At a villa eleven miles east of Muncyte, Cumulus Snoat sat in his ermine-lined dressing gown on the marble terrace, sipping the day’s first cup of nim tea, the finest in the world. It was shipped all the way from the rain-saturated forests of tropical Gendrigore for his delectation, and his alone. A brazier beside him burned laths of pink, subtly scented rosewood.

He reached for Goudry’s Blood Poems, written twelve hundred years ago and forgotten by all save those of the most exquisite sensibilities. Only nine copies were in existence and his was by far the best, yet it irked him that rival collectors held the other eight books. He shrugged off the irritation and had just begun to read when a skeet came howling in.

“Can this be it?” he said. “No, expectation is the enemy of happiness.”

Shortly a kimono-clad young woman hurried in, carrying a rectangular package. Her cheeks were overly pink, which marred her otherwise flawless beauty. Snoat sighed. His self-control was almost perfect and he expected no less from those around him. A mild rebuke was necessary, though he was determined not to allow it to spoil the day.

“Your face is flushed, Ifoli. Have I not told you, nothing is so urgent that it can be allowed to spoil your perfection?”

“I’m sorry, Cumulus,” she said, for he preferred to be addressed by his first name. Even her voice was beautiful – high and lilting. “Knowing you were waiting for this, I became over-excited.”

He had taught her such self-control that the pink tinge faded and she was perfect again. He extended his hand. The package had been wrapped in magenta silk and tied with sapphire-blue silken cords, precisely to his requirements. Ifoli knew what he wanted and took pains to deliver it, in every respect.

Snoat unwrapped the package deliberately, taking pleasure in every moment. If life wasn’t for pleasure, what meaning could it possibly have?

“Is it necessary to crush and humiliate the people you rob?” Ifoli said softly.

Snoat set down the package while he considered the question. It was an emotive one, and it vexed him that she had asked it, but again he wasn’t going to let it spoil this perfect day.

“I was the poorest of children, the son of a labourer and a maidservant on a vast estate. Though I was polite and hard-working, I was constantly put down because of my humble origins. As a boy, I resolved to gain power over the greatest people in the land, then rob them of their treasures and show them what it felt like to be poor and powerless.” He met Ifoli’s eyes. “And so I do.”

He drew the wrappings away and it stood revealed, one of the most precious books in the world and the only one of its kind that he, or indeed any collector, had been able to lay hands on. It was Llian’s original illuminated manuscript of the twenty-third Great Tale, the Tale of the Mirror, and it was even more beautiful than his letter had said. Not just beautiful and infinitely precious, but a document of vast importance and significance to every living person on Santhenar.

And now it was his.

“And even more precious if the despicable Zain who created it should die,” he said aloud.

“Pardon, Cumulus?”

“Never mind. Anjo Duril has done well. See that he is paid the market price.”

“The full market price?”

“To pay less would be to diminish the book.”

“Yes, Cumulus.” She bowed, hesitated, then turned back to him. “When Anjo obtained the manuscript, he noticed an object that may be of interest.”

“What kind of object?”

“The braided silver chain given by Shuthdar to the crippled girl Fiachra before he died. It was made by his own hands, and is said to contain an enchantment he put on it to protect her.”

“Interesting,” said Snoat.

“Only a handful of objects made by Shuthdar survive, though it may be the least of them. Not worthy of one of your collections, perhaps.” She turned to go.

“Any object made by Shuthdar would be worth a place in my collections,” said Snoat, “since I have nothing by him. Tell me about this protection.”

“Anjo knows nothing about it, save that it exists.”

“A charm put there by Shuthdar thousands of years ago,” Snoat mused. “An enchantment so well crafted that it may linger to this day.”

“You’re thinking it might be possible to read the original spell,” said Ifoli.

“The great folly of the Secret Art is that few adepts ever share their secrets. Rather, they do everything possible to conceal them with arcane codes, tricks and traps and deliberate deceptions.”

“Mancery is a hazardous occupation. More of its secrets are lost than passed on.”

