Two narrow, steep stone flights of steps up, and out into a hall. He was grateful for the garderobe which he more than needed, and when Jarth waved at it, Rod thrust aside its curtain thankfully, strode through the archway and around the corner, and froze. Taeauna was standing waiting for him, her face serious.
'Does this feel like your right place?' she whispered.
Rod blinked. 'No. Uh… no.'
She nodded, slipping out past him. 'If you get that feeling, anywhere in Wrathgard, tell me immediately.'
Then she was gone. Rod stepped to the seat shaking his head and wondering what Jarth would say when he emerged.
As it happened, the answer to that was: nothing at all. Jarth uncoiled himself from where he was leaning against the wall, scarred face expressionless, and led the way along several passages to a grand and guarded door. The guard there was obviously expecting Rod; he nodded, opened it, and waved Rod inside.
The far side of the room was a row of arched windows looking out over southern Tarmoral, their bottom sills at about waist-level, with bookshelves beneath them. The room was filled with a magnificent, smooth-polished wooden table that could seat forty but was currently in use by only two: Taeauna and Lord Tindror. There was a tall, fat cut-glass decanter of fire-hued liquid between them, its upended stopper beside it, flanked by two half-full glasses. The seat right in front of Rod was pulled out from the table, and an empty glass stood waiting for him on the otherwise bare table in front of it.
Tindror pushed the decanter toward Rod. 'Sit down, drink, and speak to me. Who are you? Why are you with Taeauna? And why come to Galath just now, when all is in uproar?'
Rod decided to take those commands literally. With a polite smile he sat, took up the decanter, and filled his glass, hoping some convincing lies would come into his head before he was done. Or Taeauna would…
Taeauna did. 'We Aumrarr owe a blood-debt to this man,' she said smoothly, 'whose mind has been harmed by a hostile wizard's spell. He cannot remember some things, such as his name, which is Rodrell, and can't say others. He is on a death-quest, to a place the magic afflicting him would prevent his ever reaching, for he can neither say nor remember it.'
'Wherefore you're guiding him.' Tindror nodded and put out a hand for the decanter; Rod pushed it back to him and raised his glass in salute. The baron gave him a smile that precisely matched Rod's.
'Wherefore I'm guiding him,' Taeauna confirmed. 'You may speak freely in front of him, and please do, because if Galath's that much changed, I must hear of it, and he should know what he's walking into, too.'
The bearded baron regarded Rod thoughtfully, nodded slowly, and refilled his glass. 'Well enough, where to begin? The king, Devaer is king now, as you know, and is either mad or, as many Galathans believe, is enspelled by some wizard who compels him to issue decrees that seem mad to us all. House after house is outlawed or set against rivals until the butchery bleeds the land white. Crops stand untended in the fields, monsters-not least the lorn, who serve and spy for wizards-and brigands roam freely, and the road ahead seems bleak.'
Taeauna nodded slowly. 'Dark Helms?'
'Everywhere, and serving many masters; they often clash with each other in the farm fields, despoiling crops with their deaths.'
Taeauna looked less than surprised. 'And which noble houses survive? Who's in favor, and who's otherwise?'
'Of the great families, only Hornsar, Mistryn, and Deldragon still hold their castles and rightful place in the realm without being the crawling servants of the king.'
'And those servants would be?'
'The houses of Bloodhunt, Brorsavar, Lionhelm, Dunshar, Blackraven, Windtalon, Stormserpent…' Baron Tindror paused for breath and lifted a finger to wag in the air, marking off those still remaining. '…Pethmur, Snowlance, Nyghtshield, Mountblade, Duthcrown, and Teltusk all now serve the king. Which is handy for him, as all the courtiers and royal servants have long since fled, or were devoured by the beasts roaming Galathgard. In some rooms, their gnawed bones litter the floor.'
'Charming. And whom do you think compels the king to their own bidding?'
Tindror shrugged. 'That's no secret, but we say his name not aloud, of course.' He put a finger into his glass, drew it forth dripping, wrote 'Arlaghaun' on the tabletop, and wiped it swiftly away into a fire-hued smear.
'Quite a list. You made no mention of where you stand, or any of the other-'
'Rabble? We barons are beneath notice, until one or other of the greater nobles wants our land or just decides to gallop an army through it. There were something more than sixty of us, and more than forty are now dead, their lands seized or laid waste. Many of those left survive only because they are the tools of other wizards, who move them about to stand three or more together against any threat sent by the king. In this manner, once- great Galath lurches from month to month, leaving a bloody trail of the dead. The land is so empty of common folk that it may soon fall to the wolves, leaving the king ruling naught.'
There came a soft, respectful rapping at the door. The baron held up a cautioning 'say nothing' hand to Taeauna and Rod, and called, 'Enter in, and set it before us!'
Servants came in with covered platters of food and decanters of wine, whisking away the old decanter and setting out warmed plates. Rod watched; though he'd never even thought of such a detail in his writing's, it seemed honored guests were personally served helpings of this and that onto their own oval plates. His was now covered with a heap of thin slabs of meat in their own drippings, a bundle of green vegetable spears that looked something like asparagus, and a cluster of small green vegetables that looked like raw figs but prickled his nose with their high spicing. This was accompanied with a little flared bowl of some brown soup that smelled wonderful.
The servant bowed; Rod had just noticed Lord Tindror and Taeauna both inclining their heads in response to similar bows, so he did the same, straightening up again in time to see the baron plough into his food like a starving dog.
He was happy to do the same.
The meat tasted a little like venison, the green spears were like munching solid split pea soup, the fig-like things tasted like someone had married fried green tomatoes (seeds and all) with the hottest tabasco sauce he'd ever put tongue to-big gulp of the new wine there! — and the soup was like drinking gravy. Very rich, lovely gravy.
Damn, but he'd been hungry. He hadn't quite realized just how hungry until he'd had a good smell of what was on his platter, but it was all gone now, scant moments after being laid before him, and if it hadn't been for the fact that both the baron and Tay were holding their plates up in front of their faces and busily licking them, he'd have been worried that his ravenous haste would have been seen as bad manners.
Shoot, bad manners? Here he was worrying about bad manners, like… like… God, he was tired. A yawn… mustn't yawn again, no…
Rod sat back from his plate to avoid plunging face-first into what he hadn't yet licked off of it, and found himself staring at the magnificent vaulted ceiling of… What was this room, again? The… the chamber, the… the…
That was when the map chamber either swam away from Rod into white mists of oblivion, or he stopped worrying about what it was called.
The sudden flapping at his window startled Baron Murlstag into a cursing, scrambling rise from his chair, yellow eyes blazing, as he tried to claw out the ornamented sword at his hip. By then, the leaded casements were swinging open, letting light and a cold breeze flood into the gloom, and setting the lone lamp to flickering wildly. Murlstag's sword rang free of its scabbard.
'Oh, don't bother,' the lorn plunging over the wide stone sill told him contemptuously, its tone making clear what its mouthless skull-face could not. 'I'm not here to offer you violence.'
'This time,' the baron grunted angrily. 'Yet your kind are not known for being… trustworthy.'
'On the contrary,' the lorn replied, its barbed tail lashing air in irritation, 'we carry out orders precisely. If you seek untrustworthiness, look to your own kind.'
It turned back to the window, wriggling its slate-gray shoulders; bat-like wings smoothly half-unfurled and as smoothly drew together again. 'Murlstag, hearken: I bring orders to you. A wingless Aumrarr and a man with
