I took a last look around the room, but there wasn’t much to see, so I went back to the corridor and continued. There were three psiprints on the wall, big ones. I didn’t recognize the artist or the subject. They were all portraits or studies of faces, and all three were caught in one of those expressions where you can’t tell what the subject is feeling: is that a scream, or a laugh? Is that one joy or surprise? And the other one, opposite the door—is she pursing her lips in disapproval, or trying not to laugh? If whoever owned this place picked those psiprints, it was probably an important clue to something-or-other, and someone smarter than me would no doubt find it insightful. Me, I was worrying about directions: If I opened the door on my left—the south—would it lead north? Up? Down? To another city? Another world?
Right on cue, there was another mirror. This one was small, and attached to the ceiling. That at least settled the question of their purpose: you do not put a mirror on a Verra-be-damned hallway ceiling for any reason but a magical one.
As I stood in front of the door, about to touch the knob, I heard footsteps to my right. I turned. There was Devera again, maybe fifty feet away and running toward me. “Help me, Uncle Vlad,” she said, then vanished again.
Well.
I walked through the space where I’d last seen her, passed it, turned, went through it again. I didn’t disappear, she didn’t reappear. I stood there for a minute, trying to decide what to do, then turned back to the door that I was now in front of again, opened it, and stepped through like I belonged there.
A man sat by a fire, reading a book. He looked up as I entered and said, “How did you get in here?”
“A pleasure to meet you as well,” I told him. “I’m Vlad Taltos. And whom do I have the honor of—”
“I asked you a question!”
He was an old man, I would guess past his four thousandth year, when Dragaerans start looking like they’re about to dissolve into a pile of dust so killing them seems pointless. He wore a yellow robe that was probably silk, with intricate embroidery in purple. He seemed frail. I considered putting something sharp into him to teach him manners, but that doesn’t work as often as you’d think. I said, “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
He glared at me. “Lord Zhayin of Housetown, and I ask you again, how did you get in here?”
“It’s the craziest thing,” I said. “I walked in the door. This door. Right here. See it?”
“Rubbish.”
“I’d have clapped but I didn’t see a clapper.”
“The door to the manor!”
“Oh, that one. It wasn’t locked, and there was no clapper there, either.”
“Impossible,” he suggested. “You can’t have—” He broke off and glared.
“Uh-huh.” There was another chair, also facing the fire, and a small table between them, holding a cup. He didn’t invite me to sit down or offer me wine. What would Lady Teldra have said?
“Are you a necromancer?” he demanded.
“That’s sort of a personal question, don’t you think? I hadn’t meant to intrude; the place didn’t look occupied.”
“‘The place,’ as you put it, is called Precipice Manor, and it is most definitely occupied, and I’ll ask you to leave at once, before I call the servants to have you removed.”
Unless there were a lot of servants, and they could handle themselves in a brawl, I didn’t like their chances of taking me anywhere I didn’t care to go, but I didn’t say that. “Leave?” I said. “I just got here.”
“And do you habitually walk into people’s homes?”
“You’re asking personal questions again. Maybe we can talk—”
I stopped, because he was yanking on the pull-rope near his hand. You can get some idea of how big a place is by how well you can hear the bell when a pull-rope is pulled, and that time I didn’t hear anything at all. I looked around the room. It was small, considering the size of the manor, the size of Dragaerans, and the tendency of aristocrats to make everything four times as big as it needs to be. Next to the hearth was a door, and on the opposite wall was a portrait that was almost certainly a younger Zhayin. There were also several framed certificates: one from the Oldcastle School of Design saying he was an honorary professor, another something about an award that mentioned the Silver Exchange, another showing that he had been graduated from Pamlar University. Presumably this was his room, and he liked being watched over by himself. At one time, I’d wanted to buy a castle, but I don’t think I’d have gone so far as to sit around with a portrait of myself. From his expression in the painting, he hadn’t been noticeably more cheerful when he was younger. I also, just in passing, noted which pieces of furniture I could throw, what tables might be overturned, and how much room I’d have to maneuver if things got interesting. One of the tables contained a clear glass bottle that, from the color of the liquid inside, looked like it might have contained alcoholic tincture of murchin, which I only noted for its possible use as a projectile; Zhayin’s addiction wasn’t my concern. I relaxed and waited.
