The Captain’s Quarters were like a scene from the Ducal Palace, luxuriously appointed with Arkimidean tapestries, a Vedic chandelier, and an Edmiri rug. A long mahogany table occupied the center of the room, covered with old maps and innumerable scrolls. A petite woman lay upon the far end of it, her arms dangling from its edge. Cosimo and another man stood by her.

“Leo!” Cosimo said. “Welcome. I see you brought the girl. Is Enzo unable to join us?”

Unwilling, Leo thought. Enzo eschewed social functions. “The girl has a name — Gianna. And unfortunately, yes. Enzo is preoccupied with his studies, planning and preparing for tomorrow’s venture.”

“But not you. You are like me, I think — a bon vivant.”

“Huh? A bond what?”

“Vivant. It’s an Edmiri term for someone who enjoys fine drink, fine food, and fine company.”

“Perhaps. But you and I may differ on the definition of fine food.” As he said it, Gianna nudged him with her elbow, whispering ‘cow penises’ — Leo had to suppress a laugh.

Cosimo smiled, somewhat puzzled. “I brought you here because I wanted to introduce you to a few of my loyal subordinates — they are my servants, and they will be your companions on our joint expedition. Meet Dinella.”

Leo stepped up to the petite woman. Her face was pallid, her eyes milky with cataracts, but she was vaguely attractive in a unique sort of way.

“Hi.”

“Charmed,” she replied in a brittle voice, holding out a dainty hand ornamented with many bangles and jewelery.

“Err… likewise.”

“I'm literally charmed. I have applied the Orbus enchantment to myself. I cannot see… can barely hear… it dulls the senses, but lubricates the mind. I intend to commune with the Oracle, oh yes…” Her voice seemed to fade in and out.

“Good for you,” Leo said.

“Ahem.” Cosimo cleared his throat. “Dinella is a diviner.”

Gianna was awestruck. “A diviner? You have an attunement? Can you see the future?”

“I am, I do, and I can… Such is my burden… such is my gift… To perceive fate. To See that which cannot be Seen…”

“Predict something!” Gianna said.

“Divination is not a parlor trick,” Dinella said with a hint of reproach. “The art cannot be practiced on command.”

“Oh come on,” said Leo, “your mind’s all lubed up. Humor us. Tell us something about what awaits us tomorrow.”

Dinella considered this for a moment, then sighed. “Very well. I predict… I prophesy… that some great peril will befall us tomorrow.”

The other man who was standing next to Cosimo started clapping loudly. “Bravo! Another brilliant insight from our resident diviner!”

“You are?” Leo said.

“Brunelli. I am a bard by occupation, an artist by hobby, and a drunk libertine by reputation. I was educated at Vale.”

“Impressive. Vale is prestigious.” There were three great academies for magic, but only one for bards — Vale.

“Prestigious,” said Cosimo, “and pricey. I foot the bill. Tell them how long you lasted there.”

Brune smiled sheepishly. “Three days. On the fourth I was caught bedding the Dean's daughter. I wooed her with my lute.”

“If only he’d kept his fucking lute in his pants he might have learned some useful skills or perhaps even gained an attunement. Most bards at Vale gain an attunement. Now he owes me ten years of service. Both Brune and Dinella are indentured to me. In Dinella’s case, I sponsored her climb at the Divinatory.”

The Divinatory was the attunement spire for aspiring diviners, a temple located atop a craggy cliff just off the coast of Edmeer. It was said that the Oracle himself, the god of Divination, resided within it. Upon entry, aspirants were blinded and deafened by one of the Oracle's priestesses, and had to rely upon clairvoyance to seek the Oracle and prevail in the challenges. set before them.

Leo noticed a third man standing in the corner of the room, cloaked in shadows.

“Who’s the big brute brooding in the corner over there?”

“His name's Ragnar," Cosimo said. “He's a knight from Osgoth.”

Osgoth was a land far to the north, famed for its alpine lakes and rugged mountains. Ragnar himself loomed like a mountain — seven feet tall or near about, his shoulders broader than a door frame, arms corded with muscles.

Leo extended his hand, but Ragnar did not take it. He looked down at Leo’s hand as though he were offering a wet turd.

Cosimo intervened.

“Ragnar… Err — Ragnar has a complicated relationship with your people.”

“Hate,” Ragnar said simply. He spoke in a low voice, the sort of voice that could made mountains tremble. But it did not make Leo tremble.

“Ragnar has a terse manner of speaking,” Cosimo explained. “He’s not an idiot… merely idiosyncratic.”

“He hates my people? Genoans?”

“Adventurers,” said Ragnar, who seemed to be capable solely of one word sentences and mean looks.

“What grudge do you have against adventurers?”

“Adventurers plumb Osgothian temples,” Brunelli explained.

“Such is the sport of brigands and thieves,” Leo said. The Pathfinders would never defile an Osgoth temple.”

“Yeah,” said Gianna, “we usually only defile Diji temples.”

An odd moment for candor, Leo thought. Ragnar did not seem placated. He looked as if he might punch Leo. The tension was suddenly defused when a door opened and a freckle-faced Qirini maid walked in.

“Dinner is ready, m'lord.”

***

In the adjoining room, the Captain’s Mess, a rich banquet was laid out: spiced mutton, leeks, carrots, iced violetberries, and cinnamon pastries. No mollusks nor any other Qirini staples.

