‘It’s so alone,’ said Noon, genuine puzzlement in her voice. ‘How can he exist out here by himself?’
The mansion sizzled under the wide sky. One look at it should have been enough, Tor would think later – the place already looked flyblown and finished, a mouldering corpse. It reminded him faintly of home, which should have been the biggest warning sign. It was built from dusty red brick, hazy in the heat, with flat black windows like blind eyes. They were dirty. Behind the sprawling house was a tall wall, and behind that, another so large that it resembled the hills that rose all around. It was impossible to see what was hidden behind it.
‘Godwort is rich,’ said Vintage, although she looked pained. ‘When you are rich, it is possible to live how you want. You see that road?’ She pointed to a stretch of bare track leading from the mansion to the east. ‘A constant stream of goods comes up that road, bringing him and his son food, wine, building supplies, paper, ink, soap.’ She shrugged. ‘Years ago, he himself would travel, but these days, he prefers the isolation of Greenslick.’
‘There’s nothing on that road now,’ Noon pointed out, and she was right. Nothing moved on the road. Nothing moved anywhere on the barren landscape.
Vintage frowned. ‘Come on, let’s get down to the gates.’
The house itself was also surrounded by an imposing granite wall – this was a family keen on walls – and on Vintage’s previous visit there had been guards too, well-paid ones who took a keen interest in anyone unexpected approaching. Now, under the sweltering sun, there was no one to be seen. The tall wrought-iron gate stood open a few inches, and when Tor poked his head inside, he was met with an empty courtyard, flagstones dusted with rotting straw. Falling into silence, they led their ponies to the stables and made them as comfortable as they could. An empty bucket lay on its side in front of the empty guards’ quarters. The silence was a weight hanging over their heads.
Tor cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ he said. Silence rushed in again, and he almost imagined he could feel it, a pressure against his eardrums. He thought of the last vials of blood, hidden within his jacket. ‘How old is he, Vintage? I never did get to see him the last time we were here.’
Vintage was staring up at the dark windows of the house as if she hoped to see a face looking out at them. Any human face would be a comfort at this point. ‘Not so old. Besides which, he has a son, a full retinue of servants, a veritable army of guards . . .’ She picked nervously at her shirt. ‘We’ll go up to the house. Come on.’
As they crossed the courtyard, Noon fell in next to Tor.
‘What happened the last time you were here?’
‘Well, Madam Vintage went up to the big house to conference with our recluse, while I was, uh, invited to wait in the guardhouse. As it happened, I won three rounds of cards before Vintage came stomping back, a look like thunder on her face. Esiah Godwort is very selective about who he opens his compound to.’
‘He opens it to no one, my dear,’ said Vintage, ‘but I’m not taking no for an answer this time. Ah, here we are.’
The door was carved from a black wood and featured a pattern of leaping fish; no doubt once it had been very beautiful, but the varnish had mostly worn away and the wood had turned grey in patches. There was a huge ornate brass knocker, but it too had seen better days, and it had turned green at the edges. Rather than knocking, Vintage leaned her weight on the door and it slowly creaked open.
‘Hello? Esiah?’
They stepped through into a blessedly cool foyer, thick with shadows. Dust danced in the light from the windows, and the room itself was dominated by an enormous painting hanging on one wall. It depicted, to Tor’s surprise, a magnificent war-beast – a griffin stood poised on a jagged outcropping of rock, a bright slash of blue feathers at its throat, while a clouded, storm-tossed sky boiled in the distance. It was, in Tor’s opinion, remarkable work, and he thought he even recognised the artist – the near legendary Micanal, who had vanished with his Golden Fox expedition – but its majesty was lessened somewhat by the squalor surrounding it. There were crumpled papers on the unswept floor, discarded sacks, a scattering of muddy footprints, long since dry. A set of stairs swept up to a darkened landing, while corridors leading away from the foyer were crowded with shadows and seemingly abandoned furniture. One corridor looked as though an attempt had been made to cordon it off – the space was filled with upended tables and chairs and cabinets.
‘Can you hear that?’ Noon was looking up the stairs.
‘I can’t hear anything,’ said Tor. He was starting to feel irritable. ‘Because the place is empty. All this way, all that trouble, to stand in an empty house. Perhaps we could find the kitchens? I want a decent meal before we go anywhere.’
‘Be quiet,’ snapped Vintage. ‘What can you hear, Noon?’
‘Something, so soft . . .’ She closed her eyes for a moment, and then, in a much louder voice, called, ‘Hello?’
Tor jumped, cursing himself. ‘They’re all dead and gone. Come on, Vintage, let’s go—’
‘Hello? Are you there?’ Noon was walking towards the stairs, with Vintage following. Tor sighed and went after them, but he could also hear the sound now – a low muttering, constant and so quiet it was barely there. Noon led them to the top of the stairs and then across the landing. They passed a number of closed doors, and a few open rooms. Sunlight soured by dirty windows lay in pools on the thickly carpeted floors, and Tor had glimpses of furniture, of bookshelves, all covered in dust. The sense of desolation grew.
‘There’s someone down here.’ Noon led them to the last room. It was large and spacious, with a great bank of windows across the far wall, but they had all been covered over with huge sheets of paper and parchment, filling the room with a strange yellowish glow. It had clearly been a study, with bookcases lining the walls to either side, but the desks and tables had been pushed up against the walls, covered as they were in open books, dirty plates and empty glasses. In the middle of the room was a thick rug, and on that were a number of oil lamps. Sitting amongst them was a man. Slowly he stood up.
‘Esiah?’
He was, Tor guessed, middle-aged for a human, a handsome well-built man with thickly curling dark hair and a well-shaped beard that had only a dusting of grey across his cheeks. The man’s eyes were hooded with thick eyelids – a lack of sleep, perhaps – and he had striking, expressive eyebrows. He wore a dusty red velvet coat which looked ridiculous, given the weather outside, and a stained shirt. The dun-coloured trousers he wore were smeared with dust.
He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. He shook his head, and tried again.
‘Who are you?’
Vintage strode into the room, a stricken expression of concern on her face. She went over to the man and smoothed down his lapels, blinking at the dust that came off him in little clouds.