Adventures Of Myhr Part 3

Elsewhere in Rumpock, at Darmo House Lady Filima Darmo sat in her Black Room, hovering over her scrying mirror, trying a little too hard to coax an image from it and getting a headache for her trouble.

She'd done all the right things, placing candles where their light wouldn't reflect in the mirror's surface,burning the special incense that made her nauseous, and focusing her will upon the Outside with the object of drawing it Inside. She had to find out what had happened last night with the h.e.l.l-river. The nightmare she'd had of being sucked into it had felt entirely too real, especially the part where she'd heard her dead husband laughing. Then there was that awful glimpse of h.e.l.l. Oddly, it was populated by dancing naked demons . . . females, with blue hair and bright orange skin. What were those about?

Filima's mirror remained innocuously blank, frustrating her. It was like trying to play a tune on her harp and not quite getting the last bit while everyone else played perfectly. And, of course, no one would dream of correcting her. That was the problem of having too much power. You reach a point where everyone says "yes" much too often, and find it's not as much fun as it should be. On the other hand, a mulish, inexplicable "no" was thoroughly infuriating.

And here was this d.a.m.ned magical (supposedly) mirror saying "no" to her on a regular basis. She'd have banged on it to force the issue, but the instructions strictly forbade rough handling of any kind.

As usual when she tried to scry, Filima felt the headache getting worse. It was that awful incense. And the mirror. And the whole b.l.o.o.d.y world trying to go wrong despite her best efforts to the contrary.

"Show me something helpful, dammit," she growled.

Before the throbbing in her head could crest into full-blown agony, an image finally surfaced. Rumpock's central bell tower appeared briefly. The landmark shimmered, replaced by a view of a tavern or inn of some kind. It had a sign with red lettering, but she couldn't make out the name. Emerging from the front door was a man . . . with a strange, improbable face, like a cat. He had to be wearing a mask of some sort, a very detailed one made of russet fur that covered the whole of his head. He waved in a friendly manner to someone, then moved out of sight.

The mirror went blank, seeming to suck the tiny moving pictures into itself. It would show no more.

Filima staggered out of the smoke-filled, stifling chamber before she got sick, pushing through thick layers of velvet curtains to gain the more breathable air of her Blue Room. The lighting here was normal, coming from several tall, slender windows. The fresh morning brightness hurt her eyes and not just from being in the Black Room. She preferred sleeping in late. It was the only sane thing to do most days.

Her maid stood ready with mint tea chilled with chips of winter ice. Expensive, but Filima could afford it.

She drank the tea, which helped settle her stomach, and pressed the cold crystal of the goblet against her aching forehead.

What a pain, but it had been worth it, for scrying rarely worked for her; when it did, she always saw something truly important. Like the business with her dead husband. Before he'd gotten dead. That had been a near thing. She shuddered and made herself veer away from the memory. Best not to go there for now.

Despite the headache Filima wanted to celebrate this little success, but didn't dare. She had to carry on normally, even if she went crazy from it. She had no doubt that the maid would take her tray of cheer back to the kitchens, and by mysterious, circuitous routes a detailed description of this morning's goings on at Darmo House would find its way to the other clan houses within the hour, complete with Filima's every expression.

Another typical day in Rumpock. Tea and gossip. Little wonder she preferred to sleep them through. Not typical, she thought. Something had changed. Something huge. She'd felt it last night when the h.e.l.l-river had been on the prowl through her dream. Whether it was connected to that man in the cat mask or her dead husband remained to be seen.

d.a.m.n Botello Darmo.

He'd been so nice at first. Why did he have to go stupid on her? Men, you can't live with them and you can't kill them. Not unless you're really, really careful, anyway.

An envelope imprinted with a familiar clan marking lay on the tea tray, catching her eye. That morning's mail, bearing another letter from Lord Cadmus Burkus. Either he'd be requesting she come to dine with him or begging permission to call on her. Good gawds, it had only been two weeks since her husband's funeral. It was indecent. How could such a handsome man be so d.a.m.ned thick? Didn't he see? She was not interested in him. Of course, his interest in her wasn't likely to be romantic. She was a rich young widow. Enough said.

Wearily and warily, she opened the envelope. Within the fold of heavy paper it held a single pressed flower. It sort of looked like a rose. Ugh. However beautiful it had been when in bloom it was a disaster now, all faded to gray and falling apart.

She sneezed mightily, turning the flower into dusty mulch. She brushed off her gown and told the maid to sweep up the mess. No, there would be no reply to the letter. Cadmus hadn't seen fit to include a note, after all-was she supposed to read his mind? Why did he think she'd enjoy some shriveled-up weed?

