Casket of Souls

silk but finding nothing. He did the same with the next one. Nothing unusual there, either.
    Meanwhile Alec had been rummaging about in the wardrobe. Taking out the last of the boots and shoes, he tapped on the wooden panel in the bottom of it. “Hollow.”
    Thero drew the orange sigil and they watched as it floated in tendrils past Alec’s shoulder and disappeared through the bottom of the wardrobe.
    Alec ran his fingers around the edges of the panel. A moment later Seregil heard the snap of a device and Alec lifted up the panel to reveal the hidey-hole beneath it.
    “Ha! Thought so,” Alec muttered. Underneath were a large rectangular leather case and a small strongbox with an ornate lock plate.
    “I don’t need a spell,” whispered Thero. “I can feel the magic from here.”
    Alec lifted the leather case out first. The padlock securing it was easily picked. Inside, it was divided into twelve sections padded with thick felt, nine of which contained sealed bottles; the remaining three bottles were empty.
    “You were right, Seregil,” Alec whispered. “This is how many you thought were missing from Basket Street.”
    Seregil pulled out one of the full bottles and held it to his light. It contained a lock of black hair. “Master Atre is very exact in his counting, which is all the more reason to worry about him noticing the missing bottles.”
    Thero frowned. “It couldn’t be helped. Without them—”
    “I wasn’t criticizing, Thero, just taking stock of the situation. Look for Illia’s ring.”
    Seregil picked up another bottle and something clinked inside—a simple unglazed clay bakshi stone, the sort one could find in any of the poorer booths in the marketplaces. It must have been prized by someone. The liquid was clear. He handed it back to Thero, who inspected the wax seal.
    “Same as the others,” the wizard murmured. “The ones with no symbol in the center are still clear. And the magic feels the same as those we found before.”
    “So you could let the souls out of the clear ones?” whispered Alec.
    “Hopefully.” Thero put them back in the case with obvious regret.
    Of the other bottles, two were clear: one contained a colorful snail shell, the other a lock of red hair. The others were marked with the central symbol and cloudy, but Seregil could make out a cheap copper earring, a glass bakshi stone, a piece of broken clay with lines scratched into it, and a bit of frayed ribbon.
    Thero slid the last one back into place with a sigh. “No ring.”
    “We’re not done yet.” Alec carried the casket to the dressing table and held his light close to inspect the lock plate. “I think it’s trapped. Stand back.” Wrapping his hand thickly in the corner of his cloak, he gently inserted the tip of a bent pick into the lock hole. The trap released instantly, and several small needles flew out, propelled by powerful springs or magic. Two caught in the cloth around Alec’s hand. The others flew past him. Thero suddenly cried out and staggered.
    Seregil turned in time to see the wizard raise a hand to his neck and begin to fall. Catching him, Seregil lowered him to the floor. A short steel needle protruded from Thero’s neck and Seregil yanked it out, but Thero’s eyes were already glazing over.
    “Not much—of a nightrunner—am I?” the wizard gasped.
    “I said stand back!” Alec exclaimed.
    “What do we do?” Seregil slapped the wizard’s cheeks lightly as the man’s eyes slid shut. “Thero, isn’t there some spell to slow poison?”
    “The box,” Thero mumbled. “Open it.”
    “We’ve got to get him to Valerius!” said Alec, kneeling beside the wizard and feeling for his pulse. “His heart’s hardly beating.”
    “Go fetch Micum.”
    Alec dashed away.
    “The box,” Thero rasped, and something dark trickledfrom the corner of his mouth into his short beard. “Please. Must know.”
    With the horrible feeling that he might be granting his friend his last wish, Seregil finished with the lock and opened the casket. Inside were three bottles. He gathered them up and knelt beside Thero. The man’s pupils were huge, his face deathly pale. More of the black liquid ran down his cheek.
    “There are three,” Seregil told him, holding them up. “Two are milky and labeled. One says TANIA and the other is EONA. Bilairy’s Balls, Lady Tania died a week ago, now he’s killed Laneus’s widow.”
    “Last symbol,” Thero choked out. “Do they have