do you know what this is?”

The vial contained a translucent fluid flecked with gold specks.

“Immotalus,” said Enzo. “A truth serum.”

“The truth serum. The only reliable one, anyway. It’s but one of my many goodies.” He pulled out a few more vials. “Lethos — ingest a few drops, and any thoughts that you invoke over the subsequent hour are erased. Lacrimosa — a droplet in the eyes, and it will greatly intensify a man’s sorrows, driving him inexorably and inescapably to suicide. These are but three. I adore alchemy.”

Tomasso’s condition, meanwhile, had stabilized somewhat. He was no longer choking, but he seemed dazed and confused. His eyes were unfocused as he looked at the Duke.

“I have questions for you, Tomasso,” said the Duke. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Tomasso’s voice was a grim monotone.

“What is your full name?”

“Tomasso Gri Vasari.”

“How long have you served as guildmaster of the Pathfinders Guild?”

“Fourteen years.”

“You need a truth serum for this information?” Leo asked. “Really?”

“They’re baseline questions to help anchor the mind. Rollo, you’re a lot more disruptive than I remember you.”

“You’re a lot more murdery than I remember you.”

“I could have you hanged from a tree.” Again the Duke smiled maniacally. “Alas, I must attend other matters.”

He turned again to face Tomasso. “The guild’s debt is why I summoned you here today, Tomasso. But I must question you on a more urgent matter. A highly sophisticated heist was orchestrated against the Ducal Palace recently. A sensitive enciphered letter was stolen. Were you in any way involved?”

“No.” Again, Tomasso’s voice was a monotone.

Enciphered letter, thought Enzo. Surely he meant the cryptogram?

The Duke seemed surprised by this answer. His smile faltered. “Was your guild involved?”

“No.”

“Was anyone you know involved?”

“No.”

“Do you know the enciphered letter I speak of?”

Perhaps Enzo imagined it, but there seemed to be a momentary pause before Tomasso replied. His eyes rolled to Enzo and then back to the Duke.

“No.”

The Duke shook, visibly irate. “How? Your guild is the only guild in Genoa with the means and motive to infiltrate the palace. Logic dictates you were involved.”

“The only guild in Genoa,” said Leo. “There are other capable guilds, albeit outside Genoa.”

“Like who?” The Duke practically spat the words out.

“The Order of the White Rose in Edmeer.” Leo was loathe to say it, but it was true. The White Rose was their chief rival. Perhaps it was the White Rose who had beat them to the Library clue…

“Perhaps,” said the Duke slowly. “But I have it on good account that your brethren have obtained the enciphered letter.” Again he turned to Tomasso.

“Are you working for man who calls himself Cosimo Medea?”

“No.”

Tomasso isn’t working for him, Enzo thought, we are.

“Did you meet a cryptomancer named Golgas?”

“No.”

Tomasso didn’t meet him; we did. His inquiries were worded in a way that he was miraculously dodging the information he sought to obtain.

The Duke sighed. “Evidently, I have been misinformed. I apologize for this little… ah, mishap.”

“Is he going to be okay?” asked Leo.

“The serum is a mild paralytic. He'll be tired, sore, slightly paralyzed. But he'll recover… probably. Anyway, why are you here, Rollo?”

“I have questions.”

“You would presume to interrogate a Duke?”

“Yes.”

The Duke laughed. “You have moxie, Rollo. But you're a bit too inquisitive. Rather like your grandfather, Ferdinand I. He was always a busybody, always prying into my private affairs. Even in death I cannot escape him… due to that accursed statue… What would you like to ask me?”

What? Something clicked in Enzo’s mind. A sudden burst of clarity.

“It's about — well, it's kind of an odd question,” Leo said.

“Out with it, boy.”

Enzo kicked at Leo under the table, catching his attention. He signaled to him to not ask the Duke about the riddle.

They didn’t need to. Enzo had solved it.