“I figured this would be more to your liking,” Cosimo said. “Qirini cuisine is an acquired taste, and not all of us have acquired it.”

“In fact, none of us have,” said Brune. “I'd rather eat shit, personally.”

“Persist in your impudence, and I will gladly serve it to you. Personally.”

Brune scowled but fell silent.

They took their seats around the table. Leo sat between Cosimo and Brune, while Gianna took care to sit beside Dinella, whom she was still watching in reverent awe. She had helped guide the nearly-blind diviner to the dining hall, the whole time peppering her with questions about her experience in the Divinatory.

Leo's first bite of spiced mutton was delectable. He hadn't eaten since departing the guildhouse. Whenever he was on a job he sometimes neglected to eat.

“Tell me, Leo,” said Cosimo, as he ladled violetberries onto his plate, “what preparations is Enzo undertaking for the expedition?”

“Oh, just a bit of light reading. Studying up on the library. Forewarned is forearmed — that’s his motto.” He didn’t want to mention the forged Letter of Invitation; the less Cosimo knew, the better.

“Indeed, forewarned is forearmed. Brune was telling me about the Aetheneum. Tell me — have you ever been inside a deathtrap?”

“No. Have you?”

“Several, but never an Ilhen. It’s sort of a hobby of mine. When this cryptogram fell into my possession I felt compelled to pursue it. The legend of Ilhen’s Seventh has confounded many great adventurers.”

That much was undoubtedly true. Last night Enzo had told Leo more about the lore behind Ilhen’s Seventh.

Though there were six other Ilhens — one of them already solved — most adventurers had given up on solving the remaining five. Ilhen's traps were simply too sophisticated and too lethal, and enough prominent adventurers had perished in the attempt to plunder them that lessser adventurers were deterred from even trying.

Meanwhile, the evidence for Ilhen's Seventh even existing was slim. One — Duke Ferdinand II, in one of his mad ravings, had alluded to it. Two — Ilhen's tombstone inscription said he was the author of seven great works. Three — a lithomancer had once claimed to have assisted Ilhen with his Seventh; suspiciously, the Empress Fortuna had him executed shortly thereafter.

Nevertheless, many adventurers had sought — and were still seeking — Ilhen's Seventh. The Brimstone League, one of the most illustrious adventuring groups of all time, had spent eight years searching for Ilhen's Seventh to no avail. The legend had taken on a life of its own. It was widely believed that the Seventh was guarding some occult treasure, like perhaps Reaver, the mythical sword that could cut a portal to the Underworld and unleash undead hordes upon the earth. Or perhaps a witch's spellbook — witches, if they truly existed, were said to be even more powerful than wizards. Their spells supposedly did not draw on magic from Bael, the god of gods, but rather drew upon a novel source of arcane energy. Supposedly witches could wake the giants that slept deep in the earth, and even do battle with the gods.

Overall, the whole thing made little sense to Leo. Why make such a concerted effort to find Ilhen's Seventh — whose existence was in doubt — when there were five other unsolved Ilhens ready for the taking? If the other Ilhens were too deadly, why would the Seventh be any different? Apparently the draw was the intrigue and secrecy that shrouded it; everybody desires the forbidden fruit.

“Why is solving deathtraps your hobby? Forgive me if I’m being impertinent, but why would a man of your wealth and status want to muck around with deadly tombs and temples? You’re already rich. What’s the appeal?”

Cosimo chewed his mutton slowly as he considered his reply. “I am supremely wealthy, and wealth comes with its comforts but also bears its burdens. Wealth is boring; I seek thrills. And what, truly, is more thrilling than the prospect of death?”

The thrill of boundless wealth, thought Leo. But there was no point arguing the matter; obviously their perspectives differed. It seemed as though a great chasm separated the royals and nobility from everyone else.

“How will you get us inside the Library tomorrow?”

Ah, here we go. The awkward moment. Had to come sooner or later.

“We won’t.”

“What?”

“We have our own means of ingress. By we I mean us three — Enzo, Gianna, myself. We made no provision for spiriting you or your crew inside.”

“We had a deal, Leo. A contract.”

“Two contracts, to be precise. One for the Library and one for Ilhen’s Seventh. The Library contract doesn't say we have to get you inside it.”

“The spirit of the contract—”

“—is irrelevant. Words matter, not intent. The only way we can infiltrate the Library is by going alone. Involving your crew introduces unnecessary risk and jeopardizes the entire job. We didn’t even meet them until fifteen minutes ago.”

Cosimo looked Leo squarely in the eyes, his face impassive. A tense moment stretched out. Then Cosimo took the bowl of violetberries and hurled it against the wall. Purple ichor slid down the wall, tainting a frayed Arkimidean tapestry of some long-forgotten battle.

“A bold move, Sforza,” Cosimo said. “I have been nothing but charitable and benevolent to you and your guild, and this is how you repay me?”

The room had fallen silent. All eyes were on Leo.

Leo merely shrugged. “It’s the only way. I’d hoped you’d understand.”

Cosimo stood up, shaking his head and gesturing to a maid. “Clean up that mess. I’m heading to bed — sleep well, Leo.”

***

Later that night, when Leo returned to his cabin, Enzo was still awake, meticulously cutting the wax seal from the Duke’s original letter. Leo fell into bed and instantly succumbed to a deep slumber.

He did not hear the intruder break in.