Diablo: Moon of the Spider Page 4

  Zayl’s gaze moved on. From the peculiar, rounded roof, the sleek walls of the tower descended to a more typical rectangular design which stretched out nearly twice as wide as the next largest domicile. The roof of the main section arched so sharply and narrowly that it gave Salene’s residence the feel of a cathedral or church, a complete contrast to the top of the tower.

  There were eight windows on each level and each of those windows was shaped like an octagon. Eight fluted columns also stood guard at the entrance, which consisted of a pair of massive iron doors, each with eight bracketed frames decorating the front. To reach the doors, visitors would first have to ascend an equal number of lengthy marble steps wide enough to hold several dozen people at once.

  At most any other time, such an obsession with a particular number would have struck Zayl with much interest, for the teachings of Rathma included understanding the influences of all numbers on the Balance. There were numbers whose use could tilt it one way or another with ease, if manipulated by the knowing soul.

  But, for the moment, Zayl did not pay that any mind, for he was struck instead by something more immediate, something most unsettling.

  The building before him housed not only the Nesardo family, but also the source of that which had nearly taken him in the coach.

  THREE

  Zayl gave no hint of his discovery as he followed Salene Nesardo and her brother inside. Once more, the words of Rathma returned to him. How truly they had been spoken … but what yet did it all mean? How was this bound to the destruction of the Worldstone?

  The halls of the Nesardo house stood high and were filled with shadows created by an array of round-bottomed oil lamps standing guard in braces on each wall. Their sheer number alone meant that there had to be more servants than the pair he had thus far seen, but none were in sight, nor did he hear any movement beyond that of his own party. Concentrating, he sensed the presence of several others around them, all moving with a wariness that the necromancer deemed caused by him.

  As he proceeded through the long, oddly empty corridors, Zayl realized that everything here had been built larger than it needed to have been. Again, he felt more as if he had entered a vast temple than a home. The necromancer did not even have to reach out with his heightened senses to understand that Salene’s residence was also far more ancient than he would have expected. In fact, from what he had seen of Westmarch, it had to be older than nearly every other structure in the capital.

  “The House of Nesardo is one of the oldest in all of Westmarch,” his hostess informed him without warning. Had she read his thoughts? Ignorant of Zayl’s brief, suspicious glance, she went on, “The original structure was said to be part of the fortress first raised by the great Lord Rakkis.”

  The name registered with Zayl, but what he knew of the legends surrounding the man did not set with what he sensed of this place. Whatever its present occupants might think, there was something much older here, something as old as any ruin in the jungles of Kehjistan.

  “We will be most comfortable in here,” Salene added a few seconds later, gesturing at a sitting room large enough to hold more Rathmians than Zayl himself had ever met.

  A wide fireplace whose opening had been carved to resemble the maw of a huge wolf greeted them with a gullet of flame. The huge fire looked to have just been kindled, although again there was no servant about.

  “They heard you were coming,” Sardak blithely remarked, showing that he, too, seemed to be able to read Zayl’s thoughts now and then. “They were just dying not to meet you.”

  “Please forgive my brother,” the Lady Nesardo interjected, smiling warmly at the necromancer. “He is concerned for my welfare.”

  “And why not? That bastard thinks that he can take what is yours through deceit, and he has the influence to make the magistrates decree such lies lawful!”

  Her smile faded. “Yes, that’s quite possible.”

  Zayl decided that it was time to take the reins. He already had too many questions concerning the house itself and knew that they would never be answered if he continued to react, not act. After all, while Rathma preached that there were times to wait, he also preached that hesitation was the first step to defeat.

  “You wished of me some assistance,” the necromancer uttered, drawing the veiled gazes of both siblings. “Being what I am and having heard what I have, I can make some very accurate assumptions. However, before I promise my efforts, I must hear the absolute truth … and I will know if it is not.”

  The last was in some part false, but the reputation of his kind made many believe such powers to exist. It often enabled the necromancers to better determine their course of action.

  “Yes … we delay too long.” The noblewoman indicated three plush, leather-clad chairs set near the fireplace. Sardak immediately dropped down in the one nearest the flames and reached for a smoked-glass decanter set atop a crested golden tray on a small, square, oak table. Although there were three matching goblets beside the decanter, the brother started to put the edge of the container to his lips.

  “Sardak! Remember yourself!”

  With a grunt, he replaced the decanter. “My apologies, dear sister.”

  Salene nodded her satisfaction. She moved to seat herself, Polth—ever the silent shadow—holding her chair for her.

  “Thank you, Polth. You may go now.”

  “Mistress?”

  “I have the utmost faith in Master Zayl’s integrity, Polth. You are dismissed.”

  The bodyguard bowed to her, to Sardak, and even to the necromancer. However, as his gaze came up, Zayl read in them a warning, should anything befall his employer.

  When Polth had shut the doors behind him, Salene gestured at the third chair. “Please sit down, Master Zayl.”

  “Thank you, I prefer to stand…and it is just Zayl.”

  “Will you at least have something to drink?”

  Zayl shook his head. “My only interest is in hearing your tale, Lady Nesardo.”

  “I will tell it, then, but if you continue to be ‘just Zayl,’ then you will from this point on refer to me as ‘Salene,’ not Lady Nesardo.”

  “And I,” announced Sardak with a flourish and a mocking grin, “you may not refer to at all, necromancer.”

  Ignoring him, Zayl looked into his hostess’s eyes. They were of a startling green, one that reminded him of the lush plants of the jungles. They had strength to them and were slightly slanted, as if she could trace in part of her background an ancestry not that far-flung from his own. “You were saying, my lady?”

  Her brother snickered. She pursed her lips, but did not correct Sardak again. “This is the House of Nesardo. An old House, as I said. Unfortunately, it is a dying House, Zayl. You see before you the last survivors of the bloodline.”

  Sardak raised his goblet. “Here’s to the overdue end of a bad thing.”

  Zayl frowned, something suddenly occurring to him. “You are the Lady Nesardo, but your husband was also—”

  “His name was Riordan. My third cousin, once removed, but bearing the same surname, yes. A necessary match by our parents. We had never met and it combined what remained of the Nesardo finances, making them stronger.” Salene shook her head. “It did not do the same, I regret, for our union. We had mutual respect, and even some affection. Still, that would have been enough, if any child had come of it.”

  She had barely been of age when they had married. Riordan, a bull of a man in body, was a gentle soul by nature. He sought for the good in every man, sometimes searching for it too long. More than once, he was cheated, although never by any drastic measure.

  “We were wed three years and a quarter when illness took him. No one could do anything to slow it. He might as well have been struck down with a sword. Riordan was dead in two days.”

  With his passing, the weight of Nesardo’s fortunes fell to the young widow … and she proved to be far more competent in manipulating its resources than her good-willed husband. In the three years t
hat followed, she rebuilt what had been lost, to the point where she felt that she could at last breathe safely.

  And then had come Lord Aldric Jitan.

  “My husband knew him, did business with him, but once Riordan passed away, I heard nothing from Lord Jitan … nothing until he came to my door just a month ago, holding in his hands what he said was proof that Nesardo was now his.”

  The documentation appeared authentic, a turning over of the estate in lieu of money borrowed from Lord Jitan for an enterprise the noble said had not proven out for Nesardo. Salene had recognized her husband’s signature and seal, but the scope of what he had promised the other noble stunned her. She could not believe Riordan that naive.

  In reply to her demand as to why he had waited three years to bring this dire news to her, Lord Jitan had spoken pretty words about giving the widow time to grieve, but Salene had sensed that there was something more to it. Unfortunately, she could not read him as she could others.

  At this point in her story, the Lady Nesardo took the goblet her brother suddenly proffered her. Her expression had grown more strained since she’d first begun the tale, but in her Zayl noted no guile. Thus far, what he’d heard appeared to be the truth.

  “How long have you known of your gift?” he asked the moment Salene finished sipping.

  She did not try to avert the subject this time. Her steady gaze meeting his, Salene nodded, answering, “It began to manifest when I reached adulthood. I’ve kept it quelled much of the time since. It’s not considered a comely trait for a woman of my station.”

  “It is unschooled, then.”

  She nodded. “Yes, although some aspects of it I understand better than others.”

  The necromancer recalled how she had come to his aid. “In the coach … you sensed what happened to me. You knew I was under attack … and by something involving this house.”

  “Yes … I’ve never seen it act against anyone, though, or else I wouldn’t have risked bringing you! I almost demanded that you leave, for your own sake—”

  “Which I would have refused at that point. I do not like to leave such mysteries unanswered.” He considered something. “You lived in this place before your husband. Riordan Nesardo was the newcomer to it, not you.”

  “I was born here.”

  Zayl glanced at Sardak. “And you?”

  “I was born here, too … but I didn’t live here for very long. You see, my mother was a servant.”

  “Sardak is actually my half-brother, Master Zayl.” Salene gave her sibling a loving look. “Born two years after myself. Our father had him and his mother sent off to a country estate, where he was raised. After my mother passed away, Father had Sardak brought back …”

  “And do you also share the gift, Master Sardak?”

  “I’m very lucky at cards, if that counts,” the brother smirked, taking another deep swig.

  “He has a trace, no more. The gift is much stronger in me.” Salene met the Rathmian’s gray eyes. “Although I never used any of it for gain—”

  “More’s the pity,” Sardak interjected.

  Ignoring him, she continued, “—I’ve always been able to sense the intents of those seeking my favor … until Lord Jitan, that is.”

  “And from him?”

  “Utter emptiness. Nothing at all.”

  Which, to Zayl, was sufficient indication that this other noble also wielded the gift. “The magistrates will side with him on his claims, you say.”

  Salene put down her goblet. “He is a man. I am a woman. This is Westmarch.”

  “What do you hope to obtain from conversation with Riordan? The magistrates will certainly not take his testimony.”

  Sardak chuckled. “The Rathmian’s got a sense of humor, even if he doesn’t know it himself!”

  “I’ve no other recourse. I hoped that Riordan might be able to tell me something I can use … that’s all.”

  The necromancer frowned. “You were waiting for me in the Black Ram. Me, in particular.”

  “Not you,” she murmured, gazing down at the floor. “I waited for something. I didn’t know what, but I felt certain that I would find it there, though it took five anxious nights.”

  If you cannot find the way, wait, and the way will find you. It appeared that the words of Rathma applied not only to his loyal followers, but to others as well.

  Yes, there was definitely more to this than merely a struggle over valuable property, but what it truly concerned Zayl still did not know. He saw only one course of action that might reveal matters to his satisfaction.

  “You need say no more. I will do what I can to summon the shade of your husband, though I cannot promise if the results will be as you hope.”

  “I expected nothing more.”

  She was a pragmatic person, something that the necromancer could appreciate. Zayl considered all the factors involved in what he had to do and added, “With the rising of the moon tomorrow eve, we can begin.”

  “Tomorrow?” Sardak did not look at all pleased, which came as no surprise to Zayl. “Why not get it over with tonight?”

  “Because it must be tomorrow night,” the Rathmian returned, gray eyes boring into the noble’s. Sardak slunk back into his chair.

  Salene Nesardo rose. “Then you’ll be our guest until then, Master Zayl.” When he started to speak, she smiled and added, “I’ll insist on that and I will not call you ‘just Zayl’ so long as you continue to call me other than ‘Salene.’ ”

  “As you wish … my lady.”

  Her smile turned to a frown, his response clearly not what she had anticipated. “I’ll show you where you can sleep. Sardak, please don’t drift off by the fire.”

  “Never fear, sister dear. Once burned, twice shy.”

  “If you’ll follow me, Master Zayl?” Striding gracefully across the room, Lady Nesardo opened the door. The necromancer trailed after her, silent and ever observant of his surroundings.

  In the corridor, Salene reached up to one of the oil lamps. Only then did Zayl see that each was removable. In addition, a rounded handle hidden on the backside enabled the noblewoman to carry the lamp with ease.

  “Thank you for doing this,” she whispered. Her eyes glittered in the light of the lamp.

  “I can promise you nothing,” Zayl replied, suddenly a bit uncomfortable.

  “Which is more than I had before,” Salene remarked, turning and leading the way. “Which is much more than I had before …”

  Luxury was not something a Rathmian sought, and so Zayl found no comfort in his surroundings. The plush, down-filled bed, the high, polished rafters, the elegant, embroidered rug that had made the journey all the way from Lut Gholein … they only made him yearn for the jungles of his home.

  They also resurrected dark memories.

  The last time he had been offered such opulence, it had been in a far eastern kingdom called Ureh. He, Kentril Dumon, the Vizjerei sorcerer Quov Tsin, and the captain’s companions had all become the guests of the realm’s lord, Juris Khan. The finest the kingdom had to offer had been given to the outsiders.

  There had been only one problem: Ureh had proven to be a kingdom of the damned, a place once cast into the realm of Hell whose inhabitants had returned to the mortal plane as soul-sucking monsters. Of all those there, only he and Captain Dumon had survived.

  Zayl clutched his gloved right hand. Barely survived.

  “I’m assuming from the silence that we’re alone!” came the voice from the pouch. “And if we’re not, than damn it all anyway, lad! I want out!”

  “Be patient, Humbart.” The necromancer untied the pouch from his belt and brought it over to the table beside the bed. Undoing the string atop, he reached in and removed the contents.

  The empty sockets of the skull seemed to glare reprovingly at him.

  “About time!” echoed a rough voice emanating from somewhere within the fleshless cranium. The skull lacked any jawbone and missed several teeth. There were cracks here and there, too, all th
e results of the fate that had befallen the owner. “Well, isn’t this a pleasant place?”

  Humbart Wessel had been a treasure hunter much like Captain Dumon and his men. He had been part of an earlier and no-less-fatal journey to reach lost Ureh—only, in Humbart’s case, death had come from a high fall when he had attempted to return to the city on his own some years later. A young Zayl avidly studying the lore concerning Ureh had come across the remains and had animated the skull in search of answers. Somehow, he had never managed to get around to sending the mercenary’s spirit back to the netherworld, not that Humbart appeared to be in any hurry.

  They had traveled much together and, despite the skull’s earthy tendencies and outspoken attitude, Humbart had more than once proven the difference between Zayl’s own life and death. That included Ureh, especially.

  The Rathmian set the skull square on the table, giving its owner the best view possible. Despite having no eyes, Humbart saw. He could also hear, smell, and, of course, speak. At times, the spirit grumbled that he would have traded all of these for the ability to eat and engage in mortal pleasures, but for the most part he seemed satisfied just to exist.

  “Such a pleasant, pleasant place,” the skull repeated. “Like the curtains. So, tell me, is the grand lady of the house as elegant as this and as pretty a thing as her voice makes her sound?”

  “The matter is hardly of our concern.”

  Somehow, the remains managed a snort. “Spoken like one of Rathma’s own! How is it you lot have managed to survive the ages with such a lack of romantic notions?”

  As he had so often, Zayl let that gibe, too, pass. Instead, he stepped to the huge rug and sat down. Crossing his legs, he pushed back his hood and stared at the wall before him.