Sienne swallowed a sharp retort. She probably should have expected this. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time,” she said, drinking half her pint and setting it on the bar. The man grabbed her wrist and pulled her closer, his smile broadening. She smelled alcohol coming off his breath and managed not to wince. Instead, she stood up tall and twisted her wrist to break his grip, a move Alaric had taught her and insisted she practice until she could do it against men twice her size.
“You’re not charming,” she told the man. “And you’re drunk enough you’re going to be embarrassed about this in the morning.”
“I don’t think so,” the man said. “Not if you’re there when I wake up.” He reached for her again.
Sienne grabbed the half-empty mug with her invisible fingers and dumped its contents on the man’s head. He stood, sputtering, and wiped ale out of his eyes. Sienne made her retreat before he could recover. What was it about some men that they couldn’t take “no” for an answer?
Back on the street, she saw Dianthe leave the next tavern down and followed her. “There’s only one left on this side,” Dianthe said. “Any luck?”
“Not even a little,” Sienne said.
Dianthe held the door for her. “I’m afraid this might be pointless. What are the odds anyone will know this one person out of all the thousands living in Onofreo?”
“We don’t know Master Scholten at all, so Perrin can’t use a locator blessing to find him.”
This tavern wasn’t as full as the last, and musicians played in one corner, reassuring Sienne, though why music was a reassurance that no one would assault her, she didn’t know. She followed Dianthe to the bar, where a woman was busily engaged in filling a fistful of mugs. “Excuse me,” Dianthe said.
“You’ll have to wait,” the woman replied. “Busy night.”
“I—all right,” Dianthe said, as the woman sailed away toward a table where a group of burly men with the look of farmers erupted with laughter at a joke Sienne hadn’t heard. They welcomed the barkeep with more laughter and exclamations over the ale she brought. Sienne cast her gaze across the room. It was too much to hope that there would be a single Ansorjan drinking there tonight, and that he would turn out to be Ivar. Sure enough, the customers were all Rafellish, with a couple of fairer-skinned Wrathen mixed in.
The woman returned, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’ll you have?”
“We just have a question,” Dianthe said. “Do you know an Ivar Scholten? He lives in Onofreo and we have some information for him.”
“I ought to make you buy a drink, but I’ve never heard of him, so I don’t want to taunt you,” the woman said. “Any idea where in Onofreo he lives? I can direct you to most neighborhoods.”
“He’s probably well-to-do,” Sienne said. “And he’s…he might not get out socially.”
“Hmm.” The woman held up a finger and moved off down the bar to take someone’s order. She returned, hooking a bottle off the shelves behind her. “Most of the wealthy live outside the city, on estates, but there’s also Left Tit—” She laughed. “Excuse me. The Aperten Hill, they’d call it. Left Tit is what us poor slobs down in the Valley call the Hill. Anyway, there’s lots of rich folks up that way. Head up the street and keep making left turns until you start climbing, and that’s the Aperten Hill.”
“Thanks.” Dianthe withdrew money from her pouch, but the woman waved it away.
“Don’t mention it. Oh, you might ask the roughnecks about your man. If he’s an estate owner, they might have worked for him.” She pointed at the group of farmers, now enthusiastically and loudly drinking.
“Thank you,” Sienne said. The woman nodded and turned away, pouring a measure of liquor from the bottle into a small glass.
“You really want to talk to those men?” Dianthe murmured.
“Why not? If they’re sober enough to get sense out of them.” Sienne walked toward the men’s table, Dianthe following closely.
“I’ve already been propositioned three times tonight,” Dianthe replied. “I’m tired of fending off amorous drunks. Let’s hope this is worth it. Gentlemen!” she said as they drew close to the table. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”
“Sisyletus bless it’s me you’re looking for,” said one of the men, whose heavy brown beard almost obscured his smile.
“An Ansorjan named Ivar Scholten,” Dianthe said, her smile never wavering. “Might be a land owner. Ever heard of him?”
