The two ghost ogres led the way into the room the living ogres had come from in a twisted form of poetry.

  Following the theme of their armour, these ogres were much more tidy than the previous pair. They also had a horde of treasures, but the horde was of the sort a baron or magpie might hold. A pile of glittering treasures, with nary a worn bone or bloodied loincloth in sight. The only concession to their ogre nature was a large pile of skulls atop a dais in the south east corner.

  Attar went to study the skulls while I sorted through the treasures. His new ghost ogres kept an eye on each of the doors.

  There was plenty of coins and a number of gemstones whose value spanned the range, but nothing among the lot caught my eye. The only exceptions were a large amethyst geode and a handful of pearlescent ‘widow’s tears’. Widow’s tears were a natural process, though what the process was even the greatest and wisest philosophers did not know, perhaps some aspect of thunderstorms or volcanic activity. They were essentially stones, teardrop shaped and shimmering like pearls or thick glass, but with a solidity that exempted them from simply being a strange kind of obsidian.

  Fascinating to meditate on, but not useful in of itself in the depths of the dungeon. Neither geode nor tears revealed to me any strange properties, so they were put aside.

  Next were four weapons: A blowpipe, its dart, and two chalcedony blades; one a dagger, the other a spearhead.

  I blew the dart into the wall opposite Attar to no effect, and the blades revealed nothing more than an awkward balance when they were swung around.

  I dove once more into the ogre’s small horde. The owned everything, from a silver plated shovel to an ornate telescope with the king’s signature etched into it in gold foil.

  Both I could find a use for in spell casting, but neither could I carry, nor did they do more than the job of a standard tool, simply more expensively.

  There was also a silver mask I recognized, though I’d never seen it before. The king wore such a one, or at least was widely rumoured to, on account of a dis-figuration or disease. Some rumours went as far as to claim the king didn’t actually exist, and the mask was exchanged by a council, but I’d been far removed from politics and I’d been content with my country’s rule up until the moment I’d been abducted by warlocks, so I’d never looked further into it.

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  Why was the mask here? I had no doubt there could be imitators, or more than one mask, but here? The notion of a council now took a sinister turn.

  One I could do nothing about while imprisoned. One which I could probably do nothing about while free.

  A five foot pole was the next tool of some use, but again one I didn’t fancy carrying despite its utility, and one which revealed no hidden potential upon application. A leather bound bundle of spikes intrigued me, but I already had several and had yet to use them.

  The strangest treasure was a pouch of dust. The pouch was embossed with a warning in gold script; “Ware, makes all things round.”

  I hadn’t the faintest idea what that was supposed to mean but I wasn’t about to risk turning into a marble. I took the pouch anyway. Powerful magics had their place.

  Speaking of marbles, there was a bag of them, simple stone, nothing more.

  Next to the bag was a four foot figure carved from marble so exquisitely it appeared as though a living thing with flowing cloth and supple flesh. A master craftsman must have spent months, if not years on it. I turned her around to get a better look at her face—

  It was me again, in that female demonic form.

  It was a shame there was no safe way to talk to a warlock, because one of these days I wanted answers from them.

  I was going to develop a complex.

  I pointed out some of the more useful tools to Attar and he got to work binding them while I went through the rest of the treasures.

  Four treasures remained. There were three books and a largish hinged box, like a leather worker’s travel case.

  I opened the box, sliding the top compartment back and up, and marvelling as the middle unfolded and the bottom was revealed, turning the whole thing into a small staircase like configuration. I’d never had the head for clever constructs such as these.

  The three compartments making up the box were divided again into drawers of varying sizes. Perusing the drawers revealed a bewildering variety of garish cosmetics, dyes, brushes, scissors, glues, wigs, even fake eyelashes and some sort of bitumen. This was no noblewoman’s travel kit, this was for a master of disguise.

  I carefully shuffled everything back away after trying one of the wigs and a coloured ball of bitumen along my nose like a wart. I doubted the ogres would care about the colour of my hair enough to stop trying to kill me, and I didn’t have the skill in disguise or knowledge of the warlocks’ underworld to disguise myself as one of their own.

  That left the three books.

  I picked them up to arrange them before me, and my eyes caught the title on the spine of the bottom-most book.

  I leapt back and dropped the books like they’d bitten me with poisoned teeth.

  The book had been a book of etiquette.