The other door opened, and a man came through. His facial features were hard to make out, but his dress was Teckla, except for a sort of beret pulled over his forehead that had the inevitable Vallista emblem. I concluded that he was a servant because I’m brilliant that way. I’d never seen a servant wearing a cap of any sort, and wondered if it indicated something about his job. He seemed to be considerably younger than his master, somewhere in that vague sort of middle age that’s over a thousand but less than three. He moved a bit stiffly, like his knees had had enough of this whole bending thing, but it was probably more his position than age that caused it. I won’t move that well either when I’m two thousand years old, but I’ll have been dead for one thousand nine hundred and some, so it isn’t a fair comparison.
“This person,” said Zhayin, “needs help with the front door. Would you see him out?”
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, and looked at me. I thought about how to play it. I wasn’t leaving, of course, but I was curious about whether the servant could succeed in getting the door open where I’d failed, and I thought he might be easier to interrogate than his master. So I shrugged and headed for the doorway. I stopped there for a moment, bowed, and smirked at Zhayin. “We’ll be talking again. My lord.”
The servant followed me out the door, I stopped and waited for him. I said, “I’m Vlad.”
It is hard, if you’re a servant, to figure out just where in the natural hierarchy to put a guy who acts like a nobleman, carries a sword, but is an Easterner. We just don’t fit into any of the niches. It’s always interesting to see how each one will handle it. This one didn’t even hesitate, though: he bowed slightly and said, “I am called Gormin, sir.” Then he resumed walking back toward the double doors.
“Don’t get many visitors here, I take it?”
“No, sir,” he said.
“You’ve been with Lord Zhayin for quite a while, I imagine?”
“Over a thousand years, sir.”
“A good guy to work for?”
“I have no complaints, sir.”
We reached the double doors. He pulled on them, and, when they failed to open, he frowned. He pulled a chain from around his neck and selected one of three large keys from it. It fit the lock, but failed to turn.
“Yeah,” I said.
“That is most peculiar,” he said. “I must look into the matter.” He bowed to me, turned on his heel, and started back down the hall. I went with him, of course.
He stopped. “Sir,” he said.
“Hmmm?”
He did his best not to look uncomfortable. “Perhaps I could show you to a sitting room, and have some wine sent to you while you wait?”
It sure seemed important to him.
“How long have you been here? I mean, this place?” I gestured around me.
“Precipice Manor, my lord? Since it was built.”
“When was that?” I’m not sure why I felt the need to verify what Tethia had said, but I did. No, I do know why: she was a ghost, or something like it, and I wanted to know how her perceptions matched those of someone who was actually alive.
“It’s hard to say, sir.”
“Hard to say? You don’t know how long you’ve been living here?”
“Sir, it became habitable over a hundred years ago. My lord took up residence gradually over that time. Of course, I followed him, wherever he lived.”
“Where else was he living?”
“The old castle, my lord.”
“The old castle?”
“Yes, my lord. The ancestral home, in Housetown.”
“I see.”
He coughed, and subtly indicated the direction he wanted me to go.
I shrugged. I guessed he told me enough to earn some cooperation. “Sure.”
He seemed relieved. I followed him past the room with the fireplace and into one on the same side that was similar—a little bigger, four chairs instead of two, a larger hearth, and more tables. The fire was already going. Rocza flapped on my shoulder, a sign of nervousness. She quieted down—I suppose Loiosh had said something reassuring. The servant told me that someone would be by with refreshment. I sat down and stared into the flames as if they might tell me something. They didn’t, but they made me wonder if someone just came through and lit all the fires every day; this one had obviously been going for a while.
