“Quite right,” Pelinor said. “The sword was unquestionably from the Shore metalworks. Distinctive etching on the pommel: their top-of-the-line model.” He sucked his mustache. “But every sword in Simka comes from Shore’s. They’re the only weaponsmiths from here to Feliss City.”
We’d found him with Annah in the academy’s vast stables. Following the chancellor’s instructions, our armsmaster and musicmaster were searching for Sebastian...and naturally, Pelinor had wanted to check out the horses: “Just to see if one’s missing.”
Pelinor was a maniac about horses. He didn’t own one himself—he told everyone he was “between mounts”—but when he wasn’t drinking at The Pot of Gold or shouting at less-than-eager students not to let their foils droop, he was in the school stables badgering the grooms.
We had a lot of grooms. Every paying student at the school kept at least one horse, and most had more: a hunter, a traveler, a “steed” who looked pretty on official occasions, a war-charger, a pack-animal or two, and perhaps several others of varying colors, to make sure one always had a mount that matched one’s clothing. At times, we had more than five hundred animals under the stable roofs, many of them high-strung, and all in need of pampering—heaven forbid if a single stallion showed the least little mange. Therefore we employed an army of stable-staff, all of whom gritted their teeth when they saw Pelinor coming.
Pelinor asked questions. Pelinor gave advice. Pelinor wondered if that roan in Stall 42 was favoring his right foreleg, and if they should add minced chestnuts to the fodder of that pregnant palomino. He was correct often enough that the stablemaster didn’t lock the old boy out...and Pelinor was happy to shovel stalls or do other gruntwork, so workers didn’t chase him away. Nevertheless, the hands paid for the help he gave; they paid by putting up with the old duffer’s enthusiasm.
There were no grooms in sight at the moment: just hundreds of stalls filled with quiet horses. The nearest animals stared at us with equine curiosity—they seldom saw people in the middle of the night, especially people they didn’t recognize. One beautiful chestnut gazed at me with particular soulfulness, no doubt hoping I was the sort of person who carried carrots in his pocket. Alas, I wasn’t; I was the sort of person who had to investigate a murder.
“So,” I said to Pelinor, “could the sword have been Sebastian’s?”
“Perhaps. He owned one like that. But so do a dozen other people in town.”
“Unlikely for a Divian slave to be one of them.”
“Yesss,” Pelinor said with another mustache suck, “it does seem strange. A broadsword decorated that much would be quite pricey...and impractical in a street fight. Better to buy a rapier or saber. Then again, the Divian may not have bought the blade himself. He might have stolen it. Or won it playing Beggar-My-Bum.”
“I still think the sword was Sebastian’s.” I glanced at Myoko. “We’d better tell the chancellor.”
“We’ll come with you,” Annah said softly. “We’ve discovered something too.”
“What?”
She didn’t answer. It was Pelinor who said, “Two of Rosalind’s horses are missing. Her favorite mare and a nice quiet gelding. And Rosalind’s saddle is gone from the tack room. Also the saddle Sebastian used in his riding classes.”
Myoko made a face. “How can two kids walk off with a pair of horses in the middle of the night? Don’t the stable-hands keep watch?”
“The horses weren’t taken in the middle of the night,” Pelinor answered. “The head groom says Sebastian and Rosalind went riding this afternoon—the same time as every other student.” That made sense to me; they probably went down to Dover to pay the captain for their boat trip. “With riders coming and going,” Pelinor continued, “none of the grooms noticed that the two children never brought their horses back. On evening rounds, the hands saw the animals were missing; but someone had put notes on the empty stalls saying HORSES ON LOAN. The staff didn’t know what that meant, but there was no reason to raise an alarm.”
“So Rosalind and Sebastian might have disappeared this afternoon?” Myoko asked.
“No,” I said, “they were both at dinner. In the afternoon, they must have taken the horses and tethered them somewhere. Sebastian’s a local boy; he’d know hiding places where the horses would be safe. Then he and Rosalind walked back to put those notes on the stalls. That way, they wouldn’t have to smuggle out their mounts later on.”
