Vampires are rich, resourceful, cunning, & magnificently vindictive. Cross one, and he will hunt you to the corners of the earth. Cross one, and you’d best slay him too.

  Those words, penned by the Sage Nytios, echoed in Niccolò di Manarola’s mind as he departed Petra’s Hill, the fabled guild district on the balmy isle of Verona. It was the night of the Amethyst Festival, which marked the semi-annual conjunction of the crimson moon Ceres and the indigo moon Perses. As citizens diced, dined, danced, and whored, Nico and his companions had embarked upon their latest Quest. A shadowy client had commissioned them to infiltrate a vampire’s baroque manse and recover the Jayce Scepter.

  The Jayce Scepter, legend held, was an eldritch artifact forged in the basalt depths of Mount Dread. The precise nature of its powers was unknown and widely debated, but an ancient account of the scepter, dating back thousands of years — before even the Cataclysm — held that the artifact granted its bearer the power to commune with gods.

  On the surface, this might have seemed like an ordinary Quest for Nico and his companions, who specialized in Rare & Esoteric Artifact Recovery, a subdivision of the Pathfinders adventure guild. But a vampire was no ordinary foe. By fate or fortune, this one — whose name was Gasper Martín —?was supposedly dormant. He slumbered in an enchanted bier in his opulent estate, nursing old wounds and cultivating new strengths.

  “Our first job in weeks,” Leonardo Sforza said. “A pity it coincides with the festival.”

  “It’s no coincidence,” Nico replied, his voice slow and contemplative. “Our client chose this day and time because he knew the Whitecloak guards would be preoccupied with the Festival.”

  “Oh, how very thoughtful of him,” Leo muttered. “Did we ever catch a name?”

  “Tomasso’s being tight-lipped,” Nico said, shaking his head. He was referring to Tomasso Vasari, Pathfinders’ guildmaster. “But from what I gather, the client is a foreigner — possibly hailing from the Free Cities of the Far East, and he is rich beyond measure.”

  “Bah! Rich is not the same as generous. If this vocation has taught me one thing, it’s that half the nobility are as miserly as… as…” Leo waved his hand airily, searching for an appropriate metaphor. “Well, as misers,” he finished lamely.

  You mean the mercantile class, Nico thought, not the nobility. The self-made men who had built their fortunes on commerce. Those men knew the value of money, had felt and feared its absence. Aristocrats, meanwhile, couldn’t tell a copper shim from a golden ingot.

  From their vantage of Petra’s Hill they had a panoramic view of their home city of Verona, the capital of the Myriad Isles, a duchy of the Paladisian Empire. The city had been carved from hilly, rugged terrain, and neatly divided into boroughs based on trade and socioeconomic status. Beyond lay the Jewel Sea, the stars glittering like diamonds on its surface.

  “Let us take the Marco Bridge,” Leo said, as they marched down the rustic stone steps. “Go round the southern route.”

  “Why?” Nico said. “It would be rather circuitous.”

  “Leo’s been arguing with the statues on the Charles Bridge again,” piped up Gianna di Verona, their twelve-year old, pink-haired apprentice, failing to suppress her smirk. “What is it about this time?”

  Leo grinned sheepishly. “In a bit of a spat with old Duke Capronelli. His Decrepit Majesty doggedly insists it was the Edmiris who repelled the Vedic host in the Battle of the Greenbone, during the Great Eastern War. I told him it was Tarkon.”

  “Well,” Nico said, looking up at his lanky compatriot, “the duke has the right of it. The Tarkons vanquished Veda. Edmeer isn’t even in the east.”

  “Ah, right” Leo said, rubbing his clean-shaven chin. “All the more reason to take the Marco…”

  Nico smiled, but nevertheless led the way toward the Charles Bridge.

  The bridge was a notorious landmark in Verona. It had been hewn from marble imported from Veda at great expense to Duke Ferdinand I. Alabaster white with blue veins, it was a true masterpiece of design and construction. When his heir came to power, he decided the work could be improved upon, and at his direction sculptors fashioned statues of dead dukes and other notable men upon the bridge’s railing. Lithomancers invested life into their forms.

