He even told jokes of the randy sort favored in barracks; which, being a prim Rhaetian at heart, he would not ordinarily have uttered in the hearing of a lady. Still she only smiled politely.
This, Thorolf decided, was a waste of time. Instead, he began questioning: "Tell me where you are quartered."
"In one of the little rooms on the second level, for advanced diaphanes," she said.
"Where are those cubicles? I've but once set foot in the castle."
"When erst you brought me thither, you ascended a stair and turned right to the Chamber of Audience, didst not?"
"Aye."
"Well, you must needs turn left at the top of the stairs instead and pass a row of chambers betwixt the left-side corridor and the outer wall. Mine is the second from the stair end."
"Couldst draw me a plan?" asked Thorolf, taking notepad and writing materials from his scrip.
"Nay; but if you will draw, I'll correct your sketch."
Soon, with some spillage of ink, Thorolf had a ragged plan of the second storey of the keep. He asked: "Hast a room to yourself?"
"Aye."
"Do you always sleep alone, or does Orlandus— ah ..."
"Nay; the charms of women's bodies beguile him not. Once he caught a guard sneaking into my chamber, hoping for a speedy lectual canter. The master had the fellow dragged away by male diaphanes."
"What befell the would-be lecher?"
"I know not; but later that night I heard masculine screams."
Thorolf changed the subject. "Now tell me what you do during the day—any ordinary day."
"We rise early to break our fast. Then the Master hath assigned me to the Record Room, where we keep files on Sophonomy's foes. 'Tis not so different from what my confidential clerk did when I ruled in Grintz. Each bit of news of the scoundrels is pricked down and placed in a folder. The folders stand in alphabetical order."
"Where is this Record Room?" asked Thorolf. He had visions of abstracting his father's dossier and thus breaking the Sophonomists' hold on the Consul.
" 'Tis in the crypt below the castle, directly beneath my sleeping chamber. The area combines two of the cells of the dungeon. The Master had the wall betwixt them knocked down and the room aired and scrubbed. 'Twere no bad place to work, save for the plaints and the rattling of chains of the prisoners in the other cells."
"Prisoners?" Thorolf came alert. "Whom, pray, does your Master confine against their will?"
"They are all probationers who have committed grave offenses. Not common, mundane Rhaetian citizens, if that concern you."
Thorolf filed the information for possible future use against the cult. When the repast was over, Thorolf led Yvette unresisting up the stair to the same handsomely furnished room. Inside, she said:
"I do recall this chamber, where you and I once attempted a night of pleasure—oh, it must be half a month agone. My memory thereof wavers phantasmally; I have a dream of living as some sort of devil-fish. Where sat we when something went amiss?"
Thorolf said: "I was on yonder settee, and you were giving me lessons in kissing." His heart thudded.
"Excellent! Seat yourself. Sergeant, and we shall resume where we left off."
She pushed him back until he sat down. Then pirouetting slowly, she shed the shimmering golden gown. The fine linen shift beneath it followed as she pulled it off a finger's length at a time, like a skillful courtesan arousing her client. She sat down on Thorolf's lap and kissed him until the blood pounded in his ears. The air was redolent of a costly perfume.
She stood up and stepped back, glancing at the vacated lap. "Art ready?"
"Aye," he said thickly, wondering how he could stand up while still clad.
"Then you shall have your desire once a small matter hath been attended to." Her tone became as briskly businesslike as that of a Rhaetian banker.
"Eh? What's this?"
From her reticule Yvette brought out a sheet of paper, folded and refolded into a small packet. She spread the paper on the writing desk, saying: "You have but to sign this trivial engagement, and my body shall be yours. Here's pen and ink—and one thing more!"
She picked up the golden dress and detached the ruby brooch. "When you sign, I shall prick your thumb and press it to the contract."
"Damn!" muttered Thorolf. "Every time we ..." His irritation turned to ire. "Why on earth should I drip blood on this paper?"
"The Master insists. It validates the contract."
For a heartbeat, Thorolf's passion pulled him forward while his prudence held him back. Then he growled: "I'll sign nought without reading it first."
He settled himself on the writing chair and moved the candle closer to the paper. He read that the signer bound himself to apply for membership in Sophonomy, to enroll in the prescribed courses, diligently to pursue these studies for the glory of Sophonomy and the benefit of mankind, and to pay the required fees.
Thorolf looked narrowly at Yvette. She was still a gorgeous creature, but this crass and ominous bargain chilled his lust. That drop of blood would likely give Orlandus some magical hold upon him; if he displeased the Master, he, too, might be turned into an octopus.
"What is the purpose of this document?'" he asked, keeping his voice emotionless.
"To do the Master's will. I know no details; I do but know: no contract, no venery. Come, Sergeant, wouldst not show yourself as proficient at. this kind of riding as that upon your mighty steed?" She leaned over and began plucking at his ties, laces, and buttons, rubbing a small but firm breast against his cheek.
It revolted Thorolf that Orlandus' magic had reduced this queenly woman to a kind of fancy whoredom. Be crafty! he commanded himself as he turned away from the desk, saying:
"Yvette, my dear, this contract is a serious matter. I must think ere deciding." He stepped to the door. "I shall go for a walk in the night air. Wait not upon my return, but go to bed when you list."
"But—"
"If upon my return I have decided to sign, I shall rouse you. Good night!"
V – Maleficent Murder
In the fading twilight, Thorolf strode briskly to Bardi's house. When the soldier had told his tale, Bardi fingered his straggling beard and mused: "My congratulations. Thorolf, on your self-restraint. Few stout fellows of your age would have shown the like."
"Hardest damned 'nay' I ever said in my life," grunted Thorolf.
"As for your lady, it sounds to me as if she were possessed by a delta. She is what the country folk call 'pixilated'. Were I seeking a woman, an unlikely thing at my age—" Bardi gave a dry chuckle. "—I should choose one less prone to magical misfortunes."
"Some of which you yourself brought about," grumped Thorolf. "And just what, pray, is a delta?"
"A delta is one of the inhabitants of the spirit world. Members of this species are invisible on this plane, save that in the dark you can see one as a point of twinkling light. Also, a skilled sorcerer can capture it, force it into this world, and compel it to occupy the body of a human being."
"Wouldst call that diabolic possession?"
"Not exactly, nay. Deltas are not evil spirits: they have no special bent toward inflicting weal or woe upon us mortals. They are not highly intelligent and, when controlled by a wizard, obey the commands of him who captures them, like well-trained dogs. Thus they compel the bodies they possess to do as the magus orders. But I must see your lady with mine own eyes."'
"Come, then." As they walked toward the Green Dragon, Thorolf asked: "How complete is the sorcerer's domination? Will a delta-possessed victim slay him or herself at the mage's command?"