Alaric pounded on the door of number 34 with more force than Sienne thought was really needed. The street lay half in shadow, with some of the magically-lit glass bulbs dark and dormant. Probably no one wanted to venture out at night to renew the magic. Sienne made the ones nearest them glow brightly, surrounding them with a puddle of light that threw their shadows into sharp contrast. Nothing else moved in the street. Alaric pounded again. “Mistress Murtaviti!” he called out. “We have news of your husband!”
“Should we really announce that?” Dianthe murmured.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Alaric pounded a third time.
“What if Master Murtaviti did something to her?” Sienne said. “We don’t know if he went home before going to Mistress Tallavena’s house. Suppose he…”
Alaric tried the knob. The door was locked. “Dianthe,” he said, “maybe we ought to—”
The door flew open. “What are you doing here?” Mistress Murtaviti demanded. Her hair was a mess, her eyes were reddened, and her gown looked as if she’d been sleeping in it. “I have nothing more to say to you.”
“We have news of your husband,” Alaric repeated. “May we come in?”
“If this is about how I’m in danger from him, I already told you Pauro would never hurt me.” Bernea made no move to indicate they were welcome.
“You’re right, you’re not in danger, but not for the reasons you believe,” Alaric said, “and I really don’t think we should have this conversation in the street, however empty it is. Please, Mistress Murtaviti. Just let us come in for five minutes.”
Bernea’s lips tightened. “Five minutes,” she said. “Then I never want to see you again.”
They followed her into the sitting room, which was once more arranged the way it had been on their first visit. Sienne sat with her back to the portrait wall and tried not to feel she was being watched. Whichever of those portraits represented Murtaviti’s victims, she hoped they were free now.
Bernea took a seat opposite Alaric and clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “You said Pauro was returning to Fioretti, but I haven’t seen him. Where is he?”
“He’s dead,” Alaric said. “He killed Drusilla Tallavena and attempted to kill Ivar Scholten, and we destroyed him.”
Bernea’s lips went white. “How can you admit to murder so calmly? What did Pauro ever do to you, that you could do such a thing?”
“We told you before that your husband turned himself into a lich. Destroying an undead isn’t murder.”
“And he tried to kill us, too,” Dianthe added.
“You don’t have proof for any of this—”
“Mistress Murtaviti,” Perrin said, “we are sorry for your loss. It must be terrible to learn your husband was not the man you believed him to be. But I assure you, we did not act vindictively or out of malice. When he finished killing the members of his blight, he would almost certainly have turned on you next. You may feel obligated to defend Master Murtaviti out of loyalty, but please, do not align yourself with evil.”
“Pauro was not evil!” Tears slid down Bernea’s cheeks. “He was…he only…” She covered her face with her hands and let out a deep sob. Sienne exchanged glances with Dianthe, feeling torn between sympathy for the woman and a deep irritation that they couldn’t just get Murtaviti’s library and be done with it.
“We’re sorry, mistress,” Alaric said, his deep voice sounding unexpectedly compassionate. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. Master Murtaviti was working toward lichhood for years. It wasn’t something he decided to do in a single moment. He wasn’t the man you thought he was.”
Bernea lowered her hands and nodded. “I knew something was wrong,” she said, “but I hoped…I hoped it was my imagination. Please don’t ask me to thank you for what you did.”
“We wouldn’t,” Dianthe said. “We’re sorry for your suffering.”
“Even though you’re the cause of it?” Bernea laughed, a short, bitter sound. “I know. That’s unfair.”
“But understandable,” Perrin said, leaning forward. “Mistress Murtaviti, we know you have no reason to love us, but we have a request. We would like to see Master Murtaviti’s books.”
This time, Bernea’s laugh was longer and tinged with hysteria. “You have some nerve, asking favors of me!”
“It is nothing but what we originally asked. You told us then you would allow us access when we recovered your husband. He is no longer, forgive me, in a position to object. And his knowledge will benefit our endeavors greatly. Please, Bernea, this one boon could make all the difference.”