“These kids planned ahead,” Myoko muttered.
“So it seems,” Pelinor said, “but there’s one part that bothers me.” He was looking toward the chestnut who’d been eyeing me earlier; he might well have been speaking to the horse rather than us humans. “If these students prepared so meticulously, why was Rosalind in bed?” He turned to me. “That’s how you found her, correct? So why did the girl go to sleep instead of getting ready to elope?”
We thought about that in silence. Myoko finally said, “Rosalind was poisoned with curds-and-whey. Eventually, she’d start to feel sick...so maybe she decided to he down. Hoping a rest would make her feel better.”
“That doesn’t quite fit,” Annah said. “When we found her, Rosalind wasn’t wearing clothes. Would she undress completely just to lie down? Especially when she planned to go out later?”
Myoko shrugged. “Maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly. If the disease was making her delirious...” She stopped. “No, if the disease was making her delirious, Rosalind would just flop straight onto the bed. Too much trouble getting undressed. Unless she was burning up with fever and thought she could cool off...” Myoko shook her head. “That’s not too convincing, is it?”
We nodded. Something about Rosalind’s nudity didn’t add up—one more out-of-place detail to confuse the picture.
“Let’s go back to Opal,” I said; and because the others didn’t have any better suggestions, they followed me out of the stables.
7
HORSE HEROES
Half an hour later, we were back with the horses: watching disheveled grooms saddle six mounts so we could head off to Dover-on-Sea.
Five of the horses were for those of us who’d been present in The Pot of Gold: Myoko, Pelinor, Impervia, the Caryatid, and me. Chancellor Opal had decided if we were destined to go on a quest, that’s what we should do—hie ourselves down to the docks and quest for Sebastian.
Hence, the five mounts. Plus one for Annah. Who hadn’t been ordered to accompany us and hadn’t said she wanted to go, but was following close enough on our heels that the stablehands assumed she belonged to our party. I couldn’t tell if she’d truly intended to accompany us or was just letting herself be swept along—Annah had retreated to her usual shy passivity, silently lurking in the background while everyone else chattered. From time to time I tried to catch her eye...but she had far too much experience withdrawing from the world for me to dent her self-isolation.
It didn’t help that the rest of our group were being then-noisy selves, arguing over which horses they should take. Of the six of us, I was the only one who actually possessed a mount of my own: a sturdy white gelding named Ibn Al-Hahm. Despite his name, Ibn was not an Arabian—he was an Appaloosa I’d bought when I arrived on this continent. However, his characteristic Appaloosa splotches were small and restricted to his hindquarters; when I was seated on him, he looked much like a purebred white stallion I used to ride on our family estate.
Everyone else in our party had to make do with animals owned by the school itself. Pelinor couldn’t bear to buy a mount for himself unless it was absolutely perfect...and if there is such a thing as a perfect horse, it can’t be purchased on a teacher’s salary. Impervia, of course, had taken a vow of poverty; I wasn’t clear on the specifics, but it certainly ruled out expensive possessions like horses. As for Myoko, she claimed she was too small to ride anything bigger than a pony; when asked why she didn’t buy a pony, she gave an Impervia-style sniff and said ponies were beneath an adult woman’s dignity.
Perhaps she just didn’t like
riding—that was certainly the Caryatid’s excuse. The Caryatid, despite her roly-poly figure, displayed an obsession for walking: to her, horses were fine for pulling plows, but if you wanted to get somewhere, it was vastly more enjoyable to use your own two legs. The rest of us were hard-pressed to persuade her we shouldn’t head for Dover on foot...but eventually, under the weight of “Time is of the essence,” the Caryatid grudgingly agreed to ride.
At least we all could ride; our chancellor “strongly encouraged” every teacher to learn the basics. This policy was eminently practical—student groups went on numerous field trips throughout the year, whether to Feliss City (where Governor Niome would attempt to charm the brats with talk about “trade opportunities in our fair province”) or around the countryside to see notable sights like Niagara Falls, the concrete ruins of Trawna, or just the color of the autumn leaves. These outings had to be supervised...and Opal didn’t want any teacher avoiding the job with, “Oh, I can’t ride.”
