“Now,” said Samakarantha, rounding on Ode. “First things first. Who are you, and how is it that you can read ‘old weird dead languages’, as Dapplegrim put it? And where exactly is Caewen?”
“Oh, I uh–sorry. I’m not really anyone. Caewen just took pity on me and let me come along with her. I was running away from a bad place. That’s all.”
The magician looked at Dapplegrim. He answered with a nod. “You know Caewen, soft-hearted fool that she is. Hurm.”
“And the knowing of strange languages?”
“Well,” said Ode, speaking as if he were tasting each word as he spoke it. “After visiting a sleeping Fane Queen deep in a hidden tomb, she let us take away a treasure each. I took a book. I have it with me… there’s a sort of spirit in the book and he teaches me things at night… in my dreams, like, if that makes sense?”
“Is he a good spirit do you think?”
“I think so. He is sort of fatherly, in the way a father ought to be, rather than the way fathers too often are. I think he might have been a living person once. Maybe he might be a ghost trapped in the book? He’s never said as much, but sometimes he gets sad about things, in a sort of reminiscing way. Inside the book, he lives in a sort of sunny place. The buildings are all marble. There are dry, dusty cliffs, and scrubby woods, and thin sheep up in the hills, and you can see bright calm oceans too, if you look out the windows. It’s nice.”
“Is anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Perhaps, if you will allow me, I might examine the book at some time. Old objects of power ought to be treated with care. They are none of them toys.” A frown crossed his lips and brow, shadowy and fleeting. “And that this spirit teaches you the language of death-cultists… this does not sound to me like a purely good ghost, if that is what it is.”
“Oh, no–it’s more that he is thorough. He is teaching me all the languages. I mean, for example, in regards to Sthathrasog: first I learnt Ul’Sthathros–which was just a perfectly ordinary everyday tongue–it came before Sthathrasog, that being more of an offshoot kept only as a ritual language centuries after the twin cities of Ul-Stha and Athros-i-Tol were burned to ash and ruins by the dragonmen of Scarratos. And he is teaching me living languages too. I can speak the Elu tongue of the Golden Dales, for instance. Imthalu itil ul hathaefar?”
“Imsar ifaifa,” replied Samakarantha, then in the common Altongue for Dapplegrim’s benefit, “I see. Interesting. You speak it well too, without accent or mispronunciation.” After a pause, he gave out a small shrug. “Well, there is little enough we can do about spirits bound to books, at least being for now. I am more concerned about spirits that might be bound to the ancient hidden night temple buried deep under our feet.”
“Now that is interesting, hurm. Shall we take a gander?”
“I would be delighted to have the opinion of another set of eyes that can see the sorcerous, and a mind that is astute to the ways and arts of the magical. I confess… it is quite beyond my experience. Beyond that it is a temple, and that it seems to have been somewhat awakened by some, erm, how is it best put? Accidental sacrifices of blood? Besides these points, I can’t make anything of it. I have heard of no such ancient site in all the stories I have ever listened to at the spitting fire of the hearth and camp. I have read nothing of it in any tome or scroll. It seems to be utterly secret, concealed, under rock and stone, in this small, unimportant little city on the edge of the lands-of-shadow. So, what then is it? I should like your opinion. Both of your opinions.”
They started off in the direction of the great spiral well of stairs. Dapplegrim’s hooves clattered, slipped about and skidded in ascending the first wooden set of stairs that led up from the entry hall. He looked like a newborn foal trying to find his first steps. This provoked a knowing look from Samakarantha. He couldn’t quite keep the irritation from his voice. “You are only making things difficult on yourself. Why not come up the stairs more easily?”
“You can see that can you? Hurm. I wondered.”
“I’d be a fool not to.”
“Well, as to why? I think folks are afraid of me quite enough.” His skullish face lost its usual mad grin. A sort of sadness puckered the skin around his cheeks and chin.
Samakarantha sighed. “I suppose you are right. Does Caewen know?”
“Of course not. Hur. She’s not very good at guessing these things. And, she is a bit of a fool. A wonderful fool, but a fool.”
“Uh–I don’t know either,” said Ode. “whatever it is you are talking about?”
“Ah,” said Samakarantha, “unfortunately some bits of knowledge are better learned from insight than by teachings. And if Dapplegrim does not wish to talk about the matter, I will not disclose it. Suffice to say, it is of no real importance or threat: just a point of small inconvenience, I suppose.”
“Inconvenience, yes.” Dapplegrim laughed. “That’s one way to put it.” They proceeded along the hall with the carven panels that had the images of a Broonie hidden here and there in the foliage. Ode noticed the creature in the carvings, but didn’t know what it was. Dapplegrim just said, “A Faer thing. Best left alone, assuming it leaves us alone.”
As they resumed their movement along the hallway a side-door opened and Missus Woadmell Scimminger came bustling out with a load of sheets in her arms. She took one look at Dapplegrim–who very nearly filled the entire hallway, floor to ceiling–shrieked, dropped the bedclothes and jumped right back into the room she had just come out of. The poor woman looked half-scared to death as she peeked into the hall, mostly hidden behind the doorframe.
“Ah, apologies, my dear Missus Woadmell. I ought to have let you know. We have houseguests. Please be kind enough to find a bed for the young master here, and, um, does the house have a stable?”
“I’d rather sleep on the floor,” said Dapplegrim. “I’ve gotten to quite dislike stables. People are always trying to put bits in your mouth or throw a saddle on you. Unpleasant places.”
“Well, then, as it seems, perhaps a room with a good clear bit of floor for Dapplegrim to sleep on.”
“Dapplegrim… sir magus,” repeated the old woman in a minute, barely audible voice. “Is this one of your demons, good laird magus?” She clearly wanted to add–is it thoroughly under your control?–but perhaps thought this impolite.
“Oh, no. Dapplegrim doesn’t belong to anyone except Dapplegrim…” although at this Samakarantha did pause and say, more conjecturally, “Or perhaps to Caewen?”
“Hurm. In a manner of speaking, yes.”
“Oh. My. It talks.”
:”Of course I–oh I give up.” Dapplegrim lowered his head and looked right at the woman. “Neigh,” he said in the most unconvincing mimicry of a horse imaginable.
“Come along.” Samakarantha had already restarted his way up the hall. He made a mental note to ensure that the Scimmingers would receive something extra beyond whatever payment was already arranged for them with the stewardship of the house. They would likely more than deserve it by the time they were done playing host to the strange things they now had under their roof. He wondered to himself: who next could possibly turn up?”