Raspnex’s stocky image flickered into view in the ambience, smirking. “He’s not as stupid as I thought, that imp.” He meant Shandie, of course.
“He’s in love,” Rap replied. “That explains everything. You going to go and take a look around?”
“Might as well do it from here. Nobody’ll notice with all that din going on.”
There was no mundane din. Water slapped sleepily at the pilings of the jetty, and ropes squeaked. Far away a temple bell tolled, audible only when the wind veered a little, muffled by the drifting snow. Big fluffy flakes were flying and the short winter day was already drawing to a close, the sun a white disk above the trees.
Nor did the warlock refer to occult noise. All day the ambience had been creepily silent, as Rap had noticed every time he had emerged from the shielded deckhouse. Probably Zinixo had ordered the Covin to do nothing except listen and keep watch.
There was still no sorcery active, but a quick scan showed Rap what the warlock had already detected—a strong outpouring of grief off to the east. Proconsul Ionfeu had said that the village of Moggly lay about half a league away in that direction. Probably the entire population was attending a memorial service for Emshandar, because the emotion rose and fell in unison. That would explain the bell, too, and it would serve to muddy the Covin’s vigil.
“If you think you can risk it.”
“Certainly.”
Raspnex’s image brightened—or became louder, for there were no exact words to describe the ambience. Either way, he was much less conspicuous than Rap would have been in surveying the big house in the trees. In the slow-moving world of mundanes, Shandie was still discussing his change of plan with his subordinates. Sailor Jarga headed for the deckhouse, her work done for the moment.
“You will have to be Lord Eshern,” the imperor told Hardgraa.
The centurion pulled a face. “I’m not a very convincing lord, sire. ”
Shandie smiled. “Perhaps not—although you will be before I’m done with you! I’m planning to make you at least an earl. The housekeeper knows Proconsul Ionfeu, though. I d better ask his Omnipotence to change the name on the title deed.”
“They don’t need to produce Lord Eshern himself,” Ylo said. ”Why not let her Majesty be Lord Eshern’s wife, and keep his fictitious lordship out of it?”
Astute young fellow, Rap thought.
Shandie nodded. “That’s very good! They probably won’t ever need to produce the document anyway, and that way if they get any awkward questions, they can always refer them to the imaginary Lord Eshem. Excellent! I’ll go and tell them.” “What can you make out?” Rap asked.
“One old woman cooking supper,” the dwarf said. “Huge, fancy place. More rooms than the crystal mines of Traz. Sort of comfy, though.” To a dwarf, “comfy” meant “well worn.” “No tracks in the snow. It was shielded, once upon a time.”
“That could be useful!”
“Naw. It’s threadbare. It’ll muddy things a little, I suppose, if they start a house-by-house search.”
“Even Zinixo can’t try that unless he already has a rough idea of where they are,” Rap protested, and hoped he was right. Lord Umpily had been led to believe that White Impress was heading north, to the far shore. When, inevitably, he was apprehended by the Covin and his loyalty turned, he might divert attention away from the vicinity of Hub. On the other hand, he might not.
For the thousandth time that day, Rap pondered the impossibility of fighting a whole army of sorcerers. He could not imagine a more hopeless task. On the other hand, he could not imagine any way to avoid it under the present circumstances. If duty and remorse did not impel him to make the effort, then the need to defend Inos would. She also would be on the dwarf’s list of foes, just because long ago she had foiled his attempt to murder Rap. There could be no truce with such a madman. There was no defense except attack.
On the ineffable plane of the ambience, Raspnex twitched, or flickered, or flared—he registered surprise.
“Something wrong?” Rap demanded.
“Something odd. Looks like the old woman’s expecting visitors.”
“Impossible!”
“She’s lit afire in the great hall, and candles, too. Ah!”
“Ah what?” Rap said crossly. The temptation to use his own farsight was almost irresistible.
The dwarf chuckled. “Maybe the place is haunted, at that! There’s something . . . Two somethings!”