Therefore, we all knew which end of a horse was the front, how to cinch a saddle, and when to let one’s mount rest. We also rode regularly on the school’s private horses to keep our thigh muscles in shape. (I don’t know if any out-of-shape rider has actually died of stiffness the day after a long trip, but many have wished they could.) Even the Caryatid went for a canter several times a week; apparently, stints on horseback weren’t immoral in themselves, you just weren’t supposed to substitute them for walking. As for Myoko, she did look tiny, even on the school’s smallest quarter horse, but she never had trouble controlling the animals she rode. If her size caused a problem, the only sticking point was her pride.
We received no formal send-off: everyone else was searching for Sebastian. Opal had rallied all available staff and faculty to scour the immediate neighborhood for signs of the boy. The grooms who saddled our horses were in a hurry to join the hunt—they hung around long enough to make sure we got mounted, then hastened into the night. Heaven knows why they were so eager to blunder through the muddy countryside; maybe they just wanted to get it over with, so they could then return to bed.
Whatever the explanation, we were left alone in the stable yard—dark except for the stars and a torch-sized flame sitting on the Caryatid’s shoulder like a parrot. None of us believed this was just a quick trip to the lake. We were embarking on a quest; who knew when or if we’d return?
It was Pelinor who finally broke the silence. “There’s no reason to be glum,” he said. “We aren’t heroes, are we?”
Impervia lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well...” He gave his mustache a suck. “Quests go one of two ways: either the company dies off one by one until the hero is left to save the world single-handed; or everyone else survives and it’s the hero who has to make a tragic sacrifice at the end.” He looked around at our company. “Since nobody here shows heroic promise, perhaps we’ll all come out of this with our skins intact.”
“Unless,” said Impervia, “God intends to demonstrate that everyone has the potential for heroism. In that case, each of us will be tested to the utmost...and we shall live or die accordingly.”
“I’m a teacher,” Myoko muttered. “I give tests, I don’t take them.”
Impervia attempted to blister Myoko with a haughty look.
In our holy sister’s worldview, no one was immune to the occasional pop quiz administered by heaven.
“Of course,” I said, “there’s always the chance we won’t be bound by the stereotypes of bedtime stories—that things will unfold, devoid of meaning, because we’re living in real life!”
Annah, who’d slipped her horse beside mine, gave me the ghost of a smile...but the Caryatid gasped in shock. “Phil,” she said, “this isn’t real life. This is a quest.”
I hoped she was joking; but I couldn’t tell for sure.
The main road to Dover-on-Sea was an OldTech asphalt highway, cracked with age and lined with the shadowed hulks of collapsed buildings. Close to town, the buildings were mostly houses: shoddily constructed things, thrown up four hundred years ago when Simka was going through a period of overoptimistic expansion. Armies of aluminized clapboard had marched past the town limits into the countryside, wasting prime farmland; then a few years later, the people in those houses turned tail and ran...most of them heading for outer space, courtesy of the League of Peoples.
The subdivisions fell empty. The townhouses just fell.
I don’t think it happened quickly—first the roofs sprang leaks, then the interior wood and plaster began to rot. Birds and mice and carpenter ants took turns nibbling holes for nests. Heavy winter snowfalls made the crossbeams sag; heavy spring rains undermined the foundations; heavy summer thunderstorms blew off shingles and siding; heavy autumn melancholy leached away whatever survival instincts the houses could muster as they slowly crumbled away.
A century of that, and Simka’s version of suburbia was fit only for wrens and raccoons. Three centuries more and you could barely recognize the houses at all...but in places, one could still see concrete steps with rusty metal railings leading up to doors that weren’t there, and netless basketball hoops standing on poles in the middle of tumble-down trash warrens.
Farther out in the country, the houses were mostly intact: farmers had occupied nearly every OldTech residence and they kept their homesteads in good repair. Admittedly, the houses didn’t contain much of their original building materials—everything had been replaced over the past four centuries, except for hardy components like flagstones—but they were still standing in one piece, more or less on the sites where they were first constructed.
