Two hours later they were descending the dirt path back to the royal marina. Tomasso, still recovering from his dose of Immotalus, was walking with a limp, supported by Leo.

“I suppose my ignorance accrued to our advantage,” said Tomasso, with a slight chuckle. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what ‘enciphered’ means.”

“Encrypted,” said Enzo. “Your cleverness accrued to our advantage as well. I solved the riddle — and you were right. It refers to Duke Ferdinand the First.”

“Then we’re fucked,” said Leo. “Unless we conceive some way to interrogate a corpse. Ferdinand I is 100 years dead in his grave.”

“There’s a statue of him on the Charles Bridge. A talking statue.”

Leo stopped short, nearly dropping Tomasso. “You’re certain?”

“Positive.”

“Of course… it's so obvious. Why didn't we think of this before?”

Enzo shrugged. “Riddles and puzzles are not my forte.”

“Well thus far you're three for three. The escape room, the cryptogram, and the riddle. Not half bad.”

“Three for four. There were two cryptograms; I solved only one.”

“Still. Pretty good.”

Pretty good, thought Enzo, but pretty good in an Ilhen still meant death.

***

The Arrow bore them back to Corinth. They helped Tomasso return to the guild and then expeditiously crossed to the Charles Bridge.

The statue of Duke Ferdinand the First stood on an marble plinth. Unlike his neighbors, he was calm and silent, rubbing his chin as he stared wistfully out at the horizon. If it was a fair likeness of him, he was utterly unlike his successor. He had doughy cheeks, a kind face, and intelligent eyes.

“Look who carved him,” said Leo, wiping a layer of grime from the inscription: Ilhen.

The Duke was quiet, pensive, and seemingly unaware or unconcerned with them.

“Err, Duke Ferdinand,” said Leo awkwardly, “I would like to know where the key is kept… err…” He shrugged at Enzo. “Feels weird talking to a statue.”

Initially, the statue said nothing. Then he turned his kind eyes on them and spoke:

“East the Jasmine River

South the snowcapped sierra

'neath the lee of spreading elm trees

Find one secret, two numbers, three keys

In the cellar the prize awaits”

***

Cosimo, to his credit, barely reacted when Leo apprised him of recent events.

“Another riddle? I suppose it’s not surprising.”

“This one is a little less cryptic, at least. It's clearly referencing a geographical location.”

“Maps. I have an abundance maps. I'll get them, I'll get the Brunelli as well… the man is a sloth and a drunkard but he’s a font of useless trivia. Maybe he can help…”

Cosimo returned first with the maps.

It was indeed an abundant collection, some old and frayed, weathered and torn. Some were sketches by surveyors, intricately detailed but incomplete. Others were artistic but dubious. Enzo sifted through them, collecting the most promising charts.

“Jasmine River,” Leo muttered, “I recognize that name…” He pored over the charts, and within a minute found it.

“Here. Jasmine River, a stream that meanders the tropical forests of Wuhabi. It’s said to be quite picturesque.”

“Tropical forest? Where are the snowcapped mountains? South the snowcapped mountains, the riddle said.”

Leo shrugged. “Beats me… Maybe it’s—”

Leo was cut off by Cosimo, who burst into the room with Brunelli and Ragnar in tow.

“Brunelli knows where the Jasmine River is.”

“Wuhabi,” said Leo. “We already know.”

“A Jasmine River is in Wuhabi. But there are no snowy mountains in Wuhabi. It’s not the Jasmine River you seek.”

Leo crossed his arms. “Then enlighten us. Where is it?”

“Should I, though?” Brunelli crossed his own arms, glancing around the room, looking mighty smug. “It’s so fun, seeing your ignorant, slack-jawed expressions seeking my help.”

“Just fucking tell us,” said Cosimo.

“Fine. It’s the Gellbruk River in Osgoth. Gellbruk means Jasmine in the native Osgoth tongue. Right, Ragnar?”

Ragnar, who was Osgothi, grunted and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“It means Jasmine. I can prove it; I have with me a translation guide.”

“What about elm trees?” said Enzo. “Are there elm trees in Osgoth?”

“Well, no,” said Brunelli, somewhat reluctantly. “But — well, in the south there are some deciduous trees… perhaps elms grow there. They've got to. Or maybe it's a poetic flourish.”

Enzo had his doubts.

“Work it out,” said Cosimo. “Find me a location.”

“We will,” said Leo.

“I will,” said Brunelli. “I don’t need their help. I only need Ragnar’s.”

***

Mountains were sacred to the Osgoths. Every hill and hillock, every mound and molehill was christened a name. Brunelli and Ragnar conducted a methodical search, relying on Ragnar’s encyclopedic knowledge of the terrain. Ragnar would provide the native Osgothian name, and then Brunelli would translate the name to Common, hoping to find one with snowy mountain or elm tree connotations.

He adamantly refused any help from Leo and Enzo.

Hours passed. Leo joined Gianna for a game of Citadels to bide time. Enzo was admiring a painting on the wall when Brunelli came up and put a hand on his shoulder.

“The crew is readying the sails. Tonight, we depart for Osgoth.”

“You solved the riddle?”

“Well, no, but the location has got to be somewhere in Osgoth, hasn't it? It will take us three days to reach Osgoth. By then we'll have it worked out.”

Enzo wasn't so sure. Thus far, all the clues were not what they appeared to be on surface.

Brune gestured to the painting Enzo was admiring.

“An original Rosco. I met him once in Arkimides, you know. I asked him how he creates such a unique chiaroscuro effect in his paintings. Do you know what he said?”

“No.”

“Nothing. He’s deaf and dumb, apparently. And supposedly quite stupid. Imagine he were blind… what beauty we would be deprived of.”

“I once knew a blind musician who theorized that the deprivation of one sense heightened acuity of the others.”

“An intriguing notion. Genius often comes at a steep price — I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Cosimo tells me you have some artistic talent yourself?

“In my youth I forged art in a Veronan atelier. Rosco was one of my specialties.”

“Forgery, tut tut. That’s mimicry, not art. It’s plagiarism. I should know — I am myself an accomplished artist.”

“Romanticist like Rosco?”

“Romanticism is beneath my talents. I am an abstract expressionist.”

Enzo nearly choked. “Splatter art?”

“We abstract expressionists shun that term. It’s derogatory and diminishes the effort we put into our craft. Abstract expressionism towers above all other art forms. A sculpture of tree will only ever be an tree. Its form is immutable. But a work of abstract expressionism can be anything. A viewer can map any emotional state onto it.”

“Artmancy artwork is mutable.” Artmancy was the magic of art; there were many sub-branches, but overall the field was neglected. “What is your opinion of lithomancy? Of artificium?”

Brune scoffed. “Artificium? No true artist holds artificium in esteem.”

It was true — artists shunned artificium just as they shunned Bernini’s sculptures. Artificium was an alchemical ink that allowed a painter to evoke motion on canvas — like a swaying tree. Likely they shunned it because it was novel and strange and difficult to use. In fact there was only one skilled practitioner of it, Telemachus of Arkimidea, who was incidentally Ilhen’s mentor.

A thought occurred to Enzo.

There was a painting in the Musea… Among the Sierra

Enzo rushed over to Cosimo. “Don’t disembark. The riddle — I think it leads to a painting!"