In fact, when his father had introduced them, Ossian had felt a trifle disappointed, for on first acquaintance, there was nothing spectral or monstrous about Marance unless one counted the eyes, which, however freakish, were merely the ones he'd been born with. Actually, he was such a soft-spoken, bookish fellow that it was hard to believe he was even the celebrated family hero who'd performed extraordinary feats of magic and waged savage war on the Talendar's foes, let alone a visitor from the netherworld.
In the weeks that followed, however, Ossian noticed certain peculiarities of Marance's behavior. When dining with a companion, Marance only consumed a bite or two, and, as far as Ossian could tell, when alone, the wizard never bothered to eat or drink at all. He didn't seem to sleep, either, although sometimes, as now, he appeared to enter a trance. Occasionally he even neglected to breathe.
Ossian didn't know why these petty irregularities unsettled him so. It wasn't as if his uncle had a naked skull for a head or was a rotten, stinking cadaver covered in grave mold. Yet at odd moments the younger man almost felt that he would prefer such disfigurements. At least then he would never feel that the spellcaster was posing as something he wasn't.
Still, Ossian believed that Marance had been candid about the reason for his return, and surely that was all that truly mattered, since the mage proposed to win an extraordinary victory for himself and his living kindred. Ossian ought to be delighted to assist, for both the thrill of the exploit itself and the ascendancy over his siblings and cousins he would achieve through its successful resolution.
Outside in the passage, a cat screeched. Startled from his musings, Ossian strode to the door to see what was happening.
Old High Hall was the biggest merchant-noble residence in Selgaunt, as befitted a family that considered itself the foremost in the land. Indeed, the castle was too big for even the horde of Talendar and retainers that presently dwelled there, and in consequence, Nuldrevyn had ordered certain precincts of the house closed up. Wishing to keep Marance's resurrection a secret for fear that someone would find it troubling or gossip about it to outsiders, the Talendar lord had put his brother in a suite in one of the disused sections.
Even though none of the servants had been entrusted with the secret of his presence, Marance's new apartments were somewhat clean, because Ossian had taken a broom and feather duster to them himself. The corridor outside, however, was dirty and musty-smelling. Cobwebs full of insect husks hung in dusty tatters, and footprints mottled the film of dust on the floor.
For a moment, Ossian couldn't see anything amiss. Then a tabby cat hurtled around a corner, shot past the toes of the nobleman's pointed red boots, and, its claws scrabbling on the floor, vanished through the door to one of the vacant suites.
Ossian peered about for the source of the animal's distress. He had a good idea what he was looking for, but even so, never saw the feline's tormentor approach. Shrieking, an amber-eyed shadow exploded from the general gloom directly into his face.
Ossian nearly squawked and recoiled, but he'd decided early on that it would be a bad idea to show any fear around Marance's familiar, and he mastered himself in time. He merely blinked, then took a casual step backward, distancing himself from Bileworm in an unhurried and dignified fashion.
"I always imagined the baatezu as possessed of a terrible majesty," Ossian said. "Your infantile japes come as a considerable disappointment."
"Some of the great lords are that way," Bileworm said, seeming to take no offense. "But I'm not a fiend or abishai at all, really, just a specimen of one of the vassal races following in their train. If you see that puss again, keep your distance. It used to like being picked up and stroked, but I doubt it will welcome such attentions ever again. Is Master still in his trance?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll never have a better chance to slide your dagger into his heart, undead abomination that he is. It will likely save you a great deal of sorrow in the end."
Ossian laughed. "Aren't you afraid I'll tell him you suggested that?"
Bileworm leered, the fanged, V-shaped grin just barely visible amid the shifting shadow-stuff that comprised his face. "He already knows what manner of servant I am." His form elongating, he slid past Ossian into the parlor.
Once inside, the spirit hurled himself into an armchair, then immediately sprang to his feet again. Bobbing up and down, he stalked along the wall, inspecting murky portraits of Ossian's ancestors, most of them possessed of the tall, thin frame and clever face that ran in the family and which Ossian himself had inherited. Many of the subjects had chosen to be painted wearing the family colors of crimson and black, and with the Talendar badge, a perched raven with a drop of blood falling from its beak, showing somewhere about their persons.
