Chapter 64

When the last servant had gone, Baron continued on in silence.

A few minutes later Jack caught up from behind.

Jack had ducked out of sight when the fight started, buying a leather cap to hide his conspicuous bulk and shock of gold hair.

They approached as strangers on the road.

Jack murmured, "House Constantine holds this town in an iron grip; the townsfolk are terrified of them."

"I noticed," Baron replied.

Jack went on. "While you were trading blows with that Sorren I found the dwarf from Plains who forged your mistletoe cane."

That fast?

Baron pressed for details. "His name's Zophy. He's the best-known alchemist in this part of Plains, used to be House Constantine's private alchemist. After the last head of the family, Fran Constantine, died, he left and opened his own workshop. I've got the address. Follow me, but keep your distance."

With that Jack melted into the crowd; Baron watched him go, then bought a local copy of the Golden Clyde Times from a dwarf child for a pound and followed at a discreet pace.

...Zophy... isn't that also the name of an Ultraman?

After twisting through the streets of Plains they reached the dwarf workshop. Baron watched Jack enter, then unfolded his newspaper.

Unlike the Mercury Thames, which reported on the whole British Inside, the Golden Clyde—named for Scotland's third-longest and most famous river—focused on Scottish news: Edinburgh and the major northern cities, north-south wizard exchanges, Scottish wizards "hammering" English knights, or the Inside Scottish referendum on independence.

Only in the local column did Baron find anything about Plains or the western Highlands:

["Mountain" wyvern subspecies gathering, suspected nesting...]

[British wizarding football championship to be held the day before Christmas... Chairman and University President Karl Marin of Edinburgh University of Witchcraft will erect [Anti-Magic Pillars] and [No-Kill Steles]...]

[Statement from Plains Constantine Council: Baron Constantine expelled from Inside six years ago...]

Baron closed the paper. No wonder the Constantines in London had written him off; even their statement had to be prefaced "of Plains..." When the Lancelot and Hesstine families issued a joint declaration calling for his death, no one bothered to specify which branch—they assumed every Old-Blood and bloodless scion already knew. Yet the warrant for Baron Constantine came with a full biography and denunciation.

Dusk was falling; Jack was still inside. Bored, Baron took the "Greedy Notebook" he'd found in his old room and the pen marked "Number Two" that might belong to his sister Yelena. He hesitated, then flicked the Dragon-Gall ring and produced the Dice of Fortune.

Odd numbers, write; evens, forget.

He rolled.

The die spun. Baron stared. Spun. Stared. Spun...

Something's wrong. This is a die, not a top. How can it spin this long—Inception?

The thought had barely formed when the die stopped on one, then crumbled into dust as though time had accelerated. Baron regarded the pile of ash that had been a Forbidden Object, rubbed his nose, and respected the dice's choice.

He paid ten pence and wrote: "Are you there?"

Just then Jack emerged. "They say Zophy hasn't been back for days. Last sighting was at the Black Forest Tavern on Night Street. We could try tomorrow—"

Baron snapped the notebook shut. "Tomorrow? Why not now?"

Evening. Baron and Jack arrived at Plains' famous Night Street.

The sky was darkening; shadows flashed overhead—large and small. Jack identified the big ones as wild griffins and the small ones as wild baby griffins.

Baron said nothing.

Jack shrugged. "Where a griffin flies, no other bird dares—except unicorns."

"Sometimes your logic sounds like a gorilla's."

They stopped in front of a sign reading Black Forest, red lights glowing. Laughter and song spilled out. A dwarf in knight's armor leaned on a huge axe at the door. Without looking up he recited: "Entry ten pounds each. Bloodless escort plus ten. Dwarf half-breed twenty. Elf half-breed fifty."

Baron frowned. This was supposed to be a tavern—why the price list for escorts? Was the place even legitimate?

"Two elf half-breeds!" Jack slapped down the money and pulled Baron inside before he could protest.

The front hall was packed with heavily made-up women in revealing clothes—necklines plunging to the navel, slits climbing to the hip. Neon lights flashed a garish, hormone-soaked décor that reminded Baron of back-alley KTVs from his past life.

A pot-bellied man waddled through the gloom, stuffing bills into cleavage, wrapping an arm around a slender waist, and vanishing into a corner.

In the center rose a cruciform stage with a steel pole. Clinging to it was a brown-skinned dwarf woman. Each time a note hit the platform she peeled off a garment, eyes smoldering, until she stood like a white lamb in nothing but a scrap of black gauze.

Baron completed the word in his mind: brothel.

The Black Forest Tavern was a brothel.

He had never even visited a foot-massage parlor in his previous life; now he'd jumped straight to the advanced course in inter-species relations. If he ever cleared his name, he could write a book: A Connoisseur's Guide to Inter-species Companions.

A dwarf madam bustled over, lighting Jack's cigarette and asking their price range. Jack leaned in, hand on her shoulder, leering. "We're looking for someone."

The madam's smile never wavered, but her eyes cooled. "We never reveal a guest's privacy."

Jack slipped a wad of bills into her blouse; the bills vanished without a flicker. "We're meeting a friend."

"Zophy," Jack said.

Baron saw her pupils contract before the professional smile returned. "Your friend... hasn't come in for some time."

"Then tell us which girl he usually sees."

Baron followed suit, tucking two more notes into her cleavage. Millionaires are never short of cash.

The madam beamed. "Follow me."

They were led into the main hall.