“And thus the Secret Art dwindles. Few mancers of the modern age can equal the masters of ancient times, and no one has ever approached the spells that Shuthdar bound into his astonishing magical devices.”

“Then this charm, if it could be read…”

“I’ll consider it another day. Send Ragred to me.”

Ifoli bowed and went out.

Snoat dismissed further thoughts of the chain. He would allow nothing to distract him from the manuscript. He turned the pages, marvelling at the calligraphy, the illuminations and the quality of the writing.

Any collectable manuscript must have one of those three qualities, and sometimes two, but never had he seen one where the calligraphy, the illuminations and the writing were all of the highest order. Yes, he saw little flaws here and there, imperfections that would have marred any printed or hand-copied book. But original manuscripts were judged differently – flaws and imperfections were the author’s signature, unique and endearing.

He realised that Ragred, a vast wart- and wen-covered monstrosity, was standing to one side, awaiting his attention. Snoat put the manuscript down and studied him, revelling in Ragred’s hideousness. He was as ugly as Ifoli was beautiful, and Snoat appreciated the one as much as the other.

“What news of Tallia bel Soon?” he asked.

“Scouts lost her in Faidon Forest,” said Ragred in a boar’s grunt.

“How about Hingis and Esea?”

“Scorbic Vyl lost them, and most of his men. And his arm.”

“Would you be so kind as to visit my displeasure on Vyl?”

“Er… he has something for you.”

Ragred would not have mentioned it unless it was vital. “Proceed,” said Snoat.

“Tallia gave Hingis the code to the council’s spell vault, and Scorbic extracted it from him.”

Oh, perfect day!

“Do you wish to go there now?” said Ifoli, who had come in silently.

“Tomorrow!” said Snoat. “And then, depending what we find there, make ready to decamp to my villa near Chanthed.”

He handed Ragred the copy of Goudry’s Blood Poems. “Put this on the brazier.”

Ragred hesitated in case he had misheard. Snoat appreciated that in a servant, for mistakes did happen. He also appreciated obedience.

“Onto the brazier,” said Ragred and placed it carefully in the middle, where the fire was hottest.

Snoat watched the book burn with only a fleeting regret. It was marred in his eyes now. Everything was, before the prospect of the most perfect collection of all.

“Empty out my library,” said Snoat. “Pile all the books up down there –” he indicated the manicured meadow below the terrace “– and burn them.”

“Burn them,” Ragred echoed, and this time he did not move until Snoat nodded. “Will that be all, Cumulus?”

Snoat laid a hand on Llian’s manuscript. “This is the twenty-third Great Tale. Find out where the original manuscripts of the other twenty-two are – if they’re still in existence.”

“Library of the College of the Histories, Chanthed,” said Ragred.

Excellent servant! Not just collectably gruesome, but vastly knowledgeable.

“However…” said Ragred.

“A problem?”

“May be difficult to… obtain.”

“Why so?”

“Protected by a spell, bound to the Master of the College. While he lives, it’s unbreakable.”

“Master Wistan is in poor health, is he not?”

“Near his end.”

“And when he dies, the protection will fade… until it’s renewed by the new master.”

“Yes, Cumulus.”

“I have a tame master there, don’t I?”

“Basible Norp,” grunted Ragred. “Oily but effective.”

“Contact him. We need to make plans. Then send for Gurgito Unick.”

“Er… really?”

This time Snoat sighed. And yet he’d given three extraordinary orders in ten minutes. A good servant had to be sure.

“He’s a vicious, untrustworthy drunk and lecher, very possibly the foulest man I’ve ever met. But he’s also an intuitive genius and the best maker of magical devices in Meldorin… if not the world.”

“Fetching Unick.” Ragred bowed his wen-encrusted head and went out.

Cumulus Snoat turned back to the Tale of the Mirror. He was in such fine humour that not even the stench of burning leather from the brazier could mar his delicate sensibilities.

Could he put together the rarest, most beautiful and most important collection in all the world? If he could, his life would be as perfect as his collection.

One down, twenty-two to go.