The Musea d’Ortiva Art Gallery was built in the neoclassical style, with stout white columns holding aloft a decorative pediment. A statue of a rampant lion occupied its expansive courtyard.

One of the city’s oldest landmarks, it was funded through a bequest from Constance Ortiva, one of the city’s patriarchs. Admission cost only a coin — any coin, even a rusty copper shim. Ortiva’s purpose had been to culture the great unwashed masses. It was widely believed the Musea, the only public museum in the world, was singularly responsible for making Corinth a world cultural capital, attracting immigrants from all walks of life.

It was now past dusk. Evening crowds had descended upon the Musea, and because occupancy limits were strictly monitored, Leo and Enzo had to wait in line for a half hour before entering. Eventually they reached the front, dropping two shims in a decorative vase and gained admission to the Musea’s Grand Foyer.

Leo, for his part, never truly understood the allure of art. Sure, some paintings were fine to look at, and perhaps made a vague impression on him. But overall, he felt, art’s beauty was stale and superficial. It lacked the grandeur and splendor of nature’s own beauty, of a cascading waterfall or a springtime glen. Some nobles and merchants invested in art, but as an investment it made an uncertain asset — a careless buyer could lose a fortune if they accidentally bought a forgery.

Enzo took a moment to pause and glance around the Grand Foyer, taking it all in. “This place was like a home to me when I was young.”

“You came here often?” Leo asked.

“Once a month, or so. Dante would bring us here to study the masters… to memorize all the fine details of their paintings and portraits. It’s how we were able to reproduce their works. I know this place like the back of my hand.”

“Which way to the painting?”

“This way.”

They climbed upstairs, wading through exhibits that featured Ancient Druin obelisks and mummies and dusty old rings. Then they arrived at the threshold of an exhibit titled simply Artificium.

“Artificium,” said Enzo, ”is a very niche field of art. A century ago an alchemist concocted a type of movable ink. With careful application of numerous charms and potions, this ink, dubbed artificium, could be induced to take on almost physical characteristics. Trees could be painted to sway in the wind; rivers would run in turbulent currents; snow flakes would gently fall.”

“Sounds neat,” said Leo. “But kind of gimmicky.”

“Most artists would agree with you. Contemporary artists shunned artificium, and modern ones still do. Artists delight in novelty but shun sorcery. There was one primary practitioner of this field, only one great master of it. Telemachus of Arkimidea. Telemachus adored nature, but he was a romanticist at heart. He painted nature not as it was, but as he wished it to be. He combined elements from around the world in his paintings.”

“Ok. What does this have to do with the riddle?”

“Well, Telemachus was incidentally Ilhen’s mentor, and one of his paintings matches the riddle’s description. It features the Jasmine River of Wuhabi winding through Osgothian mountains. There are elm trees situated along the banks. It’s titled Among the Sierra, and it’s hanging right there.”

Enzo nodded ahead. “The one in the far corner. The one the redhead is staring at.”

Redhead was of a size with Ragnar, with broad shoulders and legs like tree trunks. He looked like a bare-knuckle brawler, not an art enthusiast. He looked like an adventurer — like competition.

“Look at the guard in other corner, the bald guy. Baldy’s keeping a close watch on redhead… I think he’s with the Black Cabal.”

“Huh? How do you know? How can you recognize them without their mask?”

“I recognize them by their eyes. They all have that… shifty look. He’s Black Cabal or I’m the Empress Fortuna. Baldy’s really keen on redhead.”

“Redhead’s keen on the painting. Is he here for the same reason we are?”

“Perhaps so… Looks like he’s shuffling off…”

Redhead departed, his heavy footfalls nearly quaking the room. The guard swiftly followed him. No one remained in the room.

Enzo made a beeline for Among the Sierra and studied its features.

“This is definitely it. You see what I mean? The Jasmine River, snowcapped peaks, elm trees. It has everything.” Except anything to do with a cellar. That line threw Enzo.

“ 'Neath the lee of a spreading elm tree. That was the line, wasn’t it? So what’s under the elm tree? I see nothing.”

“Nor I. And there’s something else about it… something strange. This isn’t the original.”

Something was decidedly off about it. A shudder ran up his spine. “This painting is a forgery.”

Leo was flabbergasted. “What? How do you know? You’ve seen the original?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it right here, this very spot. Not long ago, in fact. The curator must have replaced it with this fake. Or someone did.”