Brown Beard’s eyes widened. “Not Crazy Ivar, miss?” he said, the flirtatious note in his voice disappearing. “You don’t want to see him.”
“Stay and have a drink with us, ladies,” said one of his friends, whose red beard suggested he might have an Omeiran in his family tree. “Ivar never lets anyone into his property unless they’re delivering something, anyway.”
“And it’s late,” a third man said. Unlike his friends, he had no beard, but his thick mustache almost made up for it. “The gates will be closing soon, and you’ll be stuck outside all night if you head for his estate now.”
“Thanks, but we have important information for him,” Dianthe said. “Let us pay for the next round, in thanks.”
“We couldn’t let a couple of pretty ladies buy us drinks,” Mustache said. “You sure you won’t stay?”
“We can’t,” Sienne said. “Can you tell us how to find Master Scholten? Outside, you say?”
Brown Beard shrugged. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.” He gestured with his thick fingers. “Out the Widdern Gate, down the road half a mile, take the first turn on the right and the Scholten estate is the second on the left, almost halfway up the hill.”
“Thanks. We appreciate it.”
“Probably shouldn’t have told you, for your own safety,” Red Beard said. “Crazy Ivar isn’t just a joke nickname. He gets up to all manner of strange stuff out there.”
Sienne patted her spellbook. “We’ll be fine.” By the way the men looked at her, they didn’t believe her any more than she believed herself.
17
Out on the street, they hurried back toward where Kalanath waited with the horses. He didn’t look as bored as Sienne would have felt in his position. “We found him,” Dianthe said.
Sienne looked up the street. Alaric and Perrin hurried toward them. “Maybe they had some success, too,” she said.
“I found him,” Perrin said. “Outside of town. We must hurry before the gate closes.”
“That’s what we learned,” Sienne said, mounting Spark. “And that he doesn’t have the best reputation.”
“I should hope not, if he’s a necromancer,” Alaric said, turning Paladin and trotting away toward the gate.
The guards stopped them this time. “Gate closes in five minutes,” the woman said. “We’re supposed to let travelers know when they leave this late. You won’t be able to get back in until sunrise.”
“Understood,” Alaric said. “Thanks.”
The woman eyed his bulk and the sword hilt showing over his shoulder. “You scrappers?”
“Yes.”
“My brother’s a scrapper out in Tagliaveno. Good luck to you.”
“Good fortune to your brother,” Alaric said, and urged Paladin onward.
They rode at a gallop the short distance to where the road branched off to the right, then slowed, as the new road was pitted with deep ruts. There weren’t many lights, most of them attached to distant houses and obscured by the curves in the road, which followed the contours of the land. Dark rows of vines, their rich scent filling the air, covered the ground on both sides of the road, curving with the gentle slopes. Ahead, the ground sloped more steeply, and the vineyards ended some quarter-mile before they reached the hills.
“Let’s hope we’re not too late,” Alaric said.
“If he found someone who could cast ferry—” Sienne began, then fell silent. The night was warm, but she felt cold, deep inside.
“He will not have ridden,” Perrin said, “as hors
es and other animals find the undead abhorrent. And you yourself said you could not find anyone with ferry in Fioretti.”
“I couldn’t find anyone willing to sell the spell. That doesn’t mean there aren’t wizards who will take money to cast it for others.”
“We can’t do anything about that now. If Murtaviti is there, or has been and gone, we’ll just have to make a new plan,” Alaric said.
“That’s it,” Dianthe said, pointing. “Second left.”
The second left was almost invisible in the darkness, clearly not well trafficked and completely unmarked. Presumably if you had legitimate business there, you’d know enough to find it. The road extended about fifty yards from the main highway until it came up against a white stone wall that gleamed in the light of the moon. A wrought iron gate barred the way. Dianthe dismounted and walked up to it, resting her hand upon the grille. “It’s not locked,” she said, reaching between the bars to lift the latch. “I wonder what the point is?”
“We can ask Scholten when we find him,” Alaric said. “Let’s keep moving.”
