"Bless you," he says, his concentration unbroken by my earth-rattling sneeze or the tremendous thud of musty old reports falling to the table from my spasming arms. He's a hound after the scent, methodically tracking his prey through the forsaken wilds of the City Archives, following scant traces only he can see, while this faithful pack-mule plods wearily along, lugging untold tons of paper to and fro at his bidding.

Ah. He stills, page in hand, a setter pointing a bird, a feline crouching for the leap.

In one fluid motion, he's up, and we're moving.

The game is afoot.

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