Fountains leaped and chimed. The partners reached the main door. It was oaken,
with many glass eyes inset; the knocker had the shape of a sikkintair.
Jamie leaned his spear, unsheathed his sword, turned the knob left-handed, and
swung the door open. A maroon sumptuousness of carpet, hangings, upholstery
brooded beyond. He and Cappen entered. Inside were quietness and an odour like
that just before a thunderstorm.
A man in a deacon’s black robe came through an archway, his tonsure agleam in
the dimness*’Did I hear – Oh!’ he gasped, and scuttled backwards.
Jamie made a long arm and collared him. ‘Not so fast, friend,’ the warrior said
genially. ‘We’ve a request, and if you oblige, we won’t get stains on this
pretty rug. Where are your guests?’
‘What, what, what,’ the deacon gobbled.
Jamie shook him, in leisured wise lest he quite dislocate the shoulder. ‘Lady
Rosanda, wife to Molin Torchholder, and her assistant Danlis. Take us to them.
Oh, and we’d liefer not meet folk along the way. It might get messy if we did.’
The deacon fainted.
‘Ah, well,’ Jamie said. ‘I hate the idea of cutting down unarmed men, but
chances are they won’t be foolhardy.’ He filled his lungs. ‘Rosanda!’ he bawled.
‘Danlis! Jamie and Cappen Varra are here! Come on home!’
The volume almost bowled his companion over. ‘Are you mad?’ the minstrel
exclaimed. ‘You’ll warn the whole staff -‘ A flash lit his mind: if they had
seen no further guards, surely there were none, and nothing corporeal remained
to fear. Yet every minute’s delay heightened the danger of something else going