Sienne was impressed at how smoothly Perrin had implied their interest in Murtaviti’s library was altruistic. Bernea’s reddened eyes closed briefly, then focused on Perrin. “I don’t care anymore,” she said, rising. “Take what you want and leave me alone.”
“Thank you,” Perrin said. “And we are truly sorry.”
They followed her out of the sitting room and down a narrow hall, past the kitchen, where a woman in a white apron regarded them curiously, and up a flight of stairs at the rear of the house. Bernea opened a door to the left of the stairs and waved them in. “He didn’t have much,” she said. “I swear I never saw him do anything evil, and I wonder if he had some other place he went. This house isn’t big enough for him to hide anything like that.”
Sienne examined Murtaviti’s library. Bernea was right; there wasn’t much there. It was about the size of Scholten’s hidden study, but barer, with only a single bookcase and a cabinet full of tiny drawers. More portraits, these full-length ones of Murtaviti and his wife done in oils, hung on the walls. A comfortable-looking armchair was drawn up near the room’s one window, and a portable writing desk that fit over the arms of the chair stood on four stubby feet nearby.
Alaric immediately went to the bookcase and began removing books, examining each carefully and replacing them. Sienne was sure if Bernea Murtaviti weren’t standing right there, he wouldn’t have been so careful. She joined him and began searching a lower shelf. “Are these all the books he had?” she asked.
“We aren’t great readers,” Bernea said, her voice dull as if none of this interested her in the least.
Perrin opened one of the little drawers and closed it again with a snap. “More…souvenirs,” he said. “Mistress Murtaviti, I suggest you destroy the contents of this room after we leave. Likely no one will care now that your husband is gone, but you should not risk being tarred with the necromancy brush.”
“I don’t want anything left to remind me. I’ll burn it all.”
Sienne reached the end of the shelf and moved to the next. “It’s not as if anyone’s left to object.”
“As if I cared what they thought. Why aren’t you harassing the rest of his blight? He certainly exchanged books with them often enough.”
“The blight is dead, mistress,” Dianthe said. She joined Perrin in looking through the drawers.
“It’s not here,” Alaric said, shoving a final book back into place. “Sienne?”
“No Traverse of Memory,” Sienne agreed. She felt so discouraged she wanted to sit on the floor and cry.
“So what if they’re dead? That should make it easier to get whatever it is you’re looking for. Drusilla Tallavena, or that Samretto person.” Bernea looked as if the names tasted bad.
“Uriane Samretto’s library was sold off years ago,” Perrin said. “If Master Murtaviti gave her the book, it could be anywhere by now.”
Bernea’s brow wrinkled. “Not Uriane,” she said. “Myles Samretto. He borrowed books from Pauro just weeks ago.”
24
“Myles Samretto? But he’s no necromancer!” Sienne exclaimed. “You didn’t mention him when you told us about your husband’s blight.”
Bernea shrugged. “He wasn’t one of them. He just borrows books from Pauro now and again. I already told you we aren’t great readers. The only books Pauro has are necromancy books. Maybe it’s Myles’s way of remembering his horrible wife.
I don’t know. Now, I want you out of here. And don’t come back.”
They were in the street before any of them could protest Bernea’s hustling them out. Standing in the pool of light outside the Murtaviti home, Dianthe said, “Why would Myles Samretto want necromancy books?”
“I don’t know,” Alaric said. “But he definitely implied he knew nothing about necromancy.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it.”
“Should we talk to him, then?” Sienne asked. “Or go back to Mistress Tallavena’s house and search for the book there? Master Murtaviti might have loaned it to her.”
Alaric shook his head again. “Mistress Tallavena said she destroyed all her necromancy equipment, and I doubt she has any books left. I think we need to pay a visit to Master Samretto. At the very least, he knows more than he let on. At worst, he’s a secret member of the blight, and dangerous.”