Past the gate, the road led deeper into the hills and, apparently, to nothing at all. Sienne saw no house, not even the lights that would mean a house was nearby. It was easy to feel they were riding into a trap. Had it been too convenient, finding those farmers who just happened to know exactly where Scholten lived? She scowled. She was being stupid. There was no way Murtaviti could have arranged that encounter, even if he’d gotten to Onofreo before them.
Suddenly a distant flame winked into being, then another, and Sienne realized they’d come around a bend into a valley, at the heart of which was a black blotch of a house lit by lanterns. Magic lanterns, to judge by the white-cold color of the lights. Alaric pushed Paladin faster, and Sienne followed suit. The urgency was a knot of tension in her chest now. Soon enough, they’d know if they were successful.
Perrin took in a sharp breath. “Something is coming,” he said. “There are undead near.”
“The pendant?” Dianthe said. “Can you see them?”
Perrin shook his head. “It is more of a visible itch, which I realize makes no sense, but it is the best I can do at an explanation. There are three, and they are very near.” He pointed off to one side. “There is one now!”
Something lurched out of the darkness beside the road. Alaric pulled up sharply, making Paladin rear up at the abruptness of the halt. The creature ambled toward them, its face drawn up in a silent snarl. It was a man dressed in tattered clothes, his skin pale in the moonlight. His outstretched hands were tipped with long, sharp nails dark with some substance that looked sticky. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
Alaric swore and drew his sword. “I think we’re at the right place.”
“There’s more of them,” Dianthe said, pointing. More dark shapes came toward them along the road, their gait slow but steady.
“We don’t have time for this,” Alaric exclaimed. “Press on, and don’t engage unless you have to. Perrin—”
“One moment,” Perrin said, maneuvering past Alaric and Dianthe with a scrap of blessing held high. He rattled off an invocation, and a pearly shield sprang up just in time for the undead to walk into it. The shield wasn’t the full dome, but it was larger than the personal shield, a curved surface that reached to both sides of the road and well over even Alaric’s head. The undead tried to keep walking toward them, but slid along the shield back the direction it had come. “Ride,” Perrin said. “More are coming.”
They rode, following the shield, which moved with them and brushed undead aside to lie flailing to get upright at the sides of the road. Sienne glanced to one side. “There are more of them coming up beside and behind,” she said, pulling out her spellbook. “Damn, but I wish I had scorch.” She sent a blast of fire toward an undead, then another. They just kept coming, though they flailed their arms as if they thought that would extinguish the flames. Sienne let her spellbook hang loose and concentrated on riding, though she didn’t know where they thought they were going or what they’d do when they got there. They might just be riding into more danger. But the alternative was giving up, and giving up was unthinkable.
The lights were growing brighter and steadier, not flickering the way flames would. Lights burned on both sides of a second gate, this one of massive iron, set into another white stone wall some eight feet tall. Beyond the gate, on a small rise, more lights marked the dimensions of a house, one big enough to be a manor by Fiorettan standards. Expensive glass windows in stone arches blazed with light, and lanterns lined the road that went from the gate to the manor’s front door, an impressive slab of iron-banded oak.
The shield trembled. “It is almost gone,” Perrin shouted. “’Ware undead!”
They were twenty feet from the gate. Three undead stood between them and their goal. With a final shudder, the shield. Sienne braced herself for a collision with an undead body, but Alaric trampled the first under Paladin’s hooves, and she rode right past and up to the gate. Dismounting, she tried pushing on it, with about as much success as if she’d tried pushing the stone wall instead. “Help me!” she shouted.
Perrin slid off his horse and ran to her side. The others had also dismounted and drawn weapons. As Perrin put his shoulder to the gate beside her, Alaric’s enormous sword found the first of the undead pursuing them and took the woman’s head right off. The gate continued unmoving. “It must be barred on the inside,” Perrin gasped. “Dianthe!”
