The Knight came upon one such unlucky soul. A Khur lay sprawled by the fountain. His torso had been ripped open, his body left here as an extra warning to the unwary. By his clothes, Hengriff took him to be a beggar come to search for trinkets he could sell. He was past such needs now.
At the foot of the broken tower was the third sign. An ordinary copperplate, such as was used in taverns all around the city, was nailed to the tower door with three iron nails. Lines were scratched into the copper. They formed the sigil of madness. Anyone passing through the door without proper protection would go immediately insane.
Hengriff snorted. Perhaps the villa’s current resident had come home once without his protective amulets. That would explain much about him.
Despite the devastation all around, the great door swung smoothly inward, silent on well-oiled hinges. The interior smelled strongly of musk.
“Hello!” He tried to call softly, but his voice still boomed like a drumbeat.
Something stirred in the darkness. Something big. His hand went to his sword hilt.
“Faeterus! It’s Hengriff,” he said, feeling somewhat foolish. His voice could hardly be mistaken for any other’s.
A square of light appeared overhead as a trap door opened. Hengriff held up a hand to block the sudden glare. The light showed him a strange beast curled against the far wall, several yards away. It had a lion’s tawny body and limbs, but a long neck covered with small, bronze-colored scales. Its head was its most disturbing feature. Framed by a short, stiff mane of reddish hair, the head was round, like a human’s, with human-looking icy blue eyes, a flat nose, and a very wide mouth.
The mouth split in a grin as Hengriff tightened his grip on his sword hilt. At least four rows of teeth, one behind the other, glittered like polished steel in the wide mouth. The large eyes gazed at him steadily, without blinking. The Knight knew then what had happened to the beggar lying dead outside.
A knotted rope unspooled from the open trap door, its end striking the floor at Hengriff’s feet. The Knight began to climb, senses alert. A good place to ambush someone, he thought.
As his head and shoulders penetrated the room above, heat washed over him like a lowering weight. Oil lamps with silver reflectors lit the scene brightly, but the warmth came from two large fireplaces, opposite each other in the large, round room. Fires blazed high in each.
The room was decorated in an extreme of Khurish fashion that would have embarrassed a native-born Khur. Dark yellow carpets were layered six inches deep, helping to mask the warped floor. Every inch of wall space was covered by tapestries, depicting not only Khurish scenes of deserts and oases, but foreign sights as well—the barbaric splendor of Ergoth, the staid pageantry of old Solamnia, and geometric Tarsian designs shot through with spun gold thread.
There were no chairs or proper tables, only silk and velvet pillows, divans spread with plush wool and damask rugs, and low tables meant to be used by diners seated on the floor. Contributing to the suffocating atmosphere were jeweled incense burners hanging from the ceiling beams; they filled the air with the heavy reek of spice.
Hengriff’s host had returned to his dinner after dropping the rope through the trap door. An etched silver tray was balanced on the divan cushions beside him. Hengriff glanced at its contents and quickly looked away. A bird of some sort, plucked clean, but still raw. Savage.
“Welcome, noble Hengriff,” said Faeterus, waving a hand.
Gone was his bulky disguise. Shorn of the heavy, ragged robes and thick gray wig, Faeterus was revealed to be an elf of advanced years, with cottony white hair, eyebrows like flyaway wings over hazel eyes, and a chin sharp as the prow of a war galley. His hands were unusually large for an elf, with prominent joints and exceptionally long fingers, darkly stained by decades of mixing potions. He wore long, white cotton trousers and an abbreviated geb.
“That’s quite a watchdog you
“A rare creature indeed. A manticore from over the seas. It ensures my privacy.”
Faeterus indicated the Knight could join him, but Hengriff settled himself on a low table nearby, after deeming it strong enough to take his weight. He would not recline on the cushioned divan with the mage, nor sit on the carpeted floor at his feet like a supplicant.
“A new development,” he announced. “Prince Shobbat has regained his wits. As usual he’s aflame to depose his father, but when I mentioned the elves had gone to the valley, he seemed ready to relapse. He’s so frightened he’s willing to stir up the desert wanderers to stop the elves.” He held up Shobbat’s letter. “He gave me this proclamation, in which he incites them to make righteous war on the elves.”
“Shobbat is an idiot. Does it say anything more?” Faeterus bit delicately into the raw bird. Blood ran down his chin until he dabbed it with a napkin.
