The path leading to the palace was steep and winding, as the houses of the nobility were lined around the highest hill in the city. From his seat, Frey had a good view of the roofs of the merchant houses below, and the great bend of the river. He could see the spiers of the temples and the vast construction site where workers were toiling to rebuild the Faculty of Alchemists.
Horses' hooves clattered on the cobblestones and carriages sped by. Servants dressed in the livery of a dozen famous families milled about carrying messages, driving beasts, or hauling great baskets of provisions. The lowliest were better dressed than some of the city's merchants, and the highest ranked wore uniforms hardly less ornate than those of a mercenary captain. They all seemed cleaner and better fed than the commoners in the lower part of the city.
Here and there, splendidly attired nobles strolled with their henchmen and personal guards, and the crowd parted before them as if under the influence of some mysterious force. Frey studied his haughtiness, and thought he recognized a few of the younger ones who played poor some nights at The Stinky Pig. He doubted any of them would recognize him now.
Ahead loomed the walls of the palace that dwarfed the majestic mansions that surrounded it. Even then, with its plastered walls and statues lining the driveway, it looked more like a fortress than a palace. The arched entrance was massive, and the heavy bronzed oak doors looked as if they could withstand a hundred battering rams. There were sentinels who closed the entrance and scrutinized anyone who tried to trespass. Some were recognized immediately and allowed free passage, but others were detained and questioned, and Frey suspected that he was going to fall into this second category.
He tapped the canopy of the palanquin to signal the bearers to stop. He paid them two shillings of silver and added one more as a tip, then watched them go. He patted his robe to make sure the summons letter was still in place and headed for the entrance as confidently as he could manage.
When one of the guards asked him what business he was taking there, he showed him the letter with the seal and was surprised when a tall, thin man, dressed all in black, emerged from the guardhouse and looked at him with cold gray eyes.
"Mr. Frey." he said, his voice calm and devoid of emotion. "If he will be so kind as to follow me, I will explain the nature of this matter to him while we are on our way."
Filled with a sudden agitation, Frey started to walk alongside the man, noting that two armed guards were following their steps. They proceeded down long corridors, through a series of galleries, and through a vast ballroom before descending a flight of stairs into the dungeons below the building.
Somewhere far away he rang the vespers bell.
♦ ♦ ♦
Frey studied the office cautiously. It was spacious and sumptuously furnished; