Blood Ties (15 page)

The sun was beginning to drift toward the horizon when the trees parted and I saw a vast, nearly palatial mansion in the distance. I reined up and simply stared at it, trying to make some determination about it and not readily coming up with anything worthwhile.

“Are we going to sit here?” said the irritable gnome. “Or are we going to ride headlong into your inevitable death? If it's the latter, let's get a move on.”

“To what point and purpose?” I shot back. “This is a situation that calls for stealth. If you're going to be following me about, endeavoring to get me killed by drawing attention to my presence, how am I to make my approach unobserved?”

“That is hardly my problem. You should have thought of that before you embarked upon this mad adventure.”

Any empathy I might have had for him earlier was rapidly dissolving in a wave of utter frustration with his attitude.

“You talk a good game, you know. Too bad it's no more than that.”

He tilted his head, studying me with suspicion. “What's that supposed to mean?”

I studied him for a moment, then leaned toward him in a position that, had we been simply two men, would have been regarded as a gesture of sharing a confidence. “Listen. I could be trying to play mental games with you by now. Trying to come up with schemes that anticipate your reactions and allow for twisting them to my benefit. Instead, I'm simply going to tell you what I'm thinking.”

“You're thinking? Could have fooled me.” Yet even as he said it, there was something in his tone that indicated to me that I had at least engaged his attention.

“When I say you talk a good game, I mean that you spend all your time wishing death on humans.”

“Not all my time. I also insult them and cast aspersions on their gender worthiness.”

“True, but you'll have to allow that, at the very least, the majority of your imprecations involve death. Yes?”

“Yessss,” he said with obvious reluctance. Again I could see the mild intrigue in his face.

“The fact is that humanity has been vicious and cruel to you and yours. You'd like to see humans die, but you never actually do anything about it. You just sit around hoping and predicting that it will happen. Wouldn't you like, just for once, to get your hands dirty? Really get in there and cause some serious human deaths?”

“What are you going on about?” He was trying to maintain his attitude, but he was having trouble doing so. Curiosity was clearly getting the better of him.

“Assuming that you've been truthful with me in guidance, then my brother and his fellow whatever-theyares are in residence there. I doubt that they would simply have taken over that mansion out of their own fancy. The chances are that whoever wrought this transformation upon my brother is also in residence there.”

“Aye. So?”

“So”—and I had a carefully maintained grim expression upon my face—“I'm going to go in there, and I'm going to find whoever did this. At which point one of two things is going to happen. Either the person responsible is going to tell me that he cannot restore my brother, in which event I will kill him for what he has done. Or he will indeed restore my brother, in which event I will kill him so that he can never do it again. And I have every reason to suppose that he will have guards or henchmen or such who will try to stand in my way. I will attempt subterfuge where I can in order to get as close to the villain as possible, but I rather imagine that I will be killing a number of his minions along the way. And I could use your help in doing so. You can either kill them directly or else aid me in doing so.”

He caught his breath, his eyes wide with excitement.

I had him on the hook. All I had to do was reel him in.

“Now I'll grant you, you could of course betray me at the first opportunity. Call attention to me, work at cross-purposes, and make certain that my life is forfeit. At which point you'll be directly responsible for one death: mine. But think of all the people whose lives you
could
end. Think of the vengeance you could inflict. I could be your weapon against humanity, at least for this endeavor. It's your decision, of course. At least do me the courtesy of telling me which way you're going to go.”

I then leaned back, folded my arms, and waited. The gesture was for show only, though, because I knew of a certainty what he was going to say.

“We,” said the gnome with a snarl of pure pleasure, “have an accord.”

I stuck my hand out. He stared at it as if it belonged to a leper.

“Don't get full of yourself. I still hate you. I just hate larger numbers of you more,” he said.

“Understood. I can work with that.”

Having come to what could only be termed a meeting of minds with my unwanted but possibly useful companion, it was simply a matter of determining the best way to gain entrance into the mansion. I considered a variety of stealthy endeavors and finally discarded them all. If you were apprehended sneaking around a mansion, only feeble excuses could be provided. If, instead, you acted as if you were supposed to be precisely there, or at least thought you were, that left you some latitude.

So, bold as brass, I sat astride Clash and rode straight toward the front door of the mansion. There were no guards or any such policing the grounds, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. People who are insecure oftentimes post guards in plain sight in order to try and keep intruders away. Basically you wind up showing your hand right up front. Those of a stronger disposition prefer to keep their resources closer to the vest. That way you boldly plunge into a situation and only discover that you're in over your head once it's too late to do anything about it.

My riding toward the mansion with no one attempting to impede my way meant one of two things. Either the individual in residence couldn't afford the extra hands to serve as guards. Or he was one of those utterly confident, close-to-the-vest fellows to whom I'd just alluded. The way things in my life tended to go, I was reasonably certain it was going to be the latter.

The gnome sat perched upon the horse's hindquarters. Clash wasn't ecstatic about the small creature being in such close proximity. Every so often, the stallion would cast a glance rearward that could only be described as baleful. The gnome didn't seem to notice, and I doubt he would have cared even if he had. He was too busy chortling to himself and muttering about death and humans. It seemed to me that he was entirely too enthusiastic about the prospect of leaving a body count behind in this endeavor, but it was already too late to do anything about that.

I dismounted upon reaching the mansion and tied off Clash's reins to a hitching post. The gnome hopped off as well. A large pair of ornate oaken double doors stood closed in front of us. I gestured for the gnome to climb into the eaves just above the door. He did so with a single leap, which I found rather impressive. He was certainly an agile little bugger.

