My next stop was the Duke’s mansion. As his seer, I find it usually impresses to be on hand before he summons me. Some mages hang about their employers in order to make themselves visible and therefore, so they think, indispensable. I have a different philosophy. It’s simple economics, really. That which is in short supply is dearer. I try to encourage the Duke to think of me as a resource to be consulted only in the greatest need. It spares me the necessity of coming up with daily gibberish about the stars aligning or interpreting fancy omens in everything that strikes the Duke’s whimsy. The upshot is I’m a virtual unknown to the riff raff. The guard at the main gate was suspicious of me.

“Only official business.” The fig-brain with biceps as big around as my waist blocked my entrance. “You’re not on the list.”

“I’m Jorou Ebis, the Duke’s seer. I will be on the list. I’m early.”

“Yeah? Prove it.”

I crossed my arms, the better to reach the hidden pockets secreted in my sleeves. “I predict that if you don’t let me through, the Duke will have you demoted to latrine duty.”

Fig-brain scowled and his hand dropped to the hilt of his scimitar.

“Fine.” I selected the cheapest prop in my arsenal and flung a handful of the colored powder into the air. While Fig-brain coughed and snorted at the resultant cloud, I studied him. When I was ready, and he had blown his nose into a grimy cloth, I rolled my eyes in my head and dropped my voice into its lower range—the one I reserved for “visions.”

“By the chalice of Keritopsis and the spear of Nizareil, I call upon the spirits to sunder the veil of truth!” I cried.

Fig-brain looked suitably taken aback; I was just getting started.