  At first it had seemed a touching tribute. Then the dead dukes started bickering with one another about politics and the weather or who deserved credit or blame for the triumphs and tragedies of Verona’s past. When not squabbling with one another, they liked to squabble with passersby.

  Leo kept falling for it.

  Tonight the twin moons cast an eerie purple pall on the statues. Twelve feet tall, not even counting their massive marble plinth, the statues as ever loomed like giants. Presently their heads were turned to the city square, where the Festival’s activities were concentrated.

  The three adventurers managed to cross unnoticed.

  Next they came to the Via Cardenza, the city’s main thoroughfare. To the east people were gathered at the harbor, enjoying the festival’s Spectacle. The Water Lilies, an aquamancer guild, had poled out to the shallow waters of Sapphire Bay and were conjuring ephemera — water-borne elementals like lions and wyverns that soared into the lavender sky, dancing and twirling before exploding into ice-pellets.

  “You know, when I was a young lad Ambrose performed the Spectacles. And he’s no mere mage, he’s a Wizard.”

  “Fascinating, Grandpa,” said Gianna di Verona. “Now tell me stories about the war.”

  Leo laughed. “How did you become such a cheeky little cunt?”

  “Practice,” she said, beaming. “And I’m not little anymore. I’m twelve.”

  “I thought you were nine…?”

  “I was nine. When we met three years ago.”

  “Three years? Ah, well, arithmetic was never my forte.”

  “No,” Gianna said. “Nor reading, nor writing… nor fashion…”

  “My fashion is impeccable.”

  “You flatter yourself,” Nico said, joining in the fun. “I’ll say your cooking is pretty lousy as well. Remember that time you nearly burnt down the guildhouse trying to boil an egg?”

  Leo laughed. “I’ve been banned from the scullery ever since. I may be lousy with a kitchen knife, but I can wield a sword, and that’s all that matters in life — is it not? Wielding swords, slaying foes, extinguishing hope from one’s enemies…” His eyes twinkled wistfully.

  “There’s more to life than swords, Lee. Like knowledge, for one. Books.”

  “Books are overrated. Violence is underrated. There is no obstacle in life that cannot be solved with sufficient bloodshed. I call it, ah… Sforza’s Theory of Problem Resolution.” Self-satisfied, he ran a hand through his thick golden hair. “They ought to dub me a Sage.”

  “The whole world has already dubbed you a dumbass, Lee,” Gianna said, and they laughed again, no one harder than Leo himself.

  ***

  Martín’s manse was based in Silvercrest, a borough which was home to Verona’s elite, their manses and villas strung along the slopes like a pearl necklace. To trespass in Silvercrest was a death sentence. Duke Ferdinand II meted out harsh justice to those who dared rise above their station.

  Nico felt a rill of sweat run down his back as they climbed the Via Positano, the sole avenue into Silvercrest.

  There were two types of guards in Verona: first, there were the Whitecloaks, the city’s main guard. Second, the Choir of Shadows, the Empress’ secret spy ring. The Whitecloaks were more numerous — comparable to a standing army, but it was the Choir of Shadows who Nico most feared.

  Little was known for certain about the Choir of Shadows, whose members wore sinister black lacquered masks and blended invisibly with the shadows. The Oculus, the base of their operations, loomed to the west upon a soaring bluff. Their symbol, an O with a diagonal slash, was carved into it, like a baleful eye glaring down omnisciently upon them.

  It was rumored that those who transgressed the Empress’ law were brought to the Oculus and subjected to cruel punishments. They were tortured ceaselessly, their lives extended by preternatural alchemies so that their suffering might be indefinitely prolonged. It was a fate Nico was rather keen to avoid.

  The Choir of Shadows' numbers had been more numerous of late, ever since the mysterious disappearance of the Duke’s great grand-nephew one month ago…

  ***

  Martín’s manse was tucked away in the hillside, surrounded by a thicket of dense forest which was peopled by hags and ghouls and other minor terrors — doubtless placed there by the vampire himself. Leo made sport of slaying their spectral foes, and after a half-hour trek, they emerged upon a clearing and arrived at their destination.