"Now here's a monster," said Bileworm, regarding a limned head sporting a wide-brimmed velvet hat. "You can read the cruelty in those beady little eyes. I'll wager he doted on the thumbscrew and the rack, and charged the servants with offenses they hadn't committed when he ran short of victims who truly deserved to be punished."
"That's Hobart Talendar," Ossian said dryly, "commonly remembered as Hobart the Kind. During his term of office as Hulorn-merchant mayor of the city- he outraged many of his fellow aristocrats by seizing the food they were hoarding. He distributed it to the poor to alleviate a famine."
"So he did," said a mild tenor voice. Ossian turned to see Marance shifting himself in his chair. "A shrewder man would have taxed the other nobles for the privilege of keeping the food, don't you think? I'm glad our endeavors will benefit the House of Talendar to a far greater extent than old Hobart's penchant for philanthropy."
"You sound as if there's been some progress," Ossian said.
"There has indeed," Marance said. He picked up his black staff off the floor, not for any particular purpose, apparently, but simply because he felt like having it in his pallid hands. "Go and fetch Nuldrevyn, nephew. It's time we told him what we've been up to."
"It's very late," Ossian said uncertainly, "and Father just rode back from Ordulin a little while ago."
Marance smiled his prim, close-lipped little smile. "You don't understand. You probably think you do, but you're too young. You can't comprehend how it feels to wait for vengeance for as long as Nuldrevyn and I have. I assure you, he'll be ecstatic to hear what I have to tell him, even if you have to roust him out of bed. Now please, go get him."
Ossian obeyed.
*****
Wrapped in his lynx robe, his feet in the shabby slippers his wife was forever threatening to throw away, Nuldrevyn Talendar nonetheless shivered at the chill in the dusty air. He supposed it was his own fault for not finding a way to heat this disused section of the house without alerting the servants to the fact that someone had taken up residence herein. Not that Marance had ever complained. He seemed to crave warmth no more than the food and drink that Ossian carried in to him.
Nuldrevyn blundered into a dangling shred of filthy cobweb which his old eyes had failed to spot in the gloom. He grimaced, wiped the sticky gossamer off his face, and trudged on down the corridor after his youngest son.
It had been a shock to encounter the resurrected Marance. Nuldrevyn's anxiety wasn't allayed by his younger brother's bland explanation that he'd just returned from the Nine Hells, one of the realms of the damned, nor by the leering shadow slinking at the wizard's side. Still, the House of Talendar had successfully trafficked with the powers of darkness before, and when Marance had promised that he'd returned to serve the family, not harm it, Nuldrevyn had opted to welcome him.
Afterward, eager but apprehensive as well, the Talendar lord had expected immediate and spectacular consequences. Thunderbolts, rains of fire, and hosts of the conjured minions that had ever been Marance's specialty as a wizard. Instead, his brother had simply cast one divination after another, and occasionally wandered the benighted city in a Man in the Moon mask, until Nuldrevyn had begun to wonder if the wizard was ever going to do anything. Perhaps he'd simply r
attle around his musty apartments forever, like a harmless phantom.
But it seemed that during Nuldrevyn's sojourn in the capital, things had finally started to happen. Now he simply had to hope that Marance's scheme, whatever it was, was a sound one.
Nuldrevyn was hobbling by the time he reached the door to Marance's suite. In his youth, the Talendar lord had virtually lived in the saddle, but nowadays, a lengthy journey on horseback was a strain that inevitably left him stiff and sore. He'd be damned if he'd travel in a coach or a litter, though. He might be old, but he wasn't a cripple yet.
Noticing his distress, Ossian took his arm and helped him to a chair. Ossian was a good lad, and with his long shanks and wry face, the very image of a Talendar. Indeed, he looked very much as his father had looked in his youth, before that mop of curly, gingery hair had turned white and fallen out. Nuldrevyn had already decided that Ossian would succeed him as head of the family, though of course he hadn't told him so. You couldn't tell young people such things, or they'd lose their edge.