Unless it was a spell. That would be just like him to try casting a love spell on her. As if he had enough magical power to get through her protections. He really should know better. What a loser.

Filima finished her tea and sent for Captain Shankey, the head of her house guard. A solid man, he'd been in Botello's family since his early youth, long before her own arrival. She liked him, but didn't trust him with information, only errands. He would die to protect clan Darmo, but like all the rest of the family she'd married into, Filima was forced to a.s.sume he had his own motives for doing so, and those did not necessarily include her best interests-especially if he ever got a clue about how his late master had pa.s.sed on.

"Go into the city," she told Shankey. "Close to the bell tower there is an inn or tavern with red letters on its sign. You are to find a man in that area who wears a cat mask on his face. Bring him to me."

"A cat mask, my lady?"

"Just what I said. Ask around. There can't be many like him. Perhaps a circus has come and he's one of the clowns."

That explanation seemed to work. His mouth twitched slightly. Nowhis mind she could almost read.

And he should be ashamed of himself. Just because she'd once been an oochie-coochie dancer in a side show was no reason to a.s.sume she was going to go back to it. Then again, if he a.s.sumed she was reestablishing contact with her old circus chums all the better to mislead the flow of gossip from her house.

Captain Shankey bowed deeply and left to carry out her orders.

* * *Elsewhere in Rumpock, at Burkus House Lord Cadmus Burkus sat inhis Black Room, scrying through his own mirror, albeit with more success than Filima. He watched her stagger out, holding her head as usual, and clawing blindly for her cold drink. She sat for a time, apparently thinking, then spotted his envelope in the tray.My, what a face she makes. You'd think it was a dose of the whistling runs instead of a token of my esteem.

Cadmus pressed all his concentration on Filima's image, so as to not miss a single nuance of her expression as she opened the envelope. There, she had it in her hand now, the rose he'd sneaked from her hair at the Mid-Summer Festival last year. She'd caught him at it, though. Who would have thought the d.a.m.ned thing would have been so firmly pinned into place? What a yelp she'd given when he'd yanked too hard. He had to pretend to be swatting a bug . . . but hehad palmed the flower.

Later that night he'd carefully pressed it in a book of love poetry in the hope that the verses within would travel via the rose to take root in her heart. Or something like that. Love spells were horribly tricky things, all sympathetic magic and fine print.

He stared in his mirror, his mouth dry. Would the love powder he'd sprinkled over the rose work?

He winced at the force of her sneeze. You could almost hear it.

Oh, dear. She didn't look in love, nor even the least bit wistful, only annoyed as she wiped her nose.

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n-d.a.m.n-d.a.m.n and darn. He hadso wanted her to succ.u.mb this time. Maybe he should have used a book of l.u.s.t poems instead. He'd read somewhere that l.u.s.t spells were somewhat easier to achieve. She might be less allergic to a good healthy bout of pillow-pounding. Certainly she'd not had much ofthat in the latter months of her marriage. Botello had been far too preoccupied with other matters to bother with her. The fool.

Apparently unaware of her brush with True Love, Filima conducted a short audience with the captain of her house guard. What about? It had to be something to do with her scrying mirror.What if she's been watching me watching her? Cadmus bit his lip, fretting. That would be bad. Very, very bad. What could it have shown her? Why was she even scrying at all? The mental demands always gave her a headache. Maybe that was why the love powder hadn't worked. Women with headaches werenever in the mood.

Cadmus broke his link to his mirror and pushed from his own curtained sanctum into the outer room. It was rather plainer than Filima's fabulous Blue Room, the aged furnishings dating from a previous generation; Cadmus had scant money to spare for stylish household decor. If only one of his late near and dears had developed a talent formaking money instead of spending it. True to his breeding, Cadmus suffered from the family affliction of squandering huge sums of cash, but he was quite proud thathis expenditures were sensibly selective. No drinking himself to death with the finest and rarest of brandies like Uncle Tidmo, or collecting erotic pottery like Grand-pap Nuckle-though the estate sale of the pottery to other collectors had been rather profitable.

The proceeds allowed Cadmus to invest in himself.

Once he'd outlived his immediate relatives and got the money, Cadmus bought himself a first-rate gentleman's education. Of course, none of it was of much practical use in the world, though he was in great demand at parties for his wit, fashionable clothes, and beautiful body. He enjoyed himself, but it didn't improve his finances. That would only happen when he snagged a wealthy wife. He felthonor-bound to give her value for her money, so he kept himself fit, clever, and got as much practice in the arts of love as time and cash flow permitted.

