In fact, when his father had introduced them, Ossian had felt a trifle disappointed, for on first acquaintance, there was nothing spectral or monstrous about Marance unless one counted the eyes, which, however freakish, were merely the ones he'd been born with. Actually, he was such a soft-spoken, bookish fellow that it was hard to believe he was even the celebrated family hero who'd performed extraordinary feats of magic and waged savage war on the Talendar's foes, let alone a visitor from the netherworld.
In the weeks that followed, however, Ossian noticed certain peculiarities of Marance's behavior. When dining with a companion, Marance only consumed a bite or two, and, as far as Ossian could tell, when alone, the wizard never bothered to eat or drink at all. He didn't seem to sleep, either, although sometimes, as now, he appeared to enter a trance. Occasionally he even neglected to breathe.
Ossian didn't know why these petty irregularities unsettled him so. It wasn't as if his uncle had a naked skull for a head or was a rotten, stinking cadaver covered in grave mold. Yet at odd moments the younger man almost felt that he would prefer such disfigurements. At least then he would never feel that the spellcaster was posing as something he wasn't.
Still, Ossian believed that Marance had been candid about the reason for his return, and surely that was all that truly mattered, since the mage proposed to win an extraordinary victory for himself and his living kindred. Ossian ought to be delighted to assist, for both the thrill of the exploit itself and the ascendancy over his siblings and cousins he would achieve through its successful resolution.
Outside in the passage, a cat screeched. Startled from his musings, Ossian strode to the door to see what was happening.
Old High Hall was the biggest merchant-noble residence in Selgaunt, as befitted a family that considered itself the foremost in the land. Indeed, the castle was too big for even the horde of Talendar and retainers that presently dwelled there, and in consequence, Nuldrevyn had ordered certain precincts of the house closed up. Wishing to keep Marance's resurrection a secret for fear that someone would find it troubling or gossip about it to outsiders, the Talendar lord had put his brother in a suite in one of the disused sections.
Even though none of the servants had been entrusted with the secret of his presence, Marance's new apartments were somewhat clean, because Ossian had taken a broom and feather duster to them himself. The corridor outside, however, was dirty and musty-smelling. Cobwebs full of insect husks hung in dusty tatters, and footprints mottled the film of dust on the floor.
For a moment, Ossian couldn't see anything amiss. Then a tabby cat hurtled around a corner, shot past the toes of the nobleman's pointed red boots, and, its claws scrabbling on the floor, vanished through the door to one of the vacant suites.
Ossian peered about for the source of the animal's distress. He had a good idea what he was looking for, but even so, never saw the feline's tormentor approach. Shrieking, an amber-eyed shadow exploded from the general gloom directly into his face.
Ossian nearly squawked and recoiled, but he'd decided early on that it would be a bad idea to show any fear around Marance's familiar, and he mastered himself in time. He merely blinked, then took a casual step backward, distancing himself from Bileworm in an unhurried and dignified fashion.
"I always imagined the baatezu as possessed of a terrible majesty," Ossian said. "Your infantile japes come as a considerable disappointment."
"Some of the great lords are that way," Bileworm said, seeming to take no offense. "But I'm not a fiend or abishai at all, really, just a specimen of one of the vassal races following in their train. If you see that puss again, keep your distance. It used to like being picked up and stroked, but I doubt it will welcome such attentions ever again. Is Master still in his trance?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll never have a better chance to slide your dagger into his heart, undead abomination that he is. It will likely save you a great deal of sorrow in the end."
Ossian laughed. "Aren't you afraid I'll tell him you suggested that?"
Bileworm leered, the fanged, V-shaped grin just barely visible amid the shifting shadow-stuff that comprised his face. "He already knows what manner of servant I am." His form elongating, he slid past Ossian into the parlor.
Once inside, the spirit hurled himself into an armchair, then immediately sprang to his feet again. Bobbing up and down, he stalked along the wall, inspecting murky portraits of Ossian's ancestors, most of them possessed of the tall, thin frame and clever face that ran in the family and which Ossian himself had inherited. Many of the subjects had chosen to be painted wearing the family colors of crimson and black, and with the Talendar badge, a perched raven with a drop of blood falling from its beak, showing somewhere about their persons.
"Now here's a monster," said Bileworm, regarding a limned head sporting a wide-brimmed velvet hat. "You can read the cruelty in those beady little eyes. I'll wager he doted on the thumbscrew and the rack, and charged the servants with offenses they hadn't committed when he ran short of victims who truly deserved to be punished."
"That's Hobart Talendar," Ossian said dryly, "commonly remembered as Hobart the Kind. During his term of office as Hulorn-merchant mayor of the city- he outraged many of his fellow aristocrats by seizing the food they were hoarding. He distributed it to the poor to alleviate a famine."
"So he did," said a mild tenor voice. Ossian turned to see Marance shifting himself in his chair. "A shrewder man would have taxed the other nobles for the privilege of keeping the food, don't you think? I'm glad our endeavors will benefit the House of Talendar to a far greater extent than old Hobart's penchant for philanthropy."
"You sound as if there's been some progress," Ossian said.
"There has indeed," Marance said. He picked up his black staff off the floor, not for any particular purpose, apparently, but simply because he felt like having it in his pallid hands. "Go and fetch Nuldrevyn, nephew. It's time we told him what we've been up to."
"It's very late," Ossian said uncertainly, "and Father just rode back from Ordulin a little while ago."
Marance smiled his prim, close-lipped little smile. "You don't understand. You probably think you do, but you're too young. You can't comprehend how it feels to wait for vengeance for as long as Nuldrevyn and I have. I assure you, he'll be ecstatic to hear what I have to tell him, even if you have to roust him out of bed. Now please, go get him."
Ossian obeyed.
Wrapped in his lynx robe, his feet in the shabby slippers his wife was forever threatening to throw away, Nuldrevyn Talendar nonetheless shivered at the chill in the dusty air. He supposed it was his own fault for not finding a way to heat this disused section of the house without alerting the servants to the fact that someone had taken up residence herein. Not that Marance had ever complained. He seemed to crave warmth no more than the food and drink that Ossian carried in to him.
Nuldrevyn blundered into a dangling shred of filthy cobweb which his old eyes had failed to spot in the gloom. He grimaced, wiped the sticky gossamer off his face, and trudged on down the corridor after his youngest son.
It had been a shock to encounter the resurrected Marance. Nuldrevyn's anxiety wasn't allayed by his younger brother's bland explanation that he'd just returned from the Nine Hells, one of the realms of the damned, nor by the leering shadow slinking at the wizard's side. Still, the House of Talendar had successfully trafficked with the powers of darkness before, and when Marance had promised that he'd returned to serve the family, not harm it, Nuldrevyn had opted to welcome him.