Crossroads and Other Tales of Valdemar

Now that—his assumption that I wasn’t merely stymied but defeated—truly stung me, and perhaps it was the injury to my pride that finally goaded my brain into squeezing forth some semblance of a fresh idea.

“Please, milord,” I said. “I don’t want your coin, not until I earn it. I have a further course of action to suggest.”

He cocked his head. “What?”

“I’d like to take up residence here from now until the wedding.”

“Why?”

I didn’t know myself, really, but had to improvise some sort of answer. “Maybe if I become more familiar with the murder scene, some new insight will occur to me. Or, failing that, maybe I can at least stop the robber from returning and doing any more harm.”

“Nonsense,” Tregan snapped. “You’re reverting to your first idiot notion, that one of our own family, or loyal retainers, is responsible for the atrocity. You want to spy on us in hope of identifying the culprit.”

“No,” I said, and wasn’t sure if I was lying or not. I was halfway satisfied that none of the household was guilty, yet likewise suspected that some secret awaited discovery within these walls.

“You’re aware,” Baltes said, “that the old folly of Green and Blue has flared up again. I’m struggling to put the fire out, and I fear your presence here will feed it. You surely won’t feel particularly welcome.”

“I can tolerate that,” I said. “Please, milord. I want what you and Lord Pivar want, to put the feuds and factions behind us forever. If there’s even the slightest chance that my presence here will help accomplish that, or simply lead to the apprehension of Venwell’s killer, isn’t it worth a try?”

“Perhaps,” Baltes said. “Stay for the time being, and we’ll see how it goes.”

So began my sojourn in Keenspur House. As the head of the family had warned, few of his kin exerted themselves to show me hospitality. It might have been even more unpleasant if I hadn’t kept to my nocturnal habits, sleeping the mornings away and roaming the mansion late at night, looking for clues that had eluded me before, trying to imagine what had happened on the night of the murder.

Any huge old pile, no matter how opulent, can turn into a shadowy, echoing, spooky place after the servants turn out the lamps and everyone goes to bed. So it was with the mansion, and perhaps it was that eerie atmosphere that prompted me to recall Venwell’s wide eyes and gaping mouth, and to infer what they actually signified.

Marissa was wrong. The lad had frozen. Because he’d faced a supernatural assailant, and any man, no matter how well trained a swordsman, can succumb to terror in such circumstances.

Yet Tregan swore the killing had nothing of the mystical or otherworldly about it, and much as he disliked me, he seemed sincere in his desire to identify the culprit, so what was I to make of that?

I returned again to the suspicion that the thief dwelled within the mansion. I thought of our search, and one area we’d neglected. Because the family kept it locked, Baltes had the only key, and thus it scarcely seemed a likely or convenient hiding place. It was, moreover, the sort of place folk rarely visit by choice.

But, though I still possessed no certainties, merely a collection of vague suspicions and intuitions, I decided I wanted to visit it, or at least inspect the entrance. I found an oil lamp that was still burning, lifted it from its sconce, and set off through the hushed, gloomy chambers and corridors. Portraits, busts, and statues seemed to glower as I passed, and suits of plate armor standing on display looked misshapen as ogres.

Then a pair of figures skulked from the shadows to bar my path.

It was Dremloc and his crony. Each was only half dressed, with feet bare and shirt unlaced. But despite the inadequacy of their attire, they’d taken the trouble to arm themselves. The flickering yellow light of my lamp gleamed on the smallswords in their hands.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “I’m here to help your family, I’m Lord Baltes’ guest, and if that’s not enough for you, Marissa would take it ill if you harmed me.”

They didn’t answer, just stalked forward, further into the circle of lamplight, and then I saw what I’d missed before: their eyes were closed.

Happily, I didn’t freeze, though I admit a chill oozed up my spine. Retreating, I set the lamp down on a table, drew my broadsword, and yelled for help. The Keenspurs spread out to flank me, then rushed in.

Somnambulism didn’t hinder their swordplay. The slender thrusting blades streaked at me, and I dodged and parried frantically, meanwhile striving to keep either of my opponents from working his way around completely behind me.

Even if I’d wanted to kill them, I didn’t dare, for fear of their kindred’s retaliation. But neither could I simply defend and defend until one of them got lucky and slipped an attack past my guard. I feinted at the crony’s face, and he jumped back. His retreat bought me a moment to concentrate solely on Dremloc. I parried his next thrust, feinted high, then made a drawing cut to his knee.