Стивен Браст: Tiassa

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.”