“Ghosts? Wraiths? Can sorcerers see ghosts?”
“Never have before, but there’s sure something there. They’re hiding from me . . . Nothing serious. Can’t corner them without using real power. Forget them. They’re harmless.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
Rap hesitated. If anyone mentioned wraiths to Shandie, he would balk at leaving his wife and child here, and the fugitives’ hunt for safe refuge would have to start again from scratch. Every hour they spent on Cenmere increased the risk, for Zinixo must know by now how they had escaped, and his minions would be scanning the lake for suspicious ships. A vessel that showed to vision and not farsight would definitely class as suspicious.
Wraiths were old wives’ tales, weren’t they? Rap had never seen one or even heard any convincing stories of them. On the other hand, nobody was more hard-headed than Raspnex, and if he said there were ghosts at Yewdark, there probably were. How would the impress and her companions feel if they discovered they had been tossed into a sanctuary that contained ghosts? “Wed better warn them,” he thought uneasily.
“Naw! There’s no danger. Here—look.” The warlock opened his mind, so that Rap could see through his vastly greater powers.
It was an astonishingly trusting thing to do, especially for a dwarf. It was also an eerie and unpleasant experience. The soul of a dwarf was alien, cryptic, and cold. It was chilled by lurking threats and connotations of stone—ramparts and bastions and dim-lit tunnels. The world seemed much darker and less friendly to Raspnex than it ever had to Rap; it was filled with hard edges and stern duty; it lacked cheer or comradeship. Its values were grim, practical, and unimaginative.
Trying to ignore this uncanny discernment, Rap inspected the ramshackle old mansion. As the warlock had said, it was a sprawling edifice, much of it in poor repair, dusty and deserted, although still furnished. Faint residues of ancient shielding blurred his view here and there, but nowhere was it strong enough to defeat the warlock’s farsight. Once this rambling chateau would have been a glittering palace, but wind and weather had gnawed it ragged, and the erstwhile jeweled gardens had rioted into tangled wilderness. A couple of very cluttered rooms in the basement were obviously in use, and there an old woman was boiling a pot on a stove.
Upstairs in the main hall, a fire crackling in the great hearth had not yet consumed all its kindling. Dust covers had been dragged off chairs and piled behind a sofa; candles had been set out and recently lit, although the sun had not set yet. Obviously the housekeeper expected visitors. As Raspnex had already remarked, the long driveway was cloaked in untrodden snow, so she could have received no mundane warning.
And somewhere, something else . . . The sense of awareness was faint, barely detectable. Amusement? Expectancy? In the rafters? Then, as Rap tried to draw near, eagerness became alarm, and the presences vanished. A moment later he realized that they had moved somewhere else. He could chase them all night and never discover their true nature. He detected no evil intent—in fact, almost no intent at all, almost no intelligence. Just disembodied emotion, lost memories, dead hopes.
He pulled back to his own mind with relief, and the chilly winter evening became warmer and friendlier again. Hardgraa, with professional caution, was unpacking the baggage and inspecting everything the warlock had prepared: food and gold and spare garments. The women were emerging from the deckhouse.
“Weird!” Rap said. He wondered if Yewdark was a Zinixo trap, and discarded the idea at once. The man’s mind contained no humor whatsoever. If he knew where the fugitives were, he would strike at them instantly, and with all his power. Practical jokes and simulated ghosts were not dwarvish, and certainly not Zinixo.
“But harmless.” Raspnex had already dismissed the wraiths as being of no practical importance.
“I think so. There isn’t enough power there to do anything. Just a sort of yearning. Is that how you see it?”
“See them, you mean. I think there’s two. But nothing to worry about.”
“The sisters that Ylo mentioned? Can sorcerers survive death?”
Once Rap had been a superlative sorcerer; indeed he had been more than a sorcerer, a demigod. In those days he would have known the answers to such questions. “Dunno. I don’t intend to try.”
“You will go and inspect this place, your Omnipotence?” Shandie asked.