“Someone like the Black Cabal. And now they’re keeping tabs on anyone who comes near it. How can you tell it’s a fake?”

“There's something off about it… Some detail. I can't quite place my thumb on it.”

Leo gripped Enzo’s elbow and steered him away. “The guard’s returned. Let’s scram.”

***

Back aboard the Mint, Leo and Enzo met with Cosimo in the Captain’s Quarters. Brunelli and Dinella were also present, as was Gianna, who was playing an enchanted Citadels board by herself.

“We solved the riddle,” Enzo said. “It’s a painting, not a location.”

Cosimo said nothing. He looked blankly from Enzo to Leo and back again. Brunelli spoke first.

“A painting!? What are you blathering about? What painting?”

“It’s titled Among the Sierra. A painting on display at the Musea. But there’s a minor complication. The original has been replaced with a forgery, and someone —”

“—the Black Cabal,” Leo interjected.

“—is monitoring everyone who comes and sees it. It’s a honeypot trap.”

“A honeypot?” said Cosimo, one eyebrow cocked.

“They could have simply removed the original painting. Instead they forged it, altering one minor detail. Now they’re keeping tabs on everyone who views it.”

“How do you know it’s a fake? Have you memorized every Telemachus painting?”

“Yes.”

There was a moment of dumbfounded silence, and then Brunelli began applauding, big exaggerated claps. “Bravo,” he said, stepping forward. “An excellent performance. Almost plausible, if only it wasn’t so ludicrously… ludicrous.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped Cosimo.

“The fine folks from the Pathfinders have solved everything. Even cracked a cryptogram that fooled Golgas — Golgas, the world’s most preeminent fucking cryptomancer. How astonishing — it’s almost, dare I say, unbelievable.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Leo.

“The brilliant adventurers from the Pathfinder have solved everything. Now I’ve solved them. They’re the ones behind this ruse. Their guild laid the trail, then placed the cryptogram in Cosimo’s possession. A desperate act from a desperate — and hopelessly indebted — guild.”

Cosimo did not flatly reject the notion. “It’s true… Enzo has solved every clue.”

“Because he’s damned good,” said Leo.

Cosimo seemed uncertain. “So what next?”

Enzo said, “I think we have only one option. We have to take the bait, and let ourselves be captured.”

Cosimo considered this, finally nodding. “Very well. So long as you put only yourselves in danger.”

“I want in,” said Gianna, her back turned to them. “Just let me finish this game…”

***

That night they formulated a plan. Gianna would stage a diversion to draw away the guard, while Leo posted lookout. Enzo would ideally have at least several minutes to analyze the painting unmolested.

By the time they had settled on a strategy, it was too late to return to the Musea, so they returned instead on the morrow. They staggered their entries.

Enzo took position just outside the Impressionism exhibit, feigning interest in an old Godel. For a while nothing happened. He was beginning to wonder if Gianna had been somehow held up, or got lost, when he heard her burst into the room.

“Someone's trying to steal a Von Andrees!”

“Huh? What?” The guard was clearly taken aback.

“Von Andrees, the Edmiri expressionist artist! Duh! Someone's wrenching it right off the wall like a thieving troglodyte! Come quick!”

“I — uh, where?”

“I'll show you. Come on, hurry!”

The guard followed here, albeit reluctantly.

Enzo wasted no time. He slipped into the room, which was more crowded than it had been the day before, but there no guards — none he recognized, anyway.

Another man was already viewing the painting — a lanky man in food-stained brown robes. He had a goatee and fetid body odor, and seemed nonplussed by the commotion. Enzo jockeyed for position, shouldering closer to the painting, much to the man’s annoyance.

Enzo commenced a thorough examination of the painting, scouring every detail, brush stroke, ink drop, every errant mark… Dante had once said that it was the flaws that made art flawless. A painter’s foibles and idiosyncrasies were the most difficult aspects to forge… and Telemachus’ work abounded in idiosyncrasy. The mountains were a touch too steep; the clouds had a subtle tint of lavender; the River Jasmine gushed like a waterfall.

But what was altered? He had the unnerving sense it wasn't even a subtle detail. It was conspicuous. Something that should leap out at him. But it didn't.

‘Neath the lee of an elm tree

What was altered?

His eyes roamed over canvas.

Then it occurred to him. So obvious! Not a detail altered, but one omitted. A detail right beneath the elm tree.

But as he reveled in his epiphany, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps behind him. A man jabbed a wand into his back and invoked a spell: “Disabilis!”