She lifted her hands in a complicated gesture, her fingers tucked in or stretched outward in weird contortions. She spoke a word that Malden could not hear clearly, even at so close a distance.
The air flexed with magic and he dropped to the ground, falling on his knees and scraping his hands on the gravel. The magic wall was gone. “I offered to bow, and now you see me kneel. You have my thanks, lady.”
Cythera did not offer to help him up. Instead she turned on her heel and walked back toward the house. The guards weren’t even looking at Malden. He staggered to his feet and then raced after her, through the massive stone doors and into the coolth of a dim portico.
Chapter Forty-Seven
When Malden’s eyes adjusted he found himself in a broad marble hall held up by massive columns of braided stone. Light streamed in through tall windows at the far end of the room, which looked out over a garden maze. The glass alone in those windows would be worth ten times what a craftsman up in the Smoke might make in a year. Along the walls stood alabaster statues of ancient scholars and wizards, some of whom he recognized by the things they held or the way they were dressed. There was Antomach the Sage, who had proved the world was round. He was identifiable by the compass he held before him, his other hand held high with a miniature planet floating above his upturned palm. Malden could not see how it was suspended-perhaps by magery. Another statue depicted the necromancer Vull, a figure of such antiquity no one living now remembered what land he’d hailed from. He was shown here in one of his favorite shapes, that of a massive bear with skeletal human hands. Other statues were draped in cunningly wrought shrouds of stone, or stood nude with wolves curling around their titanic legs.
At the center of the hall a double staircase of worked stone rose gracefully toward a gallery above. Standing next to the stairs on a stone plinth was something that shocked Malden as incongruous-a globe of iron, its surface pitted and mottled with rust. A fine sifting of red powder made a crimson shadow on the floor around it. It must have been fifteen feet across and was as ugly as the sharp end of a crossbow bolt. What it was doing in such elegant surroundings was a mystery.
Cythera’s footsteps rang on the floor, which had been polished near unto a mirrored surface. “He’s waiting for you through here,” she said, and gestured toward a tall doorway in the wall to Malden’s right. “Don’t anger him by tarrying here while you gawk.”
He nodded and let his gaze run over the hall’s features one last time before following her.
“Surely you must realize you are unwelcome here,” she whispered to him as she opened the door and ushered him inside. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
“Think me not clever?” he asked, mocking hurt feelings. “I waited until Bikker went out, did I not? How soon do you expect him back, by the way?”
Her brow furrowed, though it was hard to tell from the tattooed creepers that grew upward from her eyelashes. “Bikker? He shan’t be returning.”
“Doesn’t he live here?” Malden asked. “I thought he was a retainer of the sorcerer, like yourself.”
She shook her head. “He’s no servant of my master. And I am no retainer.” She seemed unwilling to say more. She brought him into a long hallway lined on one side with doors. More windows pierced the outside wall, their glare cut down by gauzy curtains that hung from the ceiling. Small tables and display cases stood between the windows, holding curios, some that Malden would very much have liked to stop and examine more closely, and others that made him flinch and look away. He saw one case that held a collection of severed human hands, while another was full of what appeared to be giant pearls. A stuffed and lifeless snake lay coiled on one table, holding a carved ball of white jade in its jaws. The purpose of such things-or if they even had a purpose beyond mere ornament-was lost on him.
At the far end of the corridor Cythera opened another door, which led into a library. Despite himself, Malden’s jaw fell open once again.
It was a comfortable, snug space, though several times larger than the common room at Cutbill’s lair. Sumptuous rugs covered the floor, and a fireplace filled half of one wall. Couches and chairs upholstered in leather stood here and there, where a visitor might choose to sit and read, and an enormous tapestry map of the continent hung from the ceiling showing all the cities, roads, and rivers of Skrae and the Northern Kingdoms in cunning detail. What really astounded Malden about the room, however, was the collection of books.
Books were expensive. They had to be inscribed by hand, then bound in costly hides. Illuminators and engravers were employed in their construction, and since very few people in the kingdom could read, there was a premium on their production. Even the Burgrave might have had only a single shelf of books in his palace, mostly devotional works praising the Lady.
Yet Hazoth had hundreds of books here-perhaps thousands. Far more than Malden could count. Thin folios and massive tomes, miniature librams that would fit in the palm of the hand, grimoires bound in carved wooden covers inlaid with gold and silver and bronze. Books adorned with gemstones, and others with leather covers tooled with a pattern of skulls and bones. Some shelves held loose papers in great sheaves, bound with string, or scrolls and palimpsests wound about ivory rods, or forms of printed matter Malden had never imagined-books built into miniature chests, or folded fans of paper, or books made of pentagonal signatures tied together with ribbon. Books that glowed with their own light, and books that looked like they had scuttled into the shadows at the back of deep shelves, as if afraid of the sun. Opened books sat on lecterns or scriptoria, written in languages and even alphabets he did not recognize. Ink pots of black and red and purple were arranged around one table, and quills from birds far more exotic than the typical goose or crow.
He had a chance to look at only a few of the titles inscribed on the spines of the books nearest to him, but they inflamed his imagination. A Season Within the Pit, Marloff’s Compendium of Diabolic Keys, The Book of The Names of The Dead, The Fraternity of Fame, Wand’ring Formes and Theyr Dispelment.
“How could he read them all within one lifetime?” Malden breathed.
“He’s older than you think,” Cythera said.
“Older even than she knows,” Hazoth replied.
Malden’s feet left the floor in surprise. He whirled around to find the sorcerer taking his ease in one of the leather-bound chairs. He was dressed in a simple black robe and matching hose, with a black veil down over his face. Malden was certain he had not been sitting there a moment ago.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“So you can read, boy? I’m impressed.”
Malden lowered his head in humility. “I have that gift,” he said. “Milord Hazoth, I beg your pardon for my intrusion. I assure you I would not have come here had I not been in possession of certain information, which-”
“Cythera,” Hazoth said, ignoring him, “perhaps things have changed since I was last abroad in the world. It is possible that manners have changed. Is it common these days for peasants to speak before they have been bidden?”
Malden looked up to see Cythera blush beneath the ink on her face. “Malden is no peasant. He is a free man, master. At least as long as he resides within the city’s walls.”
“Indeed?” Hazoth said, sounding surprised. “And that entitles him to come to my house and disturb my studies?” He rose from his chair and walked across the room to the tapestry map, as if trying to recall to himself where he was. “And if I were to, say, transport him instantaneously to-let us see-to here?” He pointed at a place close to the Western Reach, a region marked on the map as devoted to agriculture and possessing no towns large enough to merit inclusion at the map’s scale. “If he were to find himself in the midst of a bean field, on some petty viscount’s estate, with no way to return. What would become of him?”
Cythera glanced at Malden and shook her head a tiny fraction of an inch. He was not to speak now, that much was clear.
“He would be arrested for trespass by the reeve of that place,” she replied. “Most likely he would be forced to