It would be a double boon for him to actuallylike his future wife. And he did like Filima, quite a lot. She had money and a beautiful house; Cadmus saw to it that he possessed the good taste to be able to appreciate both fully. He could give her cla.s.s, and she could give him . . . well, he'd spied on her bathing often enough. The goods were in mouthwateringly excellent condition despite her retirement from the dancing stage. Botello Darmo had chosen one h.e.l.l of a woman to marry. How considerate of him to leave her widowed while she was still in her prime.

So far as Cadmus was concerned, Filima was perfect.

If onlyshe would realize that.

Cadmus called in Debreban, the captain of his own house guard, a tough young retainer pledged to duty, do-or-die, so long as it was for the good of Clan Burkus. With instructions to seek out and observe Lady Filima's captain to discover what he was up to, he also bowed low and departed. Cadmus wondered if the fellow would simply meet with Filima's man at a tavern to grumble over a beer about working conditions.

One way to find out. He turned back into the Black Room, closed the curtain, and hovered over his scrying mirror. The image that came up was not, however, the one he wanted. This one could speak, among other, less pleasant, things.

He went very pale.

"Cadmus, you idiot," it said, highly irritated. "You've been blocking me!"

Elsewhere in Rumpock, at the Overduke's Palace Overduke Anton had not slept well at all. He struggled against the wrinkled and tossed sheets of his big bed, rousing his latest girlfriend awake.

"What is it, honey?" she mumbled sleepily.

"That d.a.m.ned h.e.l.l-river. Dreamed about it again."

"Aw, I'm sorry. Was it bad?"

"All my dreams about it are bad." This time Anton had seen himself in the black mists, choking on their flow while above him two demons laughed heartily as they pushed him down. One of them looked like Lord Cadmus and the other had a man's body with a face like a cat, which was disturbing. Though somewhat fond of Cadmus, Anton rather liked cats. This one had been doing its almighty best to drown him and was succeeding despite his frantic fighting. The nightmare hadn't been too horrible compared to others he'd lately suffered, but was unnervingly real. How good it was to thrash himself conscious and encounter Velma's sane and comforting presence next to him. Much better than waking up screaming, which Anton sometimes did when he slept alone.

"You should see a doctor, then," said Velma. "C'mon, lemme give you a nice backrub." Anton regarded the girl fondly. He prized her ability to state the obvious in as few words as possible and then forget the matter, so unlike the palace politicians who would worry a topic to shreds. Besides, none of them ever offered to give him a nice backrub. Not that he would have accepted. Anton rolled over and let Velma have her way with him until one thing led to another, with an enthusiastic conclusion that left them both in a happy, dozy state. It was his favorite way to start a day. h.e.l.l, it was his favorite way to end a night and fill all the hours in between.

But it was day, now, more's the pity. Time to go to work.

Clad in an expensive robe designed to awe the common people who would never see it, Anton strolled into his morning reception room to break his fast. A dozen of his retainers, councilors, and other payroll leeches bowed to him. And well they should, for he had a commanding physical presence, being taller than any of them, with a soldier's build and piercing blue eyes. It was rumored Overduke Anton could turn people to stone with a glance.

He foundthat wonderfully amusing. True, he could unnerve the most stoic types with his unblinking gaze, but they did it all themselves. Everyone felt guilty about something; all you had to do was watch and wait them out. You could get along quite well in life on a frown coupled with a glowering stare. Both came easily to Anton, who was not only blessed with an ingrained expression of perpetual annoyance but also was terrifically nearsighted. Any return stares were quite lost on him.

Anton grunted to acknowledge those present and went to the room's only table, seating himself on the room's only chair. Early in his rule he discovered that business sessions tended to run more quickly when everyone else had to stand. The table was just big enough to hold one sheet of paper. Once his morning cup of hot, very sweet tea had been placed on it, there was little room left for even half a sheet of paper.

No fool, Anton knew how to plan things.

He sipped gratefully at the tea, appreciative of its buffering qualities as he made the transition between bed and business. In the farthest-flung reaches of all the surrounding lands, in the meanest, most primitive of living conditions, he'd noticed a very important, very telling detail about people in general. They all had a morning cup of some flavored hot liquid before starting the day. That, or beer. Quite sensible of them, really. Kept them from cutting one another's throats.

His over-paid minions watched his every move. No one was allowed to speak until he said something first, and he never spoke until he was d.a.m.ned good and ready. Gawd knows how long they'd been out here, waiting. Not his problem if they had sore feet and aching legs from standing on the marble floor.

They knew he was not an early riser.