Gormin left, shutting the door behind him. I listened for a “snick” of it locking, but didn’t hear one.
“Well, Loiosh? Any thoughts?”
“No thoughts, Boss. I’m too creeped out to think.”
“Yeah, there is something odd going—what was that?”
“That” was the sound of something heavy, like stone, sliding. It seemed to come from above, and farther down the hall, although I know that when you’re inside, the direction of sound can be deceptive. I continued watching the fire, knowing Loiosh was watching behind me. Nothing happened immediately and I relaxed a little.
“Think there are secret passages, Boss?”
“Of course there are secret passages, Loiosh. Who’d build a place like this and not put in secret passages?”
A door—the twin to the one from which Gormin had first appeared—opened. This was a man, younger than Gormin, with a stiff back and a tall forehead. He wore the colors of the Issola, but displayed an emblem of the Vallista, and was carrying a mug and a bottle on a tray.
“My lord,” he said, bowing. “I am Harro. Would you honor our home by permitting me to bring you a cup of a Newberry from the year thirty-one?”
“That sounds wonderful, Harro. I’m Vlad, Count of Szurke, at your service.” I mean, if he was going to be polite, I may as well give him the big title, the Imperial one, to reassure him that he was making the right choice.
He set the cup on the table, poured from the bottle, then set the bottle down. He bowed once more, and left before I could pump him for any information.
It was a white wine, dry and pleasant.
“How long are we going to sit here, Boss?”
“Until I finish this cup, and maybe one more. Or until Gormin gets back.”
He shifted impatiently on my shoulder, and Rocza gave a displeased hiss on my other. They were probably hungry; I know I was. But to the left, my shirt and trousers had mostly dried off.
“We could go find the kitchen,” Loiosh suggested.
I drank some more wine. “We could look for it, anyway. No doubt we’d find something interesting.”
I finished the wine and changed my mind about having more—as hungry as I was, I was afraid it would go to my head. I stood up. “All right, let’s see if we can find that kitchen.”
I stepped back into the main corridor and sniffed. There was, maybe, a very faint smell that I associate with the ferns of the jungles outside of Adrilankha. Other than that, nothing. Certainly nothing that smelled like food. What was wrong with these people, didn’t they eat?
I turned left and continued down the hall. It went for a long way with no doors, or anything else; I had to wonder what was behind the wall to my right. But then, of course, in this place, who knew? Maybe the cliff. Maybe Verra’s halls. Maybe Dzur Mountain.
Eventually, a passage went off to the right, so I turned to follow it.
“Boss, shouldn’t we be seeing more servants, or guards, or something?”
“Yeah.”
After a while, there was a large and very ornate door opening to my right. I sniffed, but didn’t smell any food, so I kept going. The hallway continued for a long way before there was another door; this one also on the right, and just as big. I reminded myself that I couldn’t count on “left” and “right” meaning anything, but I smelled fresh-baked bread, and I figured that was liable to mean something.
I opened it, and it gleamed with marble counters and sinks, with stone ovens and steel shelves. It was a kitchen, and it was a good one. I studied the layout and very much wanted to stop and cook something. There were gleaming racks of copper pots, whole tables that were cutting boards, a bread oven (which I checked; it was empty and cold), a coldbox (which I checked; it was empty and warm) and a wood stove with two separate burners, one big and one small. They were also cool to the touch.
And wedged into a corner, up against the ceiling, was a round mirror of about two feet in diameter.
“There’s no food, Boss.”
“Everything has to be perfect for you.”
I sniffed again. It still smelled like fresh bread. I love the smell of fresh bread. The kitchen led to a pantry, which was also empty, except for a bucket of apples. It seemed to me that people here probably lived on more than apples. I took one anyway, and ate it. It wasn’t a variety I was familiar with, but it was good—a deep red, very crisp, very tart. I ate another, giving the cores to Loiosh and Rocza. Not what I’d been looking for, but it helped.
