“And they’re not going to move Eveningstar in the meantime,” the young Prince added helpfully. Vangerdahast gave him a look, and Azoun fell silent. But he did not stop grinning.
The manor house was only about a quarter of a mile off the Starwater trail. The man gave them directions, but the couple would not leave the main path, declaring they’d go nowhere near the house until the two adventurers had cleared it of all risen spirits.
The house itself was fashioned in a style some called “Cormyr Sprawl.” The main house was a foursquare, sturdy block of fieldstones on the ground floor and brick for the floor above, thickly covered with ivy along its southern face. On three sides, additional wings had been built of stone or lumber or unfinished wood. The result looked like three houses had collided in the depths of some dark night, and no one had bothered to disentangle them since. Over the door was a faded and battered heraldic device.
“Goldweathers?” said Azoun.
“Goldfeathers,” corrected the mage. “A minor house from a few hundred years back. They fomented an unsuccessful rebellion in Arabel years ago and were stripped of their rank and lands. Those commoners have clear title to this land just by occupying and clearing it.”
The immediate surroundings had been cleared, but the fields beyond were still overrun with brambles and young trees. There was a coop, but no chickens or other animals on the property. Azoun thought that strange and mentioned it to Vangerdahast.
“Aye,” said the wizard. “Perhaps our ghosts have an interest in live chickens and goats.”
“I wondered the same thing myself,” said a voice from above them.
The speaker swung down from the branch that had been her perch. She was almost as tall as Azoun, but slender and as lithe as a panther. She wore leather trousers that hugged her muscular thighs and calves, and a loose cotton blouse with a heavy leather vest that did nothing to conceal her charms. Her auburn hair was braided in a whiplike tail down her back. Her eyes were bright and green, and she carried a thin, double-bladed sword.
Vangerdahast started to move forward, putting himself between the newcomer and the young prince, but Azoun stopped him with a hand. The wizard looked at his liege and saw that look on his face, eyes determined and serious, mouth in a wide smile. It was an Obarskyr look, and Azoun got it when faced with a new challenge or a new woman.
The woman held her weapon at her side and said, “I am Kamara Brightsteel, errant adventurer and solver of mysteries. And you?” Her voice was husky, and she rolled her r’s slightly. The accent made her all the more attractive.
“Balm, a wandering cavalier,” Azoun replied, “and his manservant and instructor, Borl.” The young prince ignored the fat mage’s harrumphed protest and went on. ‘We met the inhabitants of this homestead on the road, and they said there were ghosts here.”
“I think I also saw their ‘ghosts,’ the young woman said. “I saw them leaving in haste.”
Vangerdahast raised an eyebrow, and she continued, “There were a couple of men, or at least manlike forms, moving around the sides of the house. I think they were gathering up the chickens and goats, but I didn’t get all that good a view from my hiding place. Three or four, I’d say. They didn’t look like anything special.”
“So you think…?” prompted the wizard.
“I think a pack of brigands came upon the house and chased the couple out with spooky noises and rattled chains. They can’t have much spine, or they’d simply have killed the two. I think they’re nothing more than chicken thieves with perhaps a little more imagination than usual.”
“Then let’s clean out that nest of chicken thieves,” said the wizard.
“Let us do it,” Azoun said, still wearing that look. “I mean Kamara and I. It’ll be good practice for me. Why don’t you go back to the trail and fetch the old couple? By the time you return, we should have taken care of this little problem.”
Azoun expected Vangerdahast to argue, but instead, the wizard stared off into the forest for a time, his mouth a firm, straight line. At length, he said, “Very well. I bow to your adventurous spirit. Be careful now.” And with that, the wizard padded back down the path, leaving the pair alone before the house.
Kamara watched Vangerdahast’s retreating back dwindle into the distance. “Funny old man,” she said. “Mage?”
“Scholar,” replied Azoun, sticking to the story they’d crafted at the outset of their trip. There was no need to brag of Vangerdahast’s abilities, in any event. “I am the warrior of the pair.”
“And a brave young warrior at that,” Kamara said gently. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke.
A silence fell between them for a moment. The man and the woman stood facing each other. Azoun stared into the young woman’s eyes, they seemed like jade coins from some distant and forgotten empire. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried out.
Azoun broke the locked gazes first. “We should take care of our ‘ghosts.’”
The woman managed a small smile. “Indeed. It would not do for your scholar to return here to find us mooning about with brigands in the house.”
Side by side, the pair ascended the porch steps of the old manor house. The front door was unlocked, and Azoun went in first.
The interior was fairly typical of a country house. A slender hall ran from front to back, dividing the ground floor in two. All the doors along the hallway were closed.
On the right would be the dining room, and behind that, a kitchen overlooking cooking pits behind the house. On the left would be a sitting room, parlor, or library. The bedchambers would be upstairs, reached by a narrow wooden flight of stairs. Azoun tried to imagine brigands getting the goat up the stairs. He shook his head. They must be hiding the livestock somewhere else.
The building was too quiet. Even if the livestock had been shoved in the basement, they would make some noise. There would be the soft sounds of their calls, or at least the slight shifting of floorboards as they moved about.
Kamara hung close behind him as he entered, and he could feel her soft, warm breath on the back of his neck.
Had the brigands taken the chickens and left? Mentally he figured the time it would take Vangerdahast to return to the main trail and bring the old couple back. More than enough time to get comfortable with a fellow seeker of adventure. And perhaps enough time to “let slip” one’s true identity and reap the benefits of that admission.
Kamara shut the front door behind her as Azoun opened the door on the right. As he thought, it was the dining room, with another door beyond leading to the kitchen. The furnishings were sparse but of high quality, probably the salvageable remains of the original Goldfeather stock. A great table dominated the room, and the walls were covered with cabinets, all open, their contents spilled on the floor. In the center of the table, a box of silver flatware, another legacy of the Goldfeathers, was rudely overturned, the knives and forks carving fresh scratches in the deep polish.
The thieves came after chickens but did not stop for the more valuable silver, thought Azoun. Perhaps they were still in the building. He held his breath and looked at Kamara. She hung back from the dining room and was scanning along the hallway. Her muscles were tense, as if she expected an attack at any moment.
Azoun brushed past her and tried the door opposite, which should lead to a parlor or sitting room. The door was stuck, and the young prince had to shoulder it open. Something heavy and wet slid along the floor, pushed out of the way of the door, leaving a crimson streak on the floor behind it.
It was a goat. A dead goat in the sitting room, propped against the door. Azoun had found the missing livestock.
The sitting room had been turned into an abattoir, its old furnishings covered with blood, fur, and feathers. There were a trio of old goats, including the billy goat that partially blocked the door. Their throats had been torn out by crude daggers or teeth. The chickens, great black hens with crimson bellies, had their necks snapped and were strewn about the room. Some had been half eaten, but most had been slain and discarded in an orgy of slaughter. Feathers blotted the sticky pools of blood.