We proceeded through corridors and up stairs whose dusty surfaces had recently been disturbed by the marks of only one pair of boots. Unlike the sober gray stones of Lormt, Krevonel Castle’s stones were a glistening buff-brown color, but the scale of the Alizonders’ construction was equally impressive. I noted a strange similarity between these underground ways and those beneath Lormt . . . until we gained the more habitable upper levels. The farther we climbed, the more sumptuous the decorations and furnishings became. Possibly because of their own physical paleness, the Alizonders seemed to adorn their living quarters with brilliant—even jarringly bright—colors.
Twice, far ahead of us in the corridors, I glimpsed white-haired figures clad in dark blue livery, but as soon as they noticed our approach, they scurried out of sight around the next corner or through the nearest door. One figure alone did not retreat, but marched purposefully across a vast reception hall to meet us. He was a tall, gaunt, older Alizonder, whose pale blue eyes reminded me of Morfew.
Kasarian nodded brusquely to the man, as if he had expected to encounter him. “You will serve our guest and me in the north tower room, Gennard. Send for Bodrik to meet us there at once.”
As he bowed to Kasarian, Gennard touched his House badge.
“Welcome back, Master.” He turned toward me, repeating the bow and the gesture. “Krevonel Castle welcomes you, Worthy Baron,” he said in a voice neither subservient nor fearful. If he had served Kasarian since the baron’s childhood, I assumed that he must be a capable survivor . . . and that he felt secure in his position.
I imitated Kasarian’s nod, and strode after him, for he had already moved toward a distant door. We climbed yet more stairs. I was deeply relieved when Kasarian finally entered a room and offered me an ornate chair. We had scarcely seated ourselves before a different Alizonder appeared at the open door.
“Enter, Bodrik,” Kasarian invited, and the man he had described to me as his castellan approached us.
Somehow, I had expected that all Alizonders would look alike. So far, Kasarian’s castle staff did share the same distinctively pale hair and skin, and they were all outfitted in the same neat blue livery ornamented with white piping and braid. When viewed face to face, however, the individual Alizonders appeared as different as any two Dalesmen would. Bodrik’s features were not as finely cut as Kasarian’s, and he was stockier and broader of shoulder than his master. His eyes were a clear green, like the early leaves of spring, but what drew my gaze was the livid scar that branded a diagonal slash from above his left eyebrow across the bridge of his nose, extending down his right cheek.
Touching his House badge, Bodrik bowed to Kasarian. “Krevonel welcomes your return, Master,” he said in rumbling tones, the growl of his Alizonian more pronounced than Gennard’s or Kasarian’s.
“Krevonel is honored by the arrival of this Worthy Baron,” Kasarian proclaimed, nodding deferentially toward me. “His name and presence, however, must not be revealed to outsiders, since his purpose in the City must be achieved in utmost secrecy. He has traveled a far distance, despite a winter ague that has presently quenched his voice. He will make known his orders to you in writing.”
As Bodrik bowed to me, he said, “I am yours to command, Worthy Baron.”
“The Baron’s first command is that you convey a private message to Baron Gurborian,” Kasarian said, holding out the leather-wrapped packet containing Morfew’s cunningly phrased summons. “Take this at once to Lursk, for his immediate delivery into Gurborian’s hand. We require an equally discreet reply. Depending upon the nature of Gurborian’s response, I shall have further instructions for you.”
“It shall be accomplished, Master. Lursk is drinking today at the Hooded Crow. Your message will be in Baron Gurborian’s hand within the hour.” Bodrik bowed again to each of us, then hastened from the room.
Gennard must have been watching for Bodrik’s departure, for he entered right away, bearing a carved wooden tray crowded with flagons, covered dishes, and open containers. With the ease of long practice, he swiftly set out an array of food and drink on a side table. He would have commenced to serve us, but Kasarian held up his hand.
“We shall not require you to serve,” Kasarian said. “I prefer that you attend to a different task. In our haste to reach the City, we did not encumber ourselves with baggage. During his guesting with us, the Baron therefore relies upon our wardrobe for his needs.”
Gennard surveyed me. “If the Worthy Baron will allow me, I can fetch to his guest chamber a selection of robes from your sire’s store, Master.”
“An excellent idea,” Kasarian approved. “He is much the same size as Baron Oralian. Bring the clothing and suitable boots to the chamber next to mine. We shall repair thither after we have eaten and conferred. Be sure also to fetch a supply of writing chalk. The Baron’s voice has been temporarily silenced by an ague, and he must write his orders upon a slate that he has brought with him.”
“As you command, Master . . . Worthy Baron.” Gennard bowed to us both and withdrew.
Kasarian moved a table between our chairs, and began to transfer the dishes. “I do not permit the affairs of Krevonel Castle to be conducted in the lavish fashion favored by some other barons,” he remarked. “I became accustomed to the simpler fare and style of service provided at Volorian’s estates. Now that I am Master of Krevonel, I maintain that style, rather than indulge in pointless rounds of banqueting.” He carefully poured a dark red liquid into a silver flagon, then paused before offering me the cup. “I must caution you,” he advised, “about this bloodwine of ours. We have never allowed any of it to be taken beyond Alizon’s borders; it is restricted solely for baronial use. I suggest that you sample it . . . sparingly, until you fully appreciate its character.”
I accepted the flagon warily. In my years of trading experience, I had tasted many vintages, some thin and sour, others strong and heady. This Alizonian wine had a pronounced bouquet, somewhat acrid, but not offensive. I took a very small sip. It tasted like no other wine I knew—at the same time, both strangely sweet and salty. As soon as I swallowed, I felt it bite like a potent, long-fermented cider. I set the flagon on the table, taking a deep breath to clear my vision. Kasarian was watching me over the rim of his goblet. I fancied I could detect a certain glint of amusement in his eyes. I wrote firmly on my slate, “Best I not drink much of this. Makes eyes water.”
Kasarian nodded, evidently entertained by my reaction. “I shall have to serve bloodwine to Gurborian and Gratch when they come,” he said. “We can excuse your failure to join us as occasioned by your loss of taste due to that same deplorable ague that has taken your voice. To accompany this meal, try this cordial made from white hedgeberries—much blander, yet thirst quenching.”
As he served each dish, Kasarian described it for me, and tasted a sample himself. I could not help recalling that both he and Duratan had cited the Alizonders’ penchant for poisoning one another. Doubtless Kasarian was attempting to reassure me of the wholesomeness of his viands. I chose to eat items familiar to me—some poached fish, a leg of wild moorhen, rabbit in pastry, some cheeses. Kasarian urged me to taste a dish of what appeared to be steamed roots served with a cream sauce. He said it was another Alizonian speciality, never offered to outsiders. I found it so highly spiced that I doubted that many outsiders would desire to eat it, but I was spared from having to write my opinion of the dish, since he devoted his attention to slicing a glazed fruit confection. He would have pressed further dishes upon me, but I hastily wrote that I could eat no more.