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he was contending with some unseen presence. He hunched his shoulders, tucked his chin in, and
pressed forward. The room changed. The purple veins faded away as the walls and ceiling became solid
and sensible stone again, and the dark liquid vanished. Scattered across an ordi-nary, everyday room
were some smoothly rounded shapes that had once been furniture, and various odd bits of metal too
tough to dissolve. Only a few bones were left, none in any condition to be identified. The vile smell
lingered on the overly warm air, like a fleeting memory of a bad dream.
Grey Davey looked round the room once, and then turned and walked back into the corridor. His face
was pale, but he carried himself as though this was just another day's work. Taggert smiled at him fondly.
Davey was an irritating bastard, when all was said and done, but you couldn't help liking him. He
reminded Taggert of her father, but then Grey Davey. reminded everyone of their father. He kept the
darkness at bay, and always seemed to know what to do for the best. His company was like a cool
breeze on a hot summer's day: bracing but comforting.
'That's it,' said Grey Davey to Taggert. 'End of problem. For the time being. If I were you, though, I'd
nail that door shut, barricade it, and declare this whole corridor out of bounds until things get back to
normal. Once I'm gone and out of range, I wouldn't put it past that room to revert back again. The
Unreal's getting sneaky these days. Not to mention stronger and more determined. The sooner we've a
King on the throne and you can get to the Stone again, the better I'll like it. I don't like the way things feel
around here ..." He glanced briefly at the broken door, hanging from its single hinge. 'Pity about the
Penhalligans. I never liked him, but she was a pleasant sort. Always a smile, and a cheery word. I
suppose there's no chance the children weren't there when it hap-pened? No ... I thought not. Ah well,
can't stop and chat, I've got work to do.'
He turned abruptly on his heel and stalked off down the corridor. Taggert and the guards watched him
go in a respectful silence. The corridor seemed colder and darker without him.
'Sometimes I wonder about him,' said Doyle.
'You're not alone,' said Taggert.
Doyle glanced uneasily at the broken door. 'Was he right about the room? Could it revert?'
'I don't know,' said Taggert, 'but I think we'll seal it up anyway. Just in case. Take care of it, Matt. And
you'd better send word to the Regent that Count Penhalligan and his family are dead.'
'Of course.'
Taggert looked up and down the long corridor and chewed on the insides of her cheeks. Davey had
wanted the whole corridor closed, but that would mean uprooting a great many important people, just on
the off-chance that something nasty might happen in the future. The courtiers would not take
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kindly to that. In theory, as Steward she outranked everyone not actually of royal Blood, but she had
enough sense not to push that too hard in practice. Of course, things were different now . . .
'Start evacuating this corridor, Matt. I want everyone moved out of here, as fast as possible. No
exemptions, no excuses. Then set guards at each end of the corridor to stand watch. No one is allowed
in or out, unless accompanied by a Sanctuary.'
Doyle raised an eyebrow. 'The people here aren't going to like that.'
'Yeah,' said Taggert. 'Isn't it a pity, all those wealthy courtiers and nobles having to put up with a little
inconvenience, like us common folk.'
She grinned at Doyle, and then walked away and left him to get on with it. The grin stayed on her lips for
some time. Every now and again, she got a little back for every time a noble had sneered at her or her
father for not having any Blood. All in the line of duty, of course . . .
The old dining hall in the East Wing hadn't been used for a major gathering in more than thirty years, and
it looked it. A small army of servants was still scrubbing the floor, laying rush mats and lighting
wall-torches as the main courses of the meal were being served. The Regent said nothing, and did his
best not to notice the scurrying servants. He'd intended to use the dining hall in the North Wing, but at the
last moment Prince Lewis's men had occupied it, and he hadn't felt like fighting a war to get it back. So
here he was, presiding over a banquet at an ungodly hour of the evening in one of the dingiest parts of the
East Wing. God knows what they'd been using the place for previously, but from the smell that still
lingered on the air he should have ordered the hall fumigated first.
Count William Howerd leant back in his chair and looked out over the crowd of nobles and courtiers
and traders who sat packed shoulder to shoulder at the freshly scrubbed tables, filling the air with their
chatter. There was more than enough wine for everyone, and the food was surprisingly good, under the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]