His tea finished, he looked in the general direction of his chief minister, Lord Perdle. He was in his usual spot, a dark-clad blur with a thick chain of office draped on his shoulders. Anton spotted the gleam of its gold reflecting the late morning light.

"What's on for today, Perds?" Anton asked mildly, not squinting out of ingrained habit.

The others relaxed a trifle now that the business at hand was finally moving ahead. Anton waded through a number of surprisingly simple-to-solve problems very quickly. It made him uneasy. Were they hiding some disaster from him? He didn't like that. If only he could see their faces better. Unless they were within two paces of him they were all just pinkish, brownish or whitish blobs that talked too much. To find out what was going on under the surface meant he'd have tolisten to them, and more often than not itwas boring as h.e.l.l.

Which reminds me . . .

Anton looked up to his right. "Perdle? Any changes with that h.e.l.l-river?"

"Changes, my lord?" Perdle had moved off to the left. He was supposed to stay in one spot so Anton knew where to turn when speaking to him.

"Yes. News. Alterations. Signs and portents. Had a bit of a vision about it." For some reason calling his nightmares "visions" held more weight with this lot.

"Indeed, my lord?"

"Indeed. Have someone look into it. Top priority, there's a good fellow."

The Perdle-blob leaned over to whisper to an underling-blob, who quickly vanished into the general blurs of the room. "It is done, my lord," Perdle announced.

Anton wanted to correct him. Obviously it wasn't done at all, only just begun, but it wasn't nice to correct people in front of an audience. "Right. Well and good. What's next?"

"The planning out of the Mid-Summer Festival, my lord."

"Oh, heavens, you can find someone else to deal with that. Next you'll have me arranging birthday parties for cats."

"For cats, my lord?"

Why on earth had he mentioned cats? Oh, that d.a.m.ned dream again. The only time he ever saw things clear and sharp was in dreams. Pity they tended to be bad ones. Who was that cat-demon, anyway?

What did it represent? It had shoved him down into the black river with a human-shaped hand and quite inhuman strength. . . .

"Who did you wish to take charge of the festival arrangements, my lord?" asked Perdle.

Anton gratefully abandoned the dream memory. "See if Lady Filima Darmo is interested in having a go."

"But, my lord, she's still in official mourning. It's been less than two weeks since-"

"Then see her unofficially. Might do her good having something to take her mind off her grief." Anton hadn't noticed Filima being especially afflicted with suffering over the loss of her husband, but that could be her just showing a brave front to the world. She might welcome a diversion. "Must be terribly boring for her, all cooped up in Darmo House."

"But, my lord . . ." Perdle sounded helpless.

Anton hated that tone. "Out with it.All the objections."

"Lady Filima is under a bit of a cloud, socially. Lord Botello's death was . . . rather odd." "People pop off all the time, Perdle, nothing odd about it at all. The posted notice was quite clear.

Doesn't anyone bother reading the d.a.m.n things? Did the whole city forget I conducted the inquiry myself?

Botello died of natural causes. There wasn't a mark on his body. The physicians determined his heart stopped, died in his sleep. Never knew what hit him. We should all have so easy a pa.s.sing. And the inquiry did cover the poison question, so forget about trotting that one out. If such a perfect, undetectable, and fast concoction existed, every apothecary would be rich."

"But, my lord, aside from the rumors, there's the question of the other clan ladies. They might take it amiss that you never first considered any of them for the honor."

"I did consider them. That's why I hope Filima takes the job. The only time I ever really enjoyed myself at a party was at her house. She knows how to have a good time; the rest of them are too obsessed with protocol. Anything else?"

Perdle held silent.

"It's settled then. Ask Lady Filima if she'd like to play official hostess and plan the festival. My show of confidence in her should banish any rumors of foul play about the late Lord Botello. See to it, Perdle, there's a good fellow."

Perdle bowed low, then rose and murmured to another underling, who faded in the murky distance.

There were two aspects of his duties that Overduke Anton wholly treasured: being right and always having the last word.

Elsewhere, NOT in Rumpock, in h.e.l.l Botello Darmo glared at his scrying mirror, which was on the wall, or something that looked like a wall.

The handsome, if somewhat gullible, face of Cadmus Burkus peered out of its depths at him.

"Cadmus, you idiot," Botello snapped. "You've been blocking me!"

"I'm sorry, were you trying to get through?"

"Of course I have. What have you been doing all morning?"

"Oh, just keeping an eye on things."

"My wife, you mean."

Cadmus returned one of his more charming smiles. "Well, my dear old chap, she's your widow now, and youdid give me permission to look after her."