You know, it’s funny—I’ve beaten, robbed, and killed over the course of my career, but wandering around the place stealing apples, I felt enough like a criminal to make me uncomfortable. Not that it stopped me.
I explored the pantry a bit more, making sure I’d missed nothing, then went through the kitchen again. There were some good knives, stuck into a wooden block. My father had never used a block like that—he’d always kept his knives in a leather case, each wrapped up in a thick towel, lovingly cleaned and put back after each use. There was also a very nice spatula; it looked to be made of silver. I considered taking it, but it’s hard to conceal a spatula about your person so I left it there.
Here’s the thing, though: I know kitchens. I know big kitchens, and I know what’s involved in cleaning them, and either there was a god of kitchen cleaning and someone had invoked him, or no one had ever used this kitchen for anything. I was betting on the latter, though where was the smell of bread coming from? I very much doubted anyone had invented invisible bread. But unless there was invisible food around here, everyone was living on apples. It was strange. I was still thinking about invisible bread when someone screamed.
“Loiosh, where—”
“Pretty close, Boss. Other side of the door.”
I ran through my assorted weaponry to make sure everything was in place, then opened the door back into the hall.
Directly across from the door was a woman, her mouth open, her eyes filled with terror. My brain instantly did the work of fitting her into the various categories: Dragaeran, Teckla, old. It did that quickly, my brain, because my eyes had already moved on, down the hallway to my right, where I caught only a glimpse of something massive and very white that vanished down another hallway before I could figure out exactly what it was.
“Barlen preserve our souls, G’mon preserve our minds. It is free,” she said, staring me in the face.
“What is? What was that?”
She shook her head, her eyes wide.
“Who are you?” I asked her.
She stared at me for a moment, as if the question made no sense, then said, “Odelpho. I was named Odelpho. It’s from the place my grandmother came from, Delpho, which means ‘home of the bear’ in—”
“That’s great,” I said. “What was that thing?”
“Thing?” she said, as if she’d forgotten it. Then her eyes widened again, and she screamed and fled down the hall in the opposite direction, running a lot faster than I’d have thought she could.
“Boss—”
“I have the same questions you do, Loiosh, and no answers to any of them.”
I looked to my right, the way I’d seen the thing go, whatever it was.
“This can’t be good,” said Loiosh.
I re-sheathed my rapier and a fighting knife—not actually aware of when I’d drawn them.
“Yeah,” I said brilliantly, still watching the hallway.
I tried to reconstruct what I’d seen, but I just hadn’t gotten a good look at it. It was big, though. I was sure of that. I had the impression it just barely fit between the walls, and had been hunched over because the ceiling was too low.
“Are we going after it, Boss?”
“After it? Are you nuts? What if we caught it?”
“I love it when you break out in common sense.”
I kept walking.
“Boss, you said—”
“We aren’t going after it. We’re just going in the same direction.”
“I can’t—never mind.”
I reached the end of the hall undecided about whether to turn left or right.
“Boss. Someone’s there. Around the corner.”
I almost drew my sword again, but stopped myself. I mean, I was a guest, right? Meeting strangers with weapons drawn is frowned on in some circles. I admit, I don’t usually frequent those circles, but here I was.
I stepped around the corner and someone tried to kill me.
If I’d had time, I’d have made some appropriate remark to Loiosh—you know, about how now I felt more at home. I didn’t though—I turned the corner, and Loiosh yelled into my mind just as something came at me and I threw myself to the side. It went past me about the time I realized—more by the after-effect it had on my eyes than by seeing it—that it had been a very bright light. Have I ever mentioned that I don’t enjoy going into a fight with spots in front of my eyes? It’s irritating.
Lady Teldra was in my hand.
No doubt everyone in the place felt it when I drew her—felt threatened, or terrified, or at least disturbed in some indefinable way. Those who were more sensitive to magical energy would have felt it especially keenly. Me, I felt better.
