Стивен Браст: Tiassa

“How is it that I didn’t see that coming?”

“Let’s move,” I said.

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.