Therefore, if you saw a collapsed building in the country, it wasn’t a house. It might be an OldTech diner with a paintless tin sign creaking rustily in the wind...or a country church with its spire toppled onto its briar-patch graveyard...perhaps an aluminum barn that once enclosed millions of snow-white mushrooms, still harboring mushroom descendants under heaps of debris.
These ruins were overrun with winter-shrunk weeds—mostly lemon verbena and mint-scented geraniums. The plants were escapees from some garden center four days’ journey to the east; they’d been bioengineered for extreme hardiness, and when OldTech culture imploded, the plants had seeded themselves and spread from the greenhouses where they’d originally been developed. Native vegetation couldn’t withstand the encroachment: thistles and milkweed and purple loosestrife gave ground before the onslaught. Much of Feliss province was now taken over, anywhere that wasn’t kept clear by farmers or gardeners...and on hot summer nights, the tangled smells of lemon and mint would hang thick in the breezeless air.
We rode past it all in silence. There was nothing to say; or if there was, no one wanted to say it. Our horses clopped rhythmically along the age-degraded pavement, pausing now and then when a sound or a scent disturbed them. But nothing attacked us from the darkness—it was still cold enough that coyotes and lynx were mostly hunkered down in their dens, and the few that might be hunting stayed well away from the flame on the Caryatid’s shoulder. The sky was a patchwork of clouds and stars with no threat on the horizon...
...until we were a minute away from Death Hotel.
Lovely name, isn’t it? Death Hotel. It was a rural landmark halfway between Simka and Dover, one of the few OldTech buildings that was one hundred percent intact. The place was made of granite blocks, carefully chiseled and fitted together into a box-shaped edifice with a halfhearted attempt at a dome on the roof; if that doesn’t give you enough of a picture, think, “Big, gray, and ugly.” Add to that four centuries of passers-by slathering graffiti on the outside, mostly of the M.G. LOVES S.T. variety, and you’ve got the idea. At the very front, however, on the wall facing the road, some long-ago hand had painted DEATH HOTEL in big black letters; and over the years, local kids had repainted the inscription whenever it got too faint, in order to preserve the place’s “charm.”
Death Hotel had a story behind it. In fact, it had many stories, but only
one I actually believed. Once upon a time, the place had been built as a mausoleum for some well-off family. Something went wrong—folklore suggested many possibilities, from believable problems like the family going broke, to extravagant hypotheses like a Romany curse or a prophetic vision warning of dire consequences if the tomb was ever used—but whatever happened, no corpse was ever interred within those thick gray walls. Instead, the place became a popular spot for transient workers to sleep while they waited to get hired in the local harvest. Those workers called the place Death Hotel...and eventually one of them painted the name on the outside.
For several years, the hotel grew in fame; on rainy nights, dozens of people took shelter inside, a few sleeping in the wall niches meant for coffins but most just lying on the floor. They never caused any trouble...and most Simka residents were amused by the idea of people sleeping in an empty mausoleum. Alas, a handful of loud-voiced fuddy-duddies called it a “desecration of sacred ground,” especially since many of the transients had dark skins or foreign accents. In the end, the party-poopers prevailed upon authorities to brick up the entrances with cinder blocks; and the bricklayers had done such a good job, no one had got inside since.
That didn’t end the hotel’s popularity with visitors. Folks continued to drop by and write their names on the walls. A few even claimed to see ghosts in the neighborhood. It didn’t matter that the place had never contained a single corpse: a mausoleum is a mausoleum even without dead bodies, so why shouldn’t people see phantoms there?
Before that night, I’d laughed at yokels who thought Death Hotel was haunted. But after my experience in the music room, I wasn’t so ready to smirk...and the closer we got, the itchier I felt. What bothered me most was that we wouldn’t be able to see the mausoleum until we were almost upon it—there were tall stands of spruce on both sides that shielded the site, even in winter. For all I knew, an entire undead orchestra could be planted on the snowy front lawn, just waiting for us to come into view before they struck up the funeral march from Beethoven’s Third.
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