“That frail old man?” Perrin said. “I fail to see how he could be a danger to anything except, perhaps, a bowl of gruel.”
“Do not think because he is old, he is finished with life,” Kalanath said. “He has seen much and experienced much. If he is a necromancer, he has likely been one for many years. That does not sound safe.”
“We’ll be on our guard, at any rate,” Alaric said. “Let’s hurry. Those gates might be closed now that there’s a real threat in Fioretti.”
They ran through the darkening streets, across the Vochus River and up to the gated enclave where Myles Samretto lived. The gates were closed, and guards came to the alert as the five pelted up to them. “What’s your business?” a heavily-built man said. He had bristly jowls that made Sienne think of a bulldog, set to watch his master’s gate.
“We wish to speak with Master Samretto,” Alaric said.
“Is he expecting you?”
“No. That is, not at this moment, but he invited us to return when we could, so yes, he wants to see us.”
The jowly guard traded glances with his comrades. “Come back in the morning,” he said. “Ghouls are abroad. We can’t be responsible for your safety.”
“Surely your enclosure is sufficient to defend against ghouls?” Perrin said.
“Master Samretto is old,” Kalanath said, pushing his way to the front. “He has few visitors. You will not deny him this pleasure? What would you want for your own grandfathers?”
A thoughtful look crossed the guard’s face. “Well…” He removed a large iron key from his belt and unlocked the gate. “You have until nine. That’s when we set the dogs loose.”
“We’ll hurry. Thank you,” Alaric said.
They ran faster now, past the sprawling houses of stone and glass whose colored slate roofs were dim in the twilight. The gardens were silent, the birds gone home to roost, and the sound of their feet on the cobbles echoed in the stillness. Few lights burned behind the expensive glass windows, as if the occupants wanted to draw as little attention to themselves as possible. Sienne had trouble imagining ghouls overrunning these estates, but she couldn’t blame the residents for being afraid.
The Samretto house, unlike its neighbors, blazed with light at every window and from every lantern lining the path from the street to the door. Sienne, falling in behind Alaric, watched moths no bigger than her thumbnail flutter around the cold lights in confusion, beating against the bulbs and falling in a drunken spiral to the ground. She felt a moment’s sympathy for them, drawn to something they couldn’t understand. She couldn’t guess why Myles Samretto had any interest in necromancy, or why he hadn’t admitted it to them when he’d been so open about his wife’s avocation.
Alaric knocked on the door a little more loudly than he probably needed to, but Sienne was sure he was as on edge as she was. She tried not to bounce on her toes restlessly. What time was it now? She’d lost track in all the running around town. If the guards were telling the truth about setting dogs loose after nine…well, scream or shout would work just as well to incapacitate dogs as any other creature, but she’d feel bad about attacking animals who were only doing their job.
The door opened. The same elderly woman peered out at them. “Yes? Oh, I remember you. It’s rather late for a visit, don’t you think?”
“We have an important question to ask Master Samretto,” Alaric said. “We won’t take much of his time.”
“He’s just finishing dinner. I’m sure he’d love to have you join him for a drink.” The elderly woman stepped aside and beckoned them to enter.
The long hall of paintings was as brightly lit as the rest of the house. Sienne took a moment to admire the Muretti landscape, which depicted an eastern scene with the Bramantus Mountains in the background. The mountains glowed as if the sunlight within the painting were real light. It made the still lifes surrounding it look tawdry. Had Samretto painted them, perhaps, or his dead wife? He must have cared about the artist to give them pride of place next to a real masterpiece.
The small room was as brutally hot as before, the fire as bright. Even so, the elderly woman lit a lantern by the doorway, then another in the corner by the bookcases, and the room became nearly as bright as the hall outside. “Please, have a seat,” she said. “The master will be along shortly.”
The moment she shut the door behind her, Alaric took three quick strides that put him in front of the bookcases. “You don’t think the book is there, do you?” Sienne asked.