Walking up to the door, I took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knocked as if I had every reason to be there. The knock echoed within. A few moments later, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door creaked open. A man stood there in a dark suit. He had a self-important air about him. He looked me up and down, apparently unimpressed by my fairly simple clothing and the dirt that I had accumulated from a vicious battle followed by hours upon hours of traveling. “May I help you?” he said with the attitude of one who wasn't interested in helping at all.

I squared my shoulders, and said with an imperious tone, “I'm here to see Mr. Zack.”

“We have no one here by that name.” He started to close the door in my face, clearly feeling that nothing more needed to be said.

I put up a hand and placed it firmly against the door, preventing it from closing. He looked at my hand with a manner so incredulous that I could not have prompted a bigger reaction if I'd sprouted a third eye. Naturally, I would have been astounded if there actually had been a Zack there; I had pulled the name out of thin air. There was no reason to tell him that, though. “This is where I was told Mr. Zack's mansion was.”

“You were misinformed.”

I stared at him with an air of danger. “My mother told me this is where it was. Are you calling my mother a liar? Are you insulting my mother, sir?”

“Of course not,” said the doorman, rattled. “I do not know your mother . . .”

“You don't know her, I suppose, in the same way that you supposedly don't know Mr. Zack. Look”—and I tried to sound sympathetic to his concerns—“I know you're reluctant to admit that he's here. After all he's done, if I were him, I would want to keep a low profile as well.”

“Sir”—and he was speaking slowly, as if to an imbecile—“with all respect to you and without having the slightest intention of defaming your mother, I must inform you that whatever you have been led to believe, it is inaccurate. This is not the domicile of one Mr. Zack; nor has he, to the best of my knowledge, ever resided here.”

“With all respect to
you
, sir,” I shot back, “I will believe that when I hear it from the lips of the supposed master of this house.”

“Mr. Reaver is otherwise occupied, sir, and cannot be disturbed.”

The moment he said that name, it was as if my spine had frozen. When I spoke again, my voice was barely above a whisper, and that was no affectation. “Reaver?”

“Yes, sir.” He now looked smugly pleased, seeing the impact that the name had on me. “And if you know of Mr. Reaver—as I perceive that you do—then you know that he is not an individual to be trifled with.”

I was standing a few feet away from him, and I wasn't moving. Part of it was out of strategy and the other part was simply because I was still processing the information I had just been handed. Fortunately enough, the doorman decided to fall straight into the strategic considerations by taking a few steps forward while gesturing toward the road. “So I would strongly suggest—” he began.

He didn't have the opportunity to finish the sentence.

“Now,” I said.

It was the cue that the gnome had been waiting for. He dropped from overhead and landed squarely on the doorman's back. The doorman let out a startled yelp and hit the ground, driven downward by the impact and trajectory of the small, angry creature. Once he was there I didn't hesitate to deliver a firm kick to the side of his head. That was more than enough to drive him into unconsciousness.

“That was amazing!” said the gnome, hopping from one leg to the other in a manner that almost seemed like a little dance. “That felt wonderful, doing that!” He crouched low over the doorman's prostrate form. “I think he's still breathing. Is he breathing?”

“Yes.”

“Cut his head off!”

“I'm not going to decapitate an unconscious, unarmed man.”

“Fine. Wake him up, put a knife in his hand,
then
cut his head off!”

I simply rolled my eyes, shook my head, and hauled the unconscious doorman out of the way. “There will be plenty of time for such endeavors. Let's go.” Without bothering to make sure that he was following me—which I suspected he was going to do whether I wanted him to or not—I entered the mansion, swinging the door shut behind me.

Even as I made my way across the grand foyer, I couldn't help but think that the damnable gnome had a point. If the doorman awoke to sound an alarm, that would cause matters to go very badly for me, very quickly. Still, killing someone in the heat of battle was one thing. Cold-bloodedly murdering an unconscious functionary was simply not something I was capable of. Sometimes I wondered if that wasn't a deficiency in my skill set.

The place was lush and lavish. It was filled with statuary, wall hangings, tapestries, and paintings. The statuary and such were particularly of use to me because they provided me places or objects to duck behind or in. The paintings, on the other hand, were flat-out curiosities because every damned one of them was a portrait of Reaver himself. The man had spent an inordinate amount of time sitting and posing. Even more, he was in a variety of outfits that harkened to different times in the history of Albion. Were they simply artists' imaginings, or were they representatives of the periods in which they were actually painted? How bloody old was the man, anyway?

I moved quickly, silently. Fortunately, the place was cavernous. The reason it was fortunate was that footsteps echoed, giving me the opportunity to hide in the event that someone should be coming my way.

That, as it turned out, was exactly what happened. I heard rough voices talking casually with each other, and I could discern immediately that they were very likely guards or household watch of some sort. I ducked behind one of the convenient statues, and two men wearing what amounted to household uniforms of blue and silver strolled past. They had rifles slung over their shoulders, and they were saying something about “those creepy creatures down there” and not being particularly “thrilled that they were around.” If I'd needed any further confirmation that I was in the right place, that certainly provided it for me. Unfortunately, it also confirmed that Reaver was armpit deep in whatever this business was, and that wasn't going to amount to anything good for me. Reaver was, top to bottom, soup to nuts, bad news, and that meant that whatever my brother had gotten himself into had just been catapulted from bad to worse.

“Why didn't you kill them?” came an irritated voice. I glanced downward to see that the gnome was crouched at my side, looking up at me with disapproval and disappointment. “They were right there, and they were armed.
Now
why did you hesitate?”