And yet, with regrettable consistency, it was his business.
The sphere alone was reason enough to kill for, and that was not even counting the mirrors. More than a few wizards would have killed for the sphere. Witches, too, if only for the satisfaction of taking such a rare piece of witchwork from a wizard’s possession and, preferably, removing the wizard at much the same time. And they had tried. Quite a few times. To kill Yves for his stuff.
Naturally, he had taken considerable pains to discourage such opportunities. He concealed his artefacts, lied about his travels and intentions, kept his dealings with witches rigorously private, and cultivated the general appearance of a traveller who never stayed anywhere long enough to become worth any investigation and the follow-up inconvenience of murdering. Unfortunately, that impression had never really survived prolonged acquaintance with people who were genuinely good at wanting things. Whenever concealment failed, Yves fled. Whenever flight failed, or provocation exceeded prudence, he fought. He had fought for the sphere as though it were his lifeline. It was. There was no substitute for it, no replacement. Not for the mirrors. Not for what he had to do.
It had been whole, once. Now it existed in three parts. One half rested in his palm. The other had been divided again and infused into his pair of mirrors. He could not shift without it.
Well.
No and yes.
Without the half-sphere, the two ethereal mirrors answered one another. Properly condured, they established a passage between themselves. That passage allowed Yves to enter through one and emerge wherever its counterpart had been placed. With the half-sphere inserted, that connection ceased, and another passage opened. The artefact was the key to 
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