“Sienne, take my place!” Dianthe shouted. She sheathed her sword without waiting for a response and ran at Perrin, who crouched with his cupped hands in front of him. Dianthe planted one foot in his hands, leaped, and with the help of Perrin’s boost vaulted over the gate and disappeared on the other side. Perrin immediately ran for the horses, who had started to shift uneasily at the presence of the undead. Sienne grabbed Spark’s reins and handed them to Perrin, then hurried to Alaric’s side.
She opened her spellbook to burn and cast the spell on two undead Kalanath then sent tumbling down the slope, setting the long grass to smoldering. A metallic groan issued from behind her, and she turned to see Dianthe hauling on half of the iron gate. Sienne ran to help her. “Not too far!” Dianthe exclaimed. “We just have to get the horses through. Help Perrin!”
Between the three of them, they steered the horses, now thoroughly frightened, through the gate. Dianthe shouted, “Alaric! Kalanath! Hurry!”
Sienne hovered just inside the gate, watching the men fight. Both were bloody from long, deep claw marks, and Alaric was spattered with black goo from where his sword had struck the undead. As she watched, he made one last swing, gutting an undead, and ran for the gate just behind Kalanath. Sienne stepped back, out of their way. Alaric swung on his heel and shoved the gate closed with one mighty heave. Perrin and Dianthe swung the bar down into its slots just as a creature hammered on the gate, slow and ponderous like a death knell.
Kalanath leaned against the gate, breathing heavily, while Alaric crouched and put his head between his knees. “Are there any more of them?” he asked.
“There are many clustered around the gate, and more approaching, but none on this side,” Perrin said. He walked a few paces toward the manor, his head tilted like an inquisitive bird dog, then turned back to face them. “I can sense no undead in that direction. It is the oddest sensation, like having another set of eyes superimposed on the world.”
“Tell us if that changes,” Alaric said, standing. “Let’s find out if we are in time. For all we know, Murtaviti brought those undead with him.”
“Unlikely, given how slowly they move. But first, healing. I do not like the look of those wounds,” Perrin said.
Alaric shifted impatiently as Perrin invoked a healing blessing on him and then on Kalanath. “If Master Scholten is dead, getting there faster won’t help,” Sienne pointed out.
“And if he isn’t…fine, yes, you’re right.” Alaric used a clean corner of his shirt to wipe black ooze off his face. “
Let’s go.”
They could still hear the undead scrabbling at the gate as they led the horses along the well-lit road lined with oaks to the manor. It was built in typical southern style, with an arched colonnade extending the length of the house and large rounded windows lining the second story. They would let plenty of light in during the day, but expensive glass filled the window openings, which would heat the house’s interior to an uncomfortable temperature.
A low addition to the main house, probably the kitchen and offices, extended to the left. Lights burned at all the first story windows, which were large enough for someone to walk through, suggesting that the owner of the house wasn’t worried about burglars. Living this far out of town, that was probably justified. Though with an army of undead at his command, it was more likely Scholten didn’t think anyone bent on robbery would get this far.
It did make Sienne wonder how Scholten got away with having undead roam freely on his property. They might not wither or shrivel in daylight, but they were obviously not living, so how did Scholten avoid having the dukedom of Onofreo turn on him and tear him apart as a practicing necromancer?
Despite the bright lights illuminating the house, they saw no movement beyond the windows. Dismounting, they tethered their horses to the columns of the colonnade. Spark was calmer now the undead weren’t within attacking range. Sienne smoothed the horse’s mane and settled her spellbook securely at her side. Now that they were here, she felt nervous rather than anticipatory. Ivar Scholten wasn’t a lich, and might be an ally against Murtaviti, but there was no guarantee he was friendly. A necromancer with an army of undead was far more likely to be their enemy, no matter what common cause they had.
Alaric pounded on the front door. They waited. Sienne looked around, watching for movement. All she saw was the horses shifting in place a few feet away. “I assure you, there are no undead near,” Perrin murmured, making her redden with embarrassment.
Alaric knocked again. “Should we just go in?” Sienne said. “If Master Scholten is injured, or…but Master Murtaviti isn’t there, and there doesn’t seem to have been a struggle.”
Mortal Rites Page 18