  The manse had a foreboding aspect: a grim, cube-like structure hewn from solid granite, squat and resolute, with fanged gargoyles cresting its roof. The courtyard featured a fountain of a nude woman weeping tears of blood. The garden, well-manicured yet macabre, featured black-petaled flowers like nightlilies and black dahlias. Scarlet-spotted snakes slithered among mysterious, bioluminescent orange eggs.

  Silently and stealthily, the adventurers slipped past the fountain and climbed the stone steps to the front door.

  Nico set his lockpicks down; they landed on the porch with a small clink. Immediately he set to work.

  Most deathtrap engineers outsourced lockmaking to experts. It was its own distinct discipline — a technical art form akin to watchmaking or shipwrighting. Kanedias was too vain for that. His hubris would be his undoing, for Nico was a crack lockpick.

  “Why can’t we just heave a stone through the window?” asked Leo. “He’s hibernating. He won’t hear.”

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  “He’s not a polar bear, Lee,” said Gianna.

  “Huh?”

  “Vampires don’t hibernate; they go dormant. You really ought to read more.”

  “This is what happens when you give her books, Nico. She gets preachy.”

  Gianna ignored the jest. “But really though, why can’t we break in? Hurl a brick through the window and it may even expend or disarm a few traps.”

  “We could do that,” Nico said, “but it would be entirely imprudent. There are two types of deathtraps. The first are those meant never to be solved, to guard precious relics for eternity. The Temple of Artuas, for example.”

  The Temple of Artuas was a legend among adventurers: a fourteen-story Kyonese pagoda temple containing the tomb and (more significantly) the staff of the ancient wizard Artuas. Even its location — an isle somewhere off the Kyona mainland — was largely a mystery, though all agreed that a race of four-armed, one-eyed cannibals inhabited it. No one had yet solved the Temple of Artuas. Few dared the attempt.

  “The second,” Nico continued, “are those that serve to fortify a defensive position. This deathtrap —” he gestured vaguely at Kanedias’ seal on the door — “is the latter. There must be some mechanism to arm or disarm the traps, to protect the vampire when he stirs from his slumber, or to protect Kanedias if he visits to inspect his traps.”

  “So what’s the mechanism? How do we disarm them?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but it could be this lock. It’s possible the traps only arm when the manse detects an intrusion, or only disarm when this lock is disengaged. So if I pick it —”

  “—we can waltz right in,” Leo finished. “Clever.”

  As Nico suspected, the lock proved to be no challenge. Within minutes, it clicked open.

  The door slid slowly open, revealing a yawning darkness.

  But the instant they stepped across the threshold, torches sputtered to life with blue flames, illuminating a grand foyer with a checkered marble floor, knights clad in suits of armor, and a crystal chandelier. Hallways branched in each direction, and a broad stairwell led upstairs.

  The front door slammed shut, startling Gianna.

  The trio stayed put, not moving an inch. Nico searched for any signs of traps. Typically, there were subtle clues that gave away traps, like a floorboard that was a slightly different hue, or little holes in the wall where poison darts might be loosed.

  Courage is an important virtue for an adventurer, Nico thought, but it is dwarfed by caution. The adventurer who mistook impetuousness for courage often did so to his mortal peril.

  “It seems… curiously free of traps?” Leo said. “Or what am I missing?”

  Leo was a trained ranger. His eye was sharpest among them.

  “I don’t see anything either,” Nico said. Gianna agreed.

  It wasn’t exactly reassuring. Perhaps the traps were exceptionally well-concealed. Kanedias was no master locksmith but as a trapwright he was nonpareil.

  Something else did catch Nico’s attention, however. A rather large and conspicuous keyhole set into the wall. Is that the mechanism for disarming the traps?

  Thunk thunk thunk.

  Footfalls. Someone was descending the stairs. The three of them tensed, hands reaching for their weapons.

  A figure appeared on the stairway landing — a skeleton. But this skeleton was not like the accursed draugrs which infested Diji tombs. This one seemed almost friendly and inviting. He wore a scarlet beret and a brown cashmere scarf.

