“It’ll also give you glassrot in roughly fourteen minutes,” Montego said.
“Shouldn’t you have it?”
“It would only slow me down. It triggers my allergy too quickly.” Montego nodded for her to put it away. She did, and let her eyes travel over the workers once more. Her gaze settled on the right hand of one of the men. She expected a silic sigil of some kind, or perhaps some client paint on his little finger. Instead, there was just one tiny tattoo: a knife with a pink razorglass blade.
“Did you see the tattoos they have on their hands?” she asked.
Montego nodded. “The Glass Knife. Seems we came to the right place.”
“Oi!” It was the man who’d reached for his cudgel. He smacked it against his palm and then pointed it toward them. “This is private property.”
“No sign of soldiers or enforcers,” Kizzie whispered. “But this bastard won’t be undefended. Stay on guard.” Louder she called, “We’re here to see Aristanes!” Kizzie climbed out of the carriage to stand next to Montego. They made, she imagined, an odd pair, considering the difference in size and dress. Montego fixed the same pleasant smile onto his face that he’d worn having a drink at that pub last night, watching gawkers pass by. He held his cane in one hand but was carrying nothing else. It was all he’d need, he’d told her earlier.
The worker glanced at his comrades uncertainly. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll have to leave and come back when you do. The master doesn’t like unknown visitors.”
“My name,” Montego said, drawing himself up, “is Baby Montego. There, I am not unknown to you anymore. Now tell me where to find your master.” Montego began to walk toward the door. Kizzie was more than content to let him take the lead, and she fell back behind him, watching the rest of the workers carefully. They didn’t have the army she wanted, but they did have the element of surprise. It would have to be enough.
At a nod from their leader, two of them bolted. One of them ran inside, while the other followed the facade of the house, glancing over her shoulder at them occasionally as she sprinted through the overgrown flower gardens. The other four put themselves firmly in Montego’s path.
“You have to wait,” the leader said, throwing his arms wide. To his credit, he seemed to know exactly how stupid he was being. His eyes were wide, his face pale. “We’ll let the master know you’re here. Just … wait!”
Montego did not slow, and neither did Kizzie. They’d almost reached the front door when it opened and a figure appeared on the threshold. He was an older man, probably in his mid-fifties, with the olive skin of a native Ossan and short black hair. His black goatee was sharply trimmed, his eyes were piercing brown, and a small smile was on his lips. “It’s all right, Joss. I’ll take care of our guests. Come in, please.”
The workers dispersed, and Kizzie and Montego were beckoned into the foyer. It was a massive hall, bigger than any entry she’d seen in dozens of guild-family estates, with a three-story ceiling and a grand staircase that went up to the left and right. The size was all that was left of the grandeur, however. The marble floors were cracked, the banisters broken, and the once-fabulous chandelier with its gas lines and sparkling hammerglass shards looked like it might fall at any moment.
“I am Aristanes’s majordomo,” the man introduced himself. “The master does not usually receive guests without an appointment, but I imagine he will make an exception for Baby Montego and Kizzie Vorcien.”
Kizzie felt every muscle in her body tense at once. She was wearing gloves to cover her silic sigil, and her face was not well-known enough to be recognized. So much for the element of surprise. “I did not give my name.”
The majordomo smiled. “And yet you are known to us. Please, come with me.” He began to walk briskly, forcing them to follow or be left behind. Kizzie let one hand rest on the pommel of her sword, the other on her pistol, as she did.
“Us,” Montego rumbled. “You mean the Glass Knife.”
The majordomo simply replied with a polite little laugh, as if Montego had told him a distasteful joke. Kizzie didn’t know how to read that. She said, “Then you know why we are here?”
“I imagine I do.”
Kizzie shared a glance with Montego, not bothering to hide her growing alarm. Who were these people? If they knew who Montego was, and why they were here, then why was this majordomo leading them to his master? Was she wrong? Was this a trap? Or perhaps the majordomo was leading them away while the master escaped? Either way, there was going to be blood at the end of this walk and she didn’t want it to be hers. She should have insisted on that army.
Montego gave her a reassuring nod, gripping his cane in one hand and holding his other off to one side, as if ready to grapple with anyone who might assault them.
The majordomo continued to smile as he led them farther into the mansion. Kizzie was, despite paying rather close attention, immediately lost. Within a hundred paces they’d taken six turns and emerged into one long, massive hallway that they followed for another hundred paces. The place was a damned maze, with bridges that passed overhead without connecting the floors, staircases that seemed to lead nowhere. They passed by a glass room with a gymnasium, lit by massive skylights.
Despite there being very little debris – the floors appeared to be swept regularly – everywhere Kizzie looked was touched with decay. Brick crumbled, marble was cracked, plaster had long since yellowed and leaked. Murals on the walls were faded with age, and the few remaining rugs were threadbare.
“I was told Aristanes was a foreign priest,” Kizzie said.
“He is a priest of Horuthe,” the majordomo said, “a prominent Purnian death god. Do you know of him?”
The name touched a memory, as if Kizzie might have seen it in a shrine in an omnichapel long ago. “I don’t.”
“Horuthe is a good god,” the majordomo said. “A generous god. I suggest you light a candle to him the next time you pray.”
“If we do not find Aristanes in the next few minutes,” Montego said pleasantly, “you will find out whether your god is generous or not.”
“Oh, Master Montego,” the majordomo replied, his tone still light and friendly, “it won’t be so long. Please be patient.”
Kizzie slowly grew aware that they weren’t alone. They were being followed, and watched. Faces peeked out from cracked doors, and occasionally the patter of footsteps came to her from the ends of long corridors. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a door slam. Her mouth grew dry, and that feeling that they were being distracted only deepened.
Finally, Kizzie stopped in the middle of a hallway, reaching out to touch Montego’s sleeve as she did. He paused with her, glancing between her and the majordomo. It took their guide several steps before he seemed to realize that they were no longer following.
“You’re Aristanes,” Kizzie accused.
The man grinned at her and opened a door. “Please, step into my office. I imagine you have a lot of questions.” He went inside without answering her. Kizzie held out a hand to keep Montego where he was and proceeded forward to the door, where she glanced inside. It was, much to her surprise, a standard guild-family office. It had a vaulted ceiling, expansive bookshelves, a massive oak desk, and behind the desk one of those big fireplaces that you could walk inside without ducking. There was no fire going but the office was definitely in use and had been, it seemed, repaired while the rest of the house remained a ruin.
There was no one waiting to ambush them. She nodded to Montego, and the two entered, leaving the door open behind them. “So you are Aristanes.”