“I’m not missing this opportunity to find out. Check the other shelves.” Alaric ran his fingers along the bindings, pulling out books that didn’t have titles imprinted on the spines. Sienne examined the other case. Kalanath and Dianthe sat in the ladderback chairs, while Perrin stood next to the fire and tied his hair more securely back from his face.
The sound of the door opening startled Sienne into shoving a book back into place and turning her back on the bookcase. Myles Samretto, wearing a dressing gown and soft-soled shoes, shuffled into the room, his wrinkled face beaming. “It’s so good to see you again!” he exclaimed, offering Kalanath his hand. “Welcome to home mine,” he added in Meiric.
“Thank you,” Kalanath said.
Sienne took a seat and hoped she didn’t look as guilty as she felt.
Samretto adjusted the enormous smoked glasses covering his eyes and sank slowly into his armchair. “Tell me of your adventures. You’re scrappers, yes? You must have such exciting lives. Have you heard about the ghouls infesting our city? Terrible, so terrible.”
“Yes, we learned of it when we were in Onofreo,” Perrin said. “The king has offered a bounty on them.”
“They must be a real problem if the temples can’t defeat them without help,” Samretto said. “Ah, Mariane, thank you,” he said, addressing the elderly woman, who entered bearing a tray containing several small glasses and a bottle of wine. “Will you join me in a drink? I admit to indulging on occasion.”
“I…thank you, it is most kind of you,” Perrin said. Mariane set the tray on a nearby table and withdrew. Samretto picked up the bottle and offered it to Alaric.
“Would you mind? My hands aren’t what they used to be,” he said. Alaric nodded and poured a measure of dark red wine into each of the glasses, then offered the first to Samretto. Samretto smiled and nodded. “Forgive my surprise, but young people today don’t always have the best manners. Thank you.” He drank off half his wine in one draught, patted his lips, and sighed with pleasure.
Sienne, following Alaric’s lead, sipped her wine. It was full-bodied and not what she was used to drinking after dinner, but it was very good nonetheless. She noticed Perrin only pretended to drink, wetting his lips and swiftly setting the glass to one side. It occurred to her, too late, that it might have been drugged—but Samretto had drunk the wine himself, and what reason would he have for drugging them, since he couldn’t know of their suspicions? She sipped again. Facing Samretto, seeing again his frailty and air of openness, made her doubt her assumptions.
“But Mariane tells me you have a question. How can this old man help you?” Samretto asked, put
ting down his glass and folding his hands together over his thin chest.
“Ah…” Perrin looked to Alaric for a hint.
“It’s about necromancy,” Alaric said.
“You do seem obsessed with it. You’re not planning on going into business, are you? I’d have to report that!” Samretto laughed, a high, tittering sound that made Sienne uncomfortable.
“We were wondering,” Alaric said, unmoved by his laughter, “why you borrowed necromancy books from Pauro Murtaviti.”
The laughter trailed off. “Who told you that?”
“Mistress Murtaviti. She said you borrowed books only a few weeks ago.”
Samretto drained his glass and set it on the tray with a click. “And you believed her? Why would I want necromancy books?”
“She had no reason to lie.” Alaric took a step forward, forcing Samretto to crane his skinny neck to look up at him. “We’re looking for a particular book and we hoped you might have it. Your reasons are none of our business.”
Samretto shook his head. “I see,” he said. “So this isn’t a threat.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“Then please, sit down. It’s like looking at a mountaintop.”
Alaric took a few steps back and leaned against the wall. “You’re out of chairs.”
“So I am. Well, that will have to do.” Samretto sat up and leaned forward until he was nearly nose to nose with Kalanath. “I loved my wife, you know,” he said as if he and Kalanath were the only ones in the room. “She never wanted to hurt anyone. She only wanted knowledge.”
“And yet she wanted to become a lich,” Kalanath said. He sipped his wine and set the glass down.
Mortal Rites Page 26