Enzo d’Verona was perusing a treatise on the alchemical properties of saltpeter when a raven fluttered near his feet bearing a note.

That in itself was odd. Nobles used couriers to transmit messages. Scholars and mages favored m-grams — bursts of magic encoded with information — while others settled for the Pony Post. Only spies and thieves used ravens.

He unfolded the note and read: Follow the arrows

From his vantage atop the roof of the Pathfinders guildhouse, Enzo spied no arrows, though it was dark and hard to see.

Is it some kind of festival-related prank? he wondered.

Today was a special day in Genoa: the Amethyst Festival, a celebration marking the semi-annual conjunction of the indigo moon Perses and the crimson moon Vinod. As dusk settled on the balmy isle of Corinth and the two lunar orbs neared their zenith, revelers descended on the city’s waterfront.

This year Duke Ferdinand II had tapped the Water Lilies to perform the Spectacle. Amidst the revelry — as the citizens of Corinth diced, dined, danced, and whored — the aquamancers of the Water Lilies poled out to the shallow waters of Sapphire Bay and conjured ephemera. Water-borne elementals — such as lions, eagles, and manticores — burst into the air, soaring into the lavender sky. They performed tricks, dancing and swirling, before exploding into ice pellets, much to the amusement of onlookers below.

One man who was not amused by the display was Leonardo Sforza, Enzo’s longtime friend and collaborator. He sat near Enzo on the roof of the guildhouse, watching the Spectacle from afar. He whistled in disapproval as a wyvern took to the skies.

“You lousy knuckleheads. Wyverns have claws on their wings — it’s what distinguishes them from the common dracys!”

“Who are you talking to?” said Gianna d’Corinth, their 12 year old apprentice. “You’re like an old man yelling at clouds.” She was balanced on one foot atop the ridge of the roof, practicing sword strokes with Poinsettia, her beloved rapier.

“I don’t know. You, I guess. When I was your age Ambrose performed the Spectacles. He’s no mere mage, he’s a wiz—”

“Wizard, everyone knows that.”

The distinction between a wizard and mage was a fuzzy one. Mages typically specialized in only one or two branches of magic, like aeromancy or lithomancy. Wizards had a broad affinity for all types. The most powerful wizards, including Ambrose, were all-powerful and nigh-invincible. They could drain lakes and shake the very bones of the earth itself.

“Been years since we last saw Ambrose,” said Leo. “How long would you say, Enzo? Five, six years?”

“Seven years,” muttered Enzo, who was still quietly pondering the letter he’d received.

“Seven years. Like I said, ages…”

“I heard he turned recluse,” Gianna said, gracefully twirling on the balls of her feet and executing a Feinted Uppercut.

“More likely he turned a corpse…” muttered Leo. “Seven years is a long time to disappear.”

“Wizards don’t die. They live for centuries.”

“And then die. They’re quite mortal, you know. Run a sword through their heart and they’ll die the same as any other man.”

“If you can penetrate their defensive shroud.”

“I wager I can get past anyone’s defenses.”

“You can’t even get past mine,” said Gianna, sticking her tongue out in a mocking fashion. “Spar?”

“Spar.”

They both vaulted off the roof to the street below and began sparring, steel ringing on steel. Gianna used Poinsettia while Leo wielded his saber Ice. Gianna, who had a keen interest in magic and an aptitude for it, invoked the Illumination cantrip; an aquamarine orb of light appeared above them.

The two made an odd pair — Leo was tall, lean and debonair, with dashing blond hair and crisp blue eyes. Gianna was an orphan girl Leo had rescued from the slums, a lanky girl of about twelve years, with a bobbing blond ponytail and catlike reflexes. She proved a promising recruit for the Pathfinders.

Enzo, meanwhile, was of medium height and build with a very average appearance. His plain looks made it easy for him to don disguises and impersonate other people — a rare and valuable skill to the guild.

He idly watched the two of them spar, turning over the cryptic note again and again in his head.

It had been a quiet and peaceful night heretofore — a rare day off from the constant grind of their work with the guild. Even their tirelessly hardworking guildmaster, Tomasso Vasari, had permitted himself to visit the opera this one night.

“What is it?” asked Leo, who’d just noticed Enzo staring at the note. He’d taken a break from sparring with Gianna. Enzo handed it to him.

“Arrows? I don't see any arrows. Hey Gianna — you see any arrows?”

The two of them began canvassing the vicinity. Gianna invoked another orb, putting even more force into it. The amber orb shed light in a twelve foot radius.

Finally Gianna said, “I don’t see anything — wait! Here’s one.”

Enzo got down from the roof, and he and Leo went over to her. There, painted on the red-brick street, was a bold black arrow pointing due south.

“Huh,” said Leo. “Well my curiosity is piqued… Shall we see where it leads?”

Enzo and Gianna nodded in unison. Privately, Enzo wondered how long the arrows had been on the street. They seemed quite noticeable. Could he have overlooked them?

It’s easy to overlook the obvious, he thought.

The arrow led to another one, which was painted on the base of a streetlamp, which in turn pointed to an arrow on an aquifer. And so on they went, from one arrow to the next, through the tangle of streets and alleys of Petra’s Hill, the city’s fabled guild district, before descending to the city's main square.

They passed many of the city’s famous landmarks: the Boboli Gardens, the Musea d’Ortiva art gallery, the Forum. They crossed the River Arno via Charles Bridge, where animated statues of city notables heckled them. And they passed under the shadow of the Opticon, the base of operations of the Black Cabal — the Empress’ secret sect of spies and inquisitors. It was a squat stone fortress, standing high atop an acropolis, its front emblazoned with the symbol of the Black Cabal: an O with a diagonal slash.

The mere sight of it gave Enzo gooseflesh. It was said that the Black Cabal was always watching, and he could feel their eyes on him now…

His dread mounted when they reached the Via Cardenza, one of the city’s main thoroughfares. He pulled up short, a chill running down his spine.

“Odd,” he said. “You hear that?”

Leo shrugged. “Hear what?”

“Utter silence… it’s eerily quiet.” Enzo gestured at the Vinter Operahouse up ahead, which was dark and silent. “Wasn’t Tomasso supposed to be at the opera tonight?”

“Supposed to be,” said Gianna. “But if he’s not there, then where is he?”

“Maybe he’s the one painting these arrows,” said Leo.

It was only a jest, but it did not ease Enzo's sudden ominous dread. It was not like Tomasso to lie about his whereabouts.

Nevertheless, onward they continued, following the trail of arrows until they arrived at an abandoned alehouse at the edge of town. The whole strip had been abandoned after a loose fire drake laid waste to it. The buildings were burnt out husks.

Enzo pressed open the door of the alehouse, and discovered that the final set of arrows pointed to…

A blank piece of paper.

“Well, that's a bit anticlimactic,” Gianna said.

“We’re being pranked, I'm telling you.” Leo said. “I bet it’s one of our guildmates. Devilish bastards. They're probably here, watching us.” He flipped a table to test his theory, but found nothing underneath but dust.

“Maybe it has a message written invisible ink?” suggested Gianna.

“Possibly,” Enzo said, considering the notion. “But only a highly skilled alchemist could decipher it. Unless…”

A thought occurred to him. Maybe it was Poor Man’s Invisible Ink, a parlor trick — a facsimile of invisible ink that was visible only in moonlight. He ripped the note off the wall and took it to the window. Sure enough, in the shaft of silver moonlight, the note’s text was revealed.

Tomasso Vasari is being held captive in Silvercrest. Hurry.

-Cos