Enzo came to, his vision swimming blurry into focus. He was in some kind of office. Before him was a live-edge oak desk scattered with pens, papers, and personal effects. A set of tuning forks were scattered around a polished violin. Where the hell am I?

His hands and feet were bound to the chair. His head felt heavy, his body lethargic — had he been drugged?

“Hello Enzo.” A man spoke behind him. His voice had an icy, imperious edge to it. The voice of a man accustomed to obedience.

“Who… who are you?”

“Who I am,” he said, in the same level tone, “is immaterial. I need you to answer some questions. Who is your employer?”

“The Pathfinders guild.” The words came out of his mouth unbidden.

“What is your occupation?”

“Adventurer.” He tried to lie, but his tongue could find no purchase on the words. His body simply would not obey. It was a queer sensation; it made him feel naked and exposed in much the same way the Mindlock enchantment had. With effort, he forced himself to speak before his unseen interlocutor could ask him another question.

“I've done nothing wrong.”

“An odd declaration… for an innocent man.”

“You have me in manacles.” It felt odd talking to a man he could not see.

“I'm familiar with you and your ilk. I know how… slippery… you can be.”

“You've drugged me. With Immotalus.” Immotalus, the truth serum. The same serum Duke Ferdinand had used on Tomasso. This man was asking him baseline questions.

“Yes.”

Enzo was taken aback by the man’s forthrightness. He wished he could rally his spirit, to use his wits and somehow extricate himself from his predicament, but he could barely think. His mind was a muddle, his wits were foggy, and he felt so very, very tired.

The man continued, “Several days ago you were hired by Cosimo Medea, a Qirini man with an avowed interest in Ilhen deathtraps. You must understand something: Cosimo is a pawn. And you, Enzo d'Verona, are Cosimo's pawn. Neither you nor him understand the stakes of the game you are playing. Your present efforts threaten to upset a delicate balance of power. It is a possibility I cannot allow.”

“What's your question?”

“I have not a question, but a proposition.”

“Then … then why give me… Immotalus?” He could barely say the words. Exhaustion was consuming him.

“Because I want your honest answer. I want your sincere commitment. I need you to gain Cosimo’s trust, if you have not already.” He paused, the silence pregnant with tension. “I want you… to be my mole. My agent. Together we will unravel just how deep this conspiracy goes. I need you to…”

But what was said after that Enzo did not hear, as his feeble mind drifted back to sleep…

***

“Enzo? Are you awake?”

Enzo could hear the words, but he barely registered them.

“Check his pulse.” It was a man’s voice — Leo’s voice, Enzo realized belatedly.

“Hard to, with these damn binds in the way,” said Gianna. Small hands fumbled at his wrists.

Enzo’s eyes fluttered open. He was still in the office, still bound to a chair. Leo, Gianna, and Dinella stood before him. It was a bit like deja vu; after the Mindlock enchantment, Leo and Gianna had woken Enzo under similar circumstances.

“Enzo! Are you ok?”

“Wha… How did you find me?”

“I availed my great powers,” said Dinella in her dreamy voice, “and divined your location. I can no longer read your thoughts, but there remains a tenuous connection between us.”

Leo said, “Someone snatched you. I didn't even see it happen; one moment you were viewing the painting, the next you were gone. Dinella was able to triangulate your position… she still has a link to your mind evidently. Then Gianna nicked keys off curator.”

“Acquired them,” said Gianna. “They were dangling from his pocket, practically begging to be taken. Hold still, I'll cut the binds.” He heard her unsheathe her knife and begin carefully sawing at the binds.

“Someone… Someone was here…” Enzo said sluggishly. “Interrogating me.”

“Who?”

“I dunno. Didn't see a face. Black Cabal maybe.” It seemed the most likely possibility — perhaps the only one. Who else had the audacity to kidnap him and recruit him to their cause? Perhaps a rival adventurer? It seemed doubtful.

Leo eyed him skeptically. “You seem — you seem drugged. Are you okay?”

“No,” Enzo replied. The truth serum was still limiting his body autonomy, forcing him to be honest. “He administered Immotalus to me. We need to leave before he comes back. Where are we anyway?”

“Underground,” Leo said, “below the Musea. Curator’s office. Here, come on.”

Gianna finished cutting the binds and Enzo stood up, swaying unsteadily. He took one step and nearly lost his footing. Leo caught him from reeling.

“Steady, mate. Are you sure you can walk?”

“No,” Enzo said, though he wanted to say yes. “Sorry, the serum is still clouding my wits. Still forcing me to tell honest truths…”

Gianna smiled. “I could really have some fun with this… Hey Enzo, does Leo look stupid wearing three swords?”

“Yes,” Enzo said automatically. He cringed at his words, but Leo and Gianna chuckled heartily.

“Who is the number one best apprentice in the Pathfinders guild?” she continued.

“Gianna d’Verona.”

“Ha! I knew it. But still, that’s so sweet of you Enzo.”

Enzo stepped away before she could continue her casual interrogation. Glancing around, he found an office that was sparingly appointed: a globe, decorative hanging lanterns, a rack of potted succulents. On the wall there was a famous painting by Prezi, an Impressionist watercolor long thought lost. Even now, his mind muddled, Enzo could not help but be intrigued by it. But his attention was drawn somewhere else. In the corner of the room was a heavy steel door.

“That must be the vault,” he said. “Where they keep artwork not on display.”

“What about it?” asked Leo.

“The original Among the Sierra may be down there. There was a detail omitted in the forgery. A number sequence. I need to see it.”

“I may have the key!” said Gianna, holding them out and jangling them.

The keyring held dozens of keys of varying shape, size, and make. It took them a few moments to find the right key: a long brass key with many fine teeth, its head carved with the shape of a griffin.

They inserted it into the keyhole and turned the mechanism. The door swung open with a loud groaning creak that made Enzo cringe. Surely someone must have heard that. He wanted to leave, but they had a mission to complete.

One by one, they descended the spiral staircase to the Musea’s massive underground vault, feeling the air grow incredibly cool and dry. It was like a labyrinth down here. Twisting corridors radiated in each direction. Aquamarine crystals in the wall regulated the room’s heat and humidity, while shedding light to see by.

Rare and valuable paintings abounded to both the left and right: Godels, Prezis, Montorros. Enzo felt like a boy in a candy shop. He would give anything to spend a day down here — or even afternoon or an hour. But now he had urgent matters to attend to. Soon his captor would return, and they needed to be gone before then.

“Which way is it?” Leo said.

Enzo was about to say he didn’t know, when suddenly he saw it. It was right in front of them. Some careless oaf had recklessly placed it on the floor propped against the wall. Among the Sierra — the original painting. In the painting’s foreground, beneath the lee of an elm tree, was a series of numbers.

It was immediately obvious to every one of them what the numbers represented.

Coordinates.