Marance rose to welcome his brother. Then, just as Nuldrevyn's backside was settling on the cushion, a dark, thin, sinuous shape shot out from under the chair and up in front of his knees. The Talendar patriarch screamed and recoiled.
"Father!" Ossian said, clutching his shoulder. "Father, listen! It isn't a snake, it's that wretched imp!"
Marance strode forward and rammed the iron ferule of his staff through the black tendril. Purple light flared and crackled from the rod. The dark shape splashed to the floor where it lay convulsing, its shape fluctuating wildly from one instant to the next. Gradually, the stench of some foul substance charring filled the air, until finally Bileworm stopped writhing. Marance lifted the staff away.
"Is he dead?" Nuldrevyn croaked.
"No," Marance said. "He's too useful to kill, even for so heinous an offense. But I have punished him severely, and now I offer my apologies for his misconduct."
"How did he know I have a horror of snakes?" Nuldrevyn demanded. "Did you tell him?"
"Of course not," said Marance. A few wisps of magenta light were still oozing about on the polished ebon surface of his staff. "He simply has a talent for discovering such things, and he has dwelled in Old High Hall for a while now."
"You mean, he's been prowling about the castle spying?" Nuldrevyn asked.
Marance shrugged.
After a moment of silence, Nuldrevyn realized he'd received all the satisfaction he was likely to get, and, grimacing, resolved to put the matter aside. "Ossian said you want to see me."
''I do indeed," Marance said, smiling. "We have cause for celebration." He moved to the sideboard, where Nuldrevyn himself had placed a small wrought-iron wine rack stocked with a selection of his brother's favorite vintages. In his previous existence, Marance had fancied himself something of a connoisseur, and consumed such treasures with relish. But most of these bottles remained untouched, their surfaces cloudy with dust.
Now, however, Marance leaned his staff against the wall, selected a port, dexterously uncorked it, and decanted it into three silver goblets. He handed the extra ones to Nuldrevyn and Ossian, then lifted his own on high. "A toast," he said, "to the destruction of Thamalon Uskevren and his House, which, I'm pleased to report, is finally at hand.''
They drank. "I'll gladly toast the ruination of the horse at anchor," Nuldrevyn said, alluding to the rival House's escutcheon, "as long as we can accomplish it without bringing misfortune on ourselves."
Still a shapeless smear on the floor, Bueworm began to creep and hump his way toward a dark corner as if he truly were a snake, and a sorely injured one at that.
"Ah, brother," said Marance, shaking his head, "you've grown so cautious. You were bolder in our youth. Do you remember the adventures we shared? Those midnight raids when we attacked Thamalon's caravans, burned his warehouses and ships, slaughtered bis retainers, and yearned for a chance at the upstart himself?"
"Yes," Nuldrevyn replied, "and I remember how it all came out, too. My dear brother dead, and Thamalon reestablished among the Old Chauncel despite everything we tried to do." He frowned. "Understand me. I want the wretch and his issue dead. How could I not? But times have changed. The Old Owl has powerful friends and a seat on the city council. We can't afford to wage open war on him, lest we provoke other Houses into taking up arms against us. You'll have to act discreetly."
"I know that," Marance said. "You'd already made it abundantly clear, and I assure you, no one who matters will ever know that it was we Talendar who ushered Lord Uskevren into the grave. Tell me, do you remember the tales of the first Shamur Karn?"
Nuldrevyn cocked his head. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"I'll explain in due course," the wizard said, setting his goblet down on an inlaid walnut table. The cup was still full. "Do you remember?"
"Of course," Nuldrevyn said. "She was before our time, but people still tell the stories and sing the ballads. She was an aristocratic lass who craved excitement, put on a red-striped mask, and became the boldest thief Selgaunt has ever seen by preying on her fellow nobles. Finally one of her victims identified her, and she had to disappear."
Over in the corner, Bileworm began the process of rearranging his substance into humanoid form. He let out a hiss of pain.
"That's right," Marance said, drifting back to the sideboard to retrieve his staff. "As it turns out, that lass and the Shamur who married Thamalon are one and the same."