My attacker said, “Wait,” which I guess is a reasonable thing to say when someone you just tried to kill pulls out a Great Weapon. But all right. I still wasn’t seeing too well, so a little delay before we continued our conversation was fine with me. He was about fifteen paces from me, and had a dark complexion and a high forehead, and stupidly long, straight hair that you’d think would get in his way when he started throwing spells around. He wore the red and white of the House of the Athyra, and the badge on his jerkin was Athyra. The hands he held palms-out toward me had long fingers.
I held myself ready, and waited.
“Sorry,” he said. “You startled me.” His eyes were fixed on Lady Teldra, who was currently a long, slim knife with almost no crossguard.
I remained very still, watching him. Loiosh hissed, just for effect. The guy looked nervous, but still had his hands out in front of him. The posture looked defensive, or even entreating, but you can’t be sure with sorcerers, so I waited.
“I really didn’t mean to attack you,” he said. “I thought you were … you startled me.”
“Lower your hands,” I said.
He nodded, but it took him a while to do it, like maybe he wanted to, but his hands didn’t feel like moving. I’ve been there.
Eventually he lowered them. “Sorry,” he said again. “My name is Discaru, and I have the honor to be Lord Zhayin’s consulting sorcerer.”
“Taltos,” I said. “I’m just a guest. I assume you mistook me for that, uh, that thing?”
“My lord?”
“Is that what you thought you were attacking?”
“I don’t know to what you refer, my lord.”
“Big thing, not really human, sort of pale?”
“My lord?”
“You didn’t see it?”
“No, my lord.”
“Or hear the scream?”
“Scream, my lord?”
“Huh,” I said. I should add that, this time, I was pretty sure the “my lord” had a lot to do with the weapon I was holding. I sheathed her.
“Thank you,” he said, and bowed as to almost-an-equal.
“But you’ve never seen a big, ugly, not-human thing in these halls?”
“Of course not, my lord. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be about my business.”
“Looking for that thing you’ve never seen and don’t know anything about?”
“My lord?”
I shook my head. The sorcerer bowed his head and continued down the hall. I heard footsteps from behind me, and almost drew again, but it was only Harro, coming down the hall more quickly than he wanted it to seem. “There you are, m’lord. I had feared you might become lost.” Issola always seem to have a melodic tone to their voices.
“Lost,” I said. “You were worried I might have become lost.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“That’s what you were worried about?”
“M’lord?”
Issola have a way of standing at just the right distance and holding themselves so they don’t seem to be towering over you. Lady Teldra used to do that too. I wondered what Sara was doing right then.
“You didn’t hear the scream?”
He tilted his head and raised his brows. “Scream?”
“And I suppose you didn’t see some sort of very pale, big, ugly thing wandering about?”
“You are pleased to jest, m’lord,” he said with an indulgent smile.
“Lady Teldra was a better liar, Boss.”
“Yeah, she was.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m jesting. I jest like a, ah, a jesting person.”
“Would you care to accompany me back to the sitting room? I’ve had the cook prepare something while you await the door.”
What cook? “Oh, you have? Well, of course, then.”
He bowed and set off; I followed him. Back in the sitting room there was wine, and a plate with smoked pinkfish, longbeans, and a loaf of bread. The bread was fresh. And visible.
“Thank you, Harro.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t hear a scream?”
A smile flicked across his face—exactly the right smile for someone who is aware of a jest, but doesn’t actually think it’s funny. He bowed and took his leave through the small door.
“Yeah, Loiosh. He’s lying.”
“Share the fish, Boss.”
The bread was good. The fish was kind of bland, but not really the sort of thing you can screw up once it’s been smoked. I’d have enjoyed the food more if I didn’t keep wondering where it came from. The empty kitchen was as disturbing as whatever it was I’d seen out of the back of my eye. Almost as disturbing.
“How long are we going to sit here this time, Boss?”
“About as long as last time.”
