“Ah. Well. As it happens–um–you do. For the price of the gold you sent, I was able to purchase the House of Hissocking Sprent in its entirety. The owner was not interested in lease-hold or rent. On the sunny side of the egg, that does mean you don’t need to part with any more coin. Such as you might. For a more…” he waved his hand, searching for a word, “…erm, a more salubrious house, as it might be. The staff are paid up for the next sixmonth too. So all-in-all, quite a tidy little investment. You’ll be telling your grandchildren about this purchase, eh?”
“I can imagine. Why is it more intact than the other houses in the vicinity?”
“Ah, you’ve a keen eye, you do. That is on account of everyone hereabouts thinking the house is haunted. Ghaists and demonical beings and suchlike. Nonsense, you ask me. The staff have lived here their whole lives, and they aren’t troubled by notions of freetins and bugahags.”
He returned his gaze to the vision of fallen nobility. Samakarantha felt a more sombre note of emotion. “It was once a beautiful house, was it not?”
“This was once the heart of the most fashionable district of Brae. But then, certain grand lairds and barons moved their residences elsewhere, and everyone else followed them, and so this square fell into disrepair, and eventually it fell a little farther than that. But yes. They say it was the most beautiful house in Brae, once.”
“Well. Perchance it shall be again, my friend.”
Kobnoggle looked dubious, but nodded and a-hemmed agreeably all the same.
“Perhaps you can lead the way into my new residence?”
Certainly, Grand Magus, certainly I shall. This way.”
They ascended the stairs, and each step was cracked and worn. The doorway was especially elaborate, having old carvings all about its fringe, and in a style not entirely in theme with the rest of the house. When Samakarantha paused to examine it, his guide said, “Well spotted, yet again, Laird Magus. The doorway was taken from an older tower. There are stories about it, but all are fabulous and cannot be credited.”
He looked down, and frowned. The threshold stone was extremely old and worn, to the point that feet had ground a shallow concavity into its surface. It was quite possibly older than the house. Between the carven door and the old stone threshold, there was something quite uncanny about the entryway. He considered it awhile before saying, “There is magic in this doorway, but it is of a wild, moody sort. Icy and cold. I will not tamper with it. At least, not until I have had time to properly examine it’s stories and weavings, and ask of it questions and hear its voice.”
Kobnoggle nodded and bit his lower lip. “If it pleased you, Laird Magus. Now, um, this way.”
They entered then into a grand hall. The space was floored with ancient, greasy wooden boards, and the walls were stained from white to a mingled eggshell and cream. Paler rectangles indicated where tapestries and paintings had presumably once hung. Entryways led off in various directions and a set of stairs curved upwards, to gloomy floors above.
Dust motes floated like sprites of gold and gossamer.
In the hall stood three people: a very elderly man and woman, and a younger, though still middle-aged and grizzled man. The elderly couple were dressed as senior servants, and rather oddly, the middle-aged man wore a slightly too small outfit more suited to a page boy. All their garments gave the impression of having been much mended, and washed and re-washed to a point of inducing a bald shine on the surface of the fabrics.
“Ahem,” said Kobnoggle. “Might I introduce you to the household staff, if I may?” He indicated the older man. “Mister Scimminger, chief steward of the house, and holder of the keys to the buttery.” Then turning to the man he asked, “Does the house have a buttery?”
“Not as one might call in working order, no, mi’sir.” came the rasping, dusty reply.
“Ah. Well. Missus Woadmell Scimminger. Lady of the chambers. And beside her, the son of the twain, who is also Scimminger, but he is called I believe, Scithers, that being his personal name. That is, to avoid confusion. Scithers is the house page, and well, scullion, pot-boy, cleaning boy and so on.”
Samakarantha ran an eye over the staff. “I see. Allow me to introduce myself then. I am him they call Samakarantha, born of Mtawu and the Gold Dales. I am Magus of the Twelve Jewels of the Sun. I am counted among the Order of the Dawn Theurgists of Caithroth. I am an initiate of the inner sanctum and secrets of both the Western and Eastern Sun Temples. I have walked the dark paths under the gloom of demon-haunted jungles. I have threaded the maze at Sorcery Tor. I have breakfasted with Pharaoh-Magi and supped wine with the godlings and nymphs of the Grottos of Mycenatainth.”
There was a stretch of silence, then Scimminger said, “Very good, mi’laird. Do you require anything?”
“Ah, well,” cut in Kobnoggle, “I believe that our Grand Magus would be most appreciative of a… um, hot bath.”
“Yes,” said Samakarantha. “That–indeed–I would. But first, I must deal with another matter. This house…” he looked around. “It is in need of a touch of a upkeep. It is somewhat below what I was expecting and I have a need to impress upon the lords and monarchs of these lands that I am a man of reckoning. Show me to a room where I might prepare such objects and materials as are required for practice of the art. A large empty room, for preference. And alert me also when the first of my sea-chests arrives at the door. I will be in requirement of it, and soon.”
Scimminger nodded and his velvety wrinkles shuffled around, making and un-making patterns. “If you will follow, m’laird.” He proceeded towards the flight of stairs.
Samakarantha did so. His long and languid strides ate up the space as he trailed after the much shorter and more tottering steps of the steward. After a flight of stairs, and two long hallways, he found himself shown to a large dusty room. Sunlight streamed in through a greasy set of arched windows. There was no furniture in the space, but darker misshapen splodges among sun-bleached walls made ghosts out of long-removed furnishings and decorations.
“This will suffice,” Samakarantha said, looking about himself. “And now, I will await my first sea-trunk. We will postpone a hot bath until after I am done with addressing the state of the house.” As he spoke, a soft coldness seemed to blow through the air, touching his skin. He imagined he could see his breath on the air, despite the muggy half-warmth of the day. “Uneasy souls walk in this house.”
“They say as the house is haunted, m’laird.”
“And what do you say?”
“I do not know, m’laird.”
“Is that so?” answered the magician. “You may go. If I have need of you, I will call.”
“As it pleases you.” And so, he left on creaking knees, with fine dust trailing off the shoulders and cuffs of his ancient suit of clothing.