The spirit reared up until his head brushed the fresco on the ceiling. Every portion of his body stretched thinner. Finally, stooping, he poured himself into the corpse's sour-smelling mouth.
Once he was completely inside, he thrashed and turned in the thick darkness like a man drowning in quicksand, until at last his own substance, permeating the corpse's body like arsenic suspended in wine, came into proper alignment with it as well. He felt the soft mattress beneath his form. He could feel Lindrian's gnarled, arthritic hand at the end of his arm and make the fingers close, evoking a throb of pain from the swollen joints. He took control of the cadaver's eyes and saw Master gazing down at him.
For that was the special gift of his kind. As certain other spirits had the power to possess the living, Bile- worm and his siblings could clothe themselves in the husks of the dead.
The only drawback was that while wearing these shells of meat and bone, they were more vulnerable than they were used to. He reflexively started to raise his hand to protect himself, then checked the motion. It wouldn't do for Lindrian to suddenly acquire a new mannerism.
Speaking of the old man's habits, Bileworm had best make sure he could employ the corpse's brain as well as its muscles. For that was the tricky part, and despite what he'd told Master, it was that capacity and not a few minutes of observation which would enable him to impersonate the nobleman successfully. He tried to call forth Lindrian's memories, and the images paraded before his inner eye.
'Well?' Master asked.
'The first time he took a riding lesson, he fell off the pony,' Bileworm said. The initial three words were slurred, but the ones that followed were perfect, even with regard to their inflection. No one could have guessed that it wasn't Lindrian himself speaking. 'From that, he acquired a secret aversion to horses that vexed him all his life. He killed a man in a duel when he was seventeen and afterward, weeping, he threw his sword in the river. To keep his valet from nagging, he ate a bowl of chicken broth and half a slice of toasted bread, even though he had no appetite. In short, Master, I know everything he knew. For the moment, I am Lindrian Karn.'
'Good,' the wizard said. 'Then the fall of the House of Uskevren has truly begun.'
Chapter 3
Shamur seethed with impatience as she waited for Harric to hop down off the back of the carriage and open the door for her, but the proper lady she'd strived so doggedly to become wouldn't forgo such a courtesy under any circumstances, even the current ones.
Harric usually gave her a gap-toothed grin when performing a service for her, but this morning the footman's long, lantern-jawed face was grave, his brown eyes, soft with sympathy.
'I'm sorry, my lady,' he said as he gave her his hand.
'Thank you,' she replied, then started up the stairs to the tall front doors, their panels carved with scenes of miners mining, loggers logging, and weavers weaving, all, presumably, for the greater glory of the Karns. She climbed as briskly as dignity allowed.
Over the course of nearly a century, the lavish furnishings of Argent Hall had changed considerably, but it was still recognizably the home in which Shamur had spent her childhood. Today the great house had an air of desolation, as if loss had already paid it a visit. People whispered when they spoke at all, and the servants drifted pointlessly about as if they'd forgotten how to perform their duties.
Fendolac met her on the white marble staircase that led to the upper floors. As always, the rawboned scion of the House of Karn seemed a creature of angles and points, including a long spike of a nose, stiffly waxed mustachios, and a spade-shaped, straw-colored beard. His outfit carried on the motif, for he had a passion for blades and swordplay, and even on this somber morning, in the privacy of his own home, had taken the trouble to strap on a gold-hilted long sword, clip a matching poniard to his belt, and slip a stiletto into the top of his high doeskin boot.
Still, his expression was grim. Shamur had to give him that much credit.
'How is he?' she asked.
'Failing,' Fendolac replied. 'He says he had some sort of attack in the night, but he won't let us send to any of the temples for a healer. Perhaps you can persuade him. He's asked for you several times.'
Side by side, they hurried to Lindrian's apartments. As they entered, it seemed to Shamur that this part of the converted donjon was even quieter than the rest, and after a moment, she realized why. At this time of day, the old man's pet warblers, goldfinches, canaries, and vireos ought to have been chirping and fluttering about, but someone had removed them and their cage as well.
When they reached Lindrian's bedchamber, she saw that the birds he'd kept there were missing also. The patriarch of the House of Karn himself looked shockingly ill. His wrinkled face was white as wax save for bruise-like discolorations under his clouded, sunken eyes. Even worse, a faint, rotten smell hung in the air, as if his flesh was already decaying from the inside.
At least he was awake and alert. Propped against a mound of pillows, he gave Shamur a sardonic smile and said, 'You came. I wasn't certain you'd bother.'
Shamur felt a twinge of guilt, for in truth, she hadn't often called at Argent Hall in recent years, even after Lin-drian had fallen ill. It was strange, really. Nearly three decades before, she'd loved her kin enough to forfeit any chance of happiness on their behalf, yet once she'd made the sacrifice, she'd gradually lost any enthusiasm for their society.
'Of course I came,' she said. 'What happened to your birds?'
'I had to have them removed so I could rest,' Lindrian said. He coughed convulsively, spattering the front of his nightshirt with tiny drops of blood. 'They were making a terrible commotion. They saw Death's hand reaching out for me, I imagine.'
'Death needn't take you yet,' Shamur said. 'Not if we send for a priest versed in the healing arts.'
'I'm terrified you're right,' Lindrian said, 'and that's why we're not going to do it. I don't want to live in pain any longer. I want to rest.' He gave Fendolac a bitter smile. 'Besides, my son is impatient to be Lord Karn, aren't you, boy?'
Fendolac's bloodshot eyes widened in shock. 'Father, I swear to you-'
'Get out,' Lindrian said. 'I want to talk to your sister in private.'
'Father, I love you!' the youth persisted.
'What's the matter?' said the dying man. 'Are you afraid I'll disinherit you and give everything to her? I will if you don't make yourself scarce. Now, scat!'
Fendolac threw up his hands and withdrew, closing the door behind him.
'That was unjust,' Shamur said, seating herself on a low-backed green velvet chair. 'That young man has his faults, but he does care for you. Now he may live out his days wondering if his father ever truly cared for him.'
'Well, pray forgive me for wounding his tender sensibilities,' Lindrian said, 'but dying in pain makes a person irritable. I'll dry his tears later. ' He waved a tremulous, liver-spotted hand, dismissing the matter. 'Right now, I need to talk to my aunt.'
Shamur was surprised. Indeed, though he was a man at the end of his life and she, still strong and hale, she was his aunt and not his eldest daughter as the rest of the world believed. Neither of them had explicitly acknowledged that fact for a number of years, not even when they were certain no one else could overhear.
'About what, nephew?' she asked.
'I fear I've done you a great wrong.'
Shamur shook her head. 'Has my situation weighed on your conscience for all these years? Please, you mustn't fret any longer. The switch was your father's idea, and in any case, it was my choice to replace your poor daughter as Thamalon's betrothed. I wish it hadn't been necessary, but I couldn't permit the impoverishment of my family when a wedding and twenty chests of Uskevren gold could avert it.'
'I'm not talking about the substitution,' Lindrian said, 'although I suspect your marriage made you far more unhappy than you've ever confided. It's, well, it's that I've kept a secret from you. For the past twenty-four years, I've known the identity of the foe who worked behind the scenes to destroy our family's every venture, then finally murdered my little girl.'
'Are you serious?' she asked. She'd never stopped praying that someday she'd discover who had relentlessly