Nuldrevyn laughed. "That's mad!"
"Not at all," the wizard said.
"But if it were true, Lady Uskevren would be one hundred years old."
"There are magical ways of cheating time," Marance replied, "elixirs of longevity and such."
"Perhaps such things do exist," Nuldrevyn conceded, "but you yourself watched the Shamur of today grow from the cradle to maidenhood, don't you remember?"
"Yes," said Marance, "just as I recall how all the old men used to tease her about her uncanny resemblance to her notorious great-aunt. I assume you remember me putting a curse on her."
"Yes," said Nuldrevyn, "what a pity it didn't work. Had she died, you would have completed the rain of the Karns and delayed Thamalon's return to respectability with a single stroke."
"It did work," Marance said, "we just couldn't tell it at the time. Demure little Shamur died, but what we couldn't know was that her namesake had secretly returned to Selgaunt and taken up residence in Argent Hall. Or at any rate, the Karns knew how to contact her, and to save her family, she assumed the dead girl's identity and proceeded to marry Thamalon."
"I see," said Nuldrevyn. "Shamur the madcap rogue, the reckless, laughing rapscallion, the mistress of the sword, became the starched, straitlaced grande dame we know today. A woman whose one eccentricity is her abhorrence of weapons."
Marance's pale lips quirked upward. "She's quite an actor, isn't she?"
Nuldrevyn started to jeer, then hesitated. Marance had never been given to flights of fancy, and if he actually credited this bizarre idea, he must have a reason. "How do you know all this?" the Talendar patriarch asked.
In the corner, Bileworm extruded his wedge-shaped head from his squirming mass.
"It was divination put me on the trail," Marance said. "Casting the runes, peering at the stars, picking through the entrails of a beggar I killed, and all that sort of thing. The dark powers can tell you most anything, provided you know what to ask, though they hate to say anything straight out. The auspices kept pointing to Shamur as important to my schemes, and to a certain opera the Hulorn ordered performed a little over a year ago.''
Nuldrevyn frowned. "That thing by Guerren Blood-quill? I was present that night. Some magic woven into the music made strange things happen. It turned one fellow into a limbless thing like a snake." He shivered at the memory. "Fortunately, Shamur and that daughter of hers stopped the performance before too many people got hurt."
"And how did they do that?" Marance asked.
Nuldrevyn hes
itated. "To be honest, I don't remember."
"Of course not," said the wizard, "for the music put the entire audience into a stupor. But I know, because last week I sneaked into the Hulorn's amphitheater and cast a spell to evoke a vision of the past. To rescue you and your fellows, Shamur had to wield a sword like a master of arms, climb like a squirrel, and blend into the shadows like one of Bileworm's people."
"Just one of my many talents," the familiar groaned.
Marance gave the spirit a sour glance. "If I were you, I'd strive to be inconspicuous for a while."
"Shamur fighting," Nuldrevyn said. "That's… interesting. Incredible, actually. But it still doesn't prove she's the same woman as the thief in the red-striped mask. There could be another explanation."
"You're a hard fellow to convince," Marance said. "Since you remember hearing of the rogue's exploits, perhaps you recall what happened on the night her true identity was discovered."
"She was rifling old Gundar's strong room when the dwarf himself, his guards, and his household mage burst in on her," Nuldrevyn said. "In the struggle that followed, she lost her mask."
"Correct," Marance said, "and once I suspected that the thief and Lady Uskevren might be one and the same, I decided to conjure up a phantasma of that occasion as well. It was a long shot, but I hoped I might observe something that would confirm my hypothesis, and I did. I saw Gundar's spellcaster sear the rogue's left shoulder with a lance of heat from a wand. Happily, the woman who stopped Bloodquill's opera tore her garments in the process, and while watching my previous vision, I'd noticed she had an old burn scar on the very same spot."
"Incredible," Nuldrevyn repeated, though he realized, that, in fact, he now believed it. "Do you think Thamalon was aware of the substitution?"
"The auguries say no, and it stands to reason. Would the Karns risk telling him his original fianc?e was dead, thus giving him the chance to back out of the betrothal?"
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