I guess I should explain my thinking here. First of all, Devera needed my help; I wasn’t going to turn her down. Also, well, I was curious, and I knew there were all sorts of things going on around me that I didn’t understand, but I did have some theories. For one thing, I was pretty sure there was necromancy at work in the place. If you aren’t familiar with it, necromancy is magic that has to do with death, which involves places that can’t be reached by means of normal travel. The Necromancer herself once explained that death was only a passage to such a place. She might be wrong, but until I had evidence to the contrary, I was going to assume she knew her stuff. For one thing, she came from a place like that. For another, well, she’s called the Necromancer, right?
And the bread indicated something—the smell had been there in the kitchen, but there was no sign of anyone having made it. No sign of fish in the coldbox. Nothing at all, in fact, in the pantry, the coldbox, or the kitchen. Except apples. Why were there apples? That was at least as odd as the other stuff.
I didn’t want to just sit there, but I also wasn’t comfortable about just aimlessly running around the place. I thought about finding Zhayin and putting a knife or maybe Lady Teldra to his throat, and politely asking for a few straightforward answers to some simple questions. But not yet. Not until I had some idea of what sort of forces he might have available. I don’t like to threaten someone and then discover that he’s got the edge on me. I’ve had that happen a couple of times. It’s embarrassing.
I finished up the bread, the fish, and the wine. Loiosh and Rocza shared the longbeans, because they always taste like soap to me no matter how they’re prepared. Wherever the food came from, and whatever it indicated, it was better than not eating. Except the beans—not eating was better than the beans.
“I wonder if the wine cellar is empty, too,” said Loiosh. It took me a moment to realize he was being serious. But either way, what would it tell me? Besides, I doubted that I’d have more luck finding it than anything else.
On impulse, or something like it, I got up, left the room, and went back toward the front doors—just to see whether the doors I’d seen before were still there, or if everything had moved while I wasn’t looking, like one of those castles in an Eastern folk tale. No, they were still there, which was some relief. I turned around, went past the doors I knew, and took the hallway to my right that led to the empty kitchen, then kept walking. At the end of the hall, where I’d met Discaru, I turned left, under some sort of vague notion of going from one corner of the structure, the “platform,” to the opposite corner.
Ahead of me, a pair of doors stood open. I went through like there was nothing to worry about, and in fact there wasn’t—it was a very large ballroom with a high ceiling, strategically placed cabinets with bottles and glasses, a stage at the far end, freestanding full-size mirrors in each corner, and two curving stairways leading up that looked like they were made of white marble.
I got closer, and yes, they were marble. I ascended, and found myself on a balcony that wrapped all the way around the ballroom. I wondered what it would be like to be up here when the floor was full of dancers and the room full of music. Cawti would have said something about how many Easterner or Teckla families could be fed for the price of one of the gowns or doublets.
I silently snorted—I had now, it seemed, reached the point of having imaginary conversations with her over imaginary entertainments.
There were doors in each corner on this floor. The two that were above the entrance were large and ornate; the others were smaller. Which way to go? The aristocrat, or the servant? I went through the nearest door because it was the nearest.
“At last!” said Loiosh. “After all our searching, we have found the treasure—”
“Shut up.”
A mop, a bucket, two brooms, a dustpan, and a shelf full of jars of liquids and powders of various colors, as well as a few piles of rags. And the oddest place you could come up with to put a closet like that. It made no sense, which meant that, like everything else, I just couldn’t see it. I was annoyed.
I closed the closet and headed for the other servants’ door. I guess I expected it to be pretty much the same, but this one opened to a long, narrow corridor, doors on the left every twenty feet or so. I walked past them. They were probably servants’ quarters, and while I didn’t have any problem sneaking around Zhayin’s manor and poking my nose into private places, for some reason walking into a servant’s room seemed a little excessive.
The door at the far end was locked. I studied the lock, removed my set of picks, and spent a lot longer than Kiera would have getting it. To the left, I doubt Kiera gets the same sense of satisfaction I do from hearing that “click.” I put my stuff away, opened the door, and stepped through.