  “Oh, blessed saints,” the skeleton said, his dainty voice dripping with scorn. “Not another one.”

  “Another what?” asked Leo.

  “Another challenger. You lot mark the fourth set of aspirants to enter my master’s abode this week. This one here is still warm.”

  The skeleton kicked a round object that sat upon the uppermost stair. It flew toward them, crashing with a horrid squelch before rolling to a halt before Nico’s feet.

  A human head. One he recognized.

  “Gods,” said Leo, “is that? — it can’t be — no, it is! Casper!”

  “Who?” asked Gianna.

  “Casper Villanueva. A rival of ours… err, he was a rival…”

  “You truly are exquisitely ignorant. Do you know where you are? Do you have even the merest inkling what grisly fate imminently awaits you?”

  “Well, Mr. Bones,” Leo said slowly, “our fate, judging by the moldy severed head you kicked at us… death by decapitation, I wager?”

  Gianna laughed. Even Mr. Bones chortled.

  “Very droll,” he said. “A fine jest. Seldom do I have occasion to laugh these days.”

  “Perhaps we can help each other,” Leo said, “I am a font of witty retorts. Lead us posthaste to the Jayce Scepter and I shall regale you with my biting wit.”

  “I think… perhaps… not.”

  “We know where we are,” said Nico. “Gasper’s manse. A Kanedias deathtrap.”

  “Ah, so then you’re not entirely ignorant, but merely transcendentally stupid. My friends, your fates are sealed, your deaths assured. I see no reason to prolong the inevitable.”

  The skeleton clapped, and the five knights sprang to life, an eldritch green light emanating from the eye slits of their helms. They pulled swords from ancient scabbards, the blades rasping as they were liberated from leather sheaths.

  Conjura they were called, Nico thought. Elemental spirits often summoned by trapwrights to guard a prize.

  There were five of them in all, each a towering eight feet tall. They moved slowly but deliberately, swords held at the ready in both hands.

  “Stand back!” Leo shouted, holding up a bracing arm.

  “I can fight too!” Gianna protested, pushing his arm away.

  “I know. I just want to save the fun for myself.” He winked at her, then withdrew his falchion Wraith and his saber Ice, spinning the dual blades gracefully. Nico had never seen Leo bear a shield and never known him to need one. No man was a match with Leo when it came to swordplay.

  No man, and certainly no mere conjura.

  Leo hurled himself at the enemy, engaging three at once, diving right into the fray. One swung his blade in a great horizontal arc, the other in a downward swipe.

  Leo moved like lightning, dropping to one knee to dodge the first and using his enchanted falchion Wraith to meet the other, parrying its blade with a deafening clang as steel met steel.

  Gauntlets, gorgets, and greaves, Nico thought. The trick to fighting plate armor was to aim for the gaps between the plates.

  The three knights arrayed around Leo. One by one they took turns at him, their blows falling with terrible strength. Leo danced around, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

  “In swordplay,” he lectured Gianna, “timing is everything.”

  But Gianna wasn’t listening. She had already drawn Poinsettia, her beloved rapier, and had launched herself at one of the other combatants. Poinsettia was razor sharp but it had little heft to it. So rather than parry her enemy’s blows, she bobbed and weaved, ducking and diving with stylish aplomb.

  Nico claimed the remaining foe, pulling free his pair of stilettos, which were so seldom used he was almost surprised he had them.

  Nico had little skill with blades, but he was lithe and spry. He engaged the adversary, and immediately it greeted him with a downward strike, which Nico narrowly sidestepped. The blade bite into the checkered marble floor with such force that it got wedged inside it.

  The knight yanked at his sword, struggling to pull it free. Nico seized his opportunity.

  He lunged at the knight, bearing his dagger at the gap between gorget and helm.

  But the knight saw him coming. With its other hand it grabbed at Nico’s wrist, its cold metal fingers circling Nico’s skin with enough strength to snap bone. Reflex stabbed his other knife at the knight’s eyes, startling it. It let go of him, and he rolled to safety.

  Looking up, he saw Leo had just felled one of his foes. A perfectly placed uppercut had taken one of the knights at the armpit. Its armor clattered on the floor in an untidy heap.

  Meanwhile Gianna’s knight seemed enraged, swinging its broadsword with enough force to split a tree at the trunk. One errant blow struck a marble column, fracturing it and quite nearly destroying it. Dust rained down from the ceiling above.

  Nico looked up at his own foe, who had reclaimed possession of his own broadsword and was now advancing upon Nico in a slow, deliberate pace. Its plate armor creaked as it wound its sword back, preparing for a killing blow.

  Nico had been half-expecting — or at least half-hoping — to delay his enemy until Leo could sweep him up. But now he understood he didn’t have the luxury of waiting.

  “Very well,” Nico muttered to himself. “We’ll do it my way.”

  Tossing one stiletto aside, he reached into the folds of his doublet and produced a Thunderbolt spell scroll. The parchment was bound in a purple ribbon which he undid with his teeth. He cast the scroll in the air, muttering its incantation.

  For a moment time seemed to stop, the lights dimming, the air sucked out of the room. Then the raw power of the spell was unleashed, as a citrine bolt of lightning shot forth with concussive energy, smiting the knight with such force that it burst into bright blue flames.

  It dropped its sword, waving its arms wildly, before collapsing into a heap of smoldering armor, the flame extinguishing with it.

  Nico looked around. Leo had just finished dispatching his last remaining knight. Gianna was picking over the remains of her own fallen foe. Both of them looked at Nico quizzically.

  “Seems overkill,” Leo said. “Why’d you waste that?”

  Nico smiled. “Just trying to help.”

  Leo used the hem of his cloak to wipe his blades before sheathing them. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  “This was entirely too easy,” Leo said. “If this was a foretaste of what awaits — I reckon we should be back in the guildhouse by suppertime.”

  “Don’t count on it. Kanedias was a virtuoso trapwright, famous for incorporating a diverse assortment of traps.”

  “I’ve yet to see nary a one…” Leo said.

  “I daresay Casper Villanueva found one,” Nico replied. Cautiously he entered an adjoining room — a private study. His fellow adventurers followed behind him. A set of playing cards were spread out on a coffee table. A film of gray dust coated the books on the bookshelf.

  “Dunno about that. Boy always struck me as a hapless lad. Shit for luck. Did you know as a child he was allergic to the sun? Maybe his head simply fell off.”

  Gianna had stopped to examine the bust of famous Paladisian General Francesco Illari. When she touched it, an orange gas started pouring from it. Reflexively she started to flee. Leo grabbed her by the arm, wheeling her around and forcing her onto the floor alongside Nico.

  “Pfenniweg gas,” he explained. “Lighter than air. If you stay low you won’t breathe it. If you run — well, Kanedias wants you to run. Doubtless you’ll stumble into a trap.”

  “Well,” Gianna said, “I found a trap.”

  It didn’t take long to find more. One by one they canvassed the first story rooms. A parlor, the kitchens, a dining hall. Each was boobytrapped in its own unique way.

  Each room had to be accounted for — traps disarmed and the Jayce Scepter ruled out — before advancing to the next. Patience and exacting method, those were the chief virtues for adventurers like them.

  As it was, they found no sign of the scepter.

  With the first floor complete, Leo took the lead marching upstairs, with Nico and Gianna following close behind.

  They ascended lightly, muffling their steps to better hear what was ahead and above. It was quiet. Eerily quiet. Distantly, ever so faintly, Nico swore he could hear a thumping noise — almost like a heartbeat. It was beating a precise cadence.

  “What’s that noise?” he said.

  But Leo’s attention was focused on something else. He had picked something up off the ground, turning it over in his hands, brow furrowed.

  “I thought he was at the opera tonight?”

  “Who?”

  Leo handed over the item he had found: a cufflink with a fiery shimmer, forged from a rare alchemical alloy of gold and sapphire. It was embossed with the letters TV. And there was blood on it. Wet blood.

  Nico recognized both the cufflink and the letters. The initials of Tomasso Vasari, Pathfinders’ guildmaster.