He watched her stare at the floor, thinking about it. She seemed impressed, and Marek hated that. He hated people who were impressed with that dangerous idea, that mad errand.
“You will bring me the flamberge?” he asked.
Phyrea nodded, but her eyes gave no indication that she’d actually heard him. Again, she listened to something or someone Marek couldn’t hear.
So, he thought, the country house isn’t the only thing of the master builder’s that’s haunted.
4
3Alturiak, the Year of the Sword (1365 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
What is so special,” Surero whispered into the cold, damp air of his cell, “about one hundred and twenty- five?”
When they first locked him up, he’d been told that they would feed him once a day. Assuming they had been as good as their word, he’d been in the cell for one hundred and twenty-five days, since the first day of Marpenoth in the Year of the Wave.
“The third,” he told himself. “It’s the third day of Alturiak.”
“That’s right,” the voice from beyond the door replied.
The sound of the first human voice he’d heard in four months tickled Surero’s ears. Much as he’d tried to engage his jailers in conversation, none of them had ever answered. All they did was take the bucket of urine and feces, replace it with an empty bucket, then slide in the moldy, hard bread and the tin cup of water. Sometimes they gave him a strip of pork fat or a fish head.
“Why?” he asked the door. “Why today?”
There was no answer right away, and Surero’s heart raced. He stood on legs that had been too weak to support him for most of the last month. They held him, though, even if they were a bit shaky. He’d taken to spending his days sitting against the cool, rough stone of the subterranean cell. He had no window, and after he’d eaten the first two he came across, eventually even the spiders stopped wandering in.
A sound came from behind the doorthe clank of keys on a ring.
“Hello?” Surero called out, his own voice hurting his ears, which had grown so accustomed to the utter silence of the tomb.
“Stand away from the door,” the man’s deep voice rumbled, and Surero imagined it made the heavy, iron- bound oak door quiver as if in fright.
He slid one foot back, then the second foot to meet it, and almost fell. He put a hand against the wall, scraping some skin from his palm, but he held himself up. His eyes burned, and if he’d had enough water in his body, he’d have begun to cry. Instead he just stood there and quivered.
“We’re going to let you go,” the voice said. “Do you understand?”
Surero’s voice caught in his throat. He nodded, but the man wouldn’t be able to see him. He stood and waited, and it seemed as though an awfully long time had passed. The door didn’t open.
“Rymiit?” he whispered.
Then his throat closed again, and his knees were going to collapse under him, so he sat. He ended up leaning half against the rough stone, his cheek pressed against the wall, his nose filled with the spice of mold.
He’s taunting me, Surero thought. They aren’t going to let me go. It’s Rymiit. He’s playing a trick on me.
“He’s playing a trick on me,” Surero whispered.
Then his teeth closed as tightly as his throat, and his wasted, filthy, clammy body trembled with impotent rage. He boiled inside his six by six cell, and tried to close his ears to the sound of men moving on the other side of the door.
They aren’t there, he told himself. Give up. Give up hope.
Surero hadn’t had a word of news from the outside world for a hundred and twenty-five days. For all he knew, the hated Marek Rymiit was dead. But he doubted that. Surely the Thayan scum had only further ingratiated himself into the petty aristocracy of Innarlith. Surero had no doubt that Rymiit had taken from more and more people like him. The Thayan had taken his customers, had stolen his formulae, had robbed him of his reputation. Surero, who had lived every moment of his miserable existence in the pursuit of excellence in the alchemical arts, had been reduced to a ragged, homeless, desperate husk of a man, no more substantial a creature than the wretch four months in the ransar’s dungeon had made him. When he’d done the only thing fitting, the only thing a man in his position could do, he had failed. Something had gone wrong. The mixture itself had worked and the explosion was powerful, but Marek Rymiit had lived.
And Surero had gone to the dungeon to rot. Forever.
A key turned in the lock. The sound was unmistakable.
Surero looked up at the door, his eyes locked on the very edge so he could perceive any minute crack that might actually open.
Fear washed away his hatred, but the source was the same. Was it Marek Rymiit behind that door? Was it the Thayan robber come to kill him once and for all?
“Rymiit?’ he asked, his voice squeaking past his constricted vocal chords.
The door swung open to a flash of blinding light and a deafening squeak of hinges that hadn’t been used, much less oiled, in four months. Surero’s eyes locked shut against the brilliant illumination of the single torch, and he could only listen as the man stepped into the room, his steps heavy and confident, shaking the stained flagstones beneath them.
“Stand up,” the voice commanded, closer and clearer with no door between it and Surero.
“Kill me,” Surero croaked, his hands pressed hard against his burning eyes. “Go ahead and kill me, Thayan bastard.”
A hand that seemed the size of a god’s grabbed a fistful of the soiled linen gown that had been his only clothing since the previous Marpenoth, and took a few dozen chest hairs along with it. Surero winced and shook as he was pulled to his feet.
Hot breath that smelled almost as bad as his cell washed over his face, and the man said, “Who in the Nine perspi-rin’ Hells are you calling a Thayan?”
Surero chanced it. He opened one eye.
“You…” he mumbled. “You’re not… Rymiit.”
“I’m the jailer, wretch,” the man said. “I’m the bloke what’s been feeding you these months. How’s about a little gratitude here, eh?”
Surero swallowed, forgetting how much his throat hurt, and replied, “Yes. Sorry. Thanks.”
That made the jailer laugh, and Surero was just relived enough that it wasn’t Rymiit who’d come to claim him that he laughed a little too.
“Are you really…?” the prisoner stuttered. “A-are… are y-you going to…?”
“You’re all done, mate,” the jailer said, setting Surero down and letting go his clothes. “The ‘Thayan bastard’ said you’d had enough so the ransar’s springin’ ya. You’re free.”
“Free?” Surero asked. It was not possiblenot for the reasons the jailer gave. “I’ve had enough?”
“Well, kid, you didn’t kill him after all.”
“But I tried.”
There was a short silence while Surero just looked at the man. He was hardly less filthy that his prisoner, but bigger, better fed, and capable of smiling.
“Maybe,” said the jailer, “you’ll want to keep that bit to yourself, son.”
5
9 Alturiak, the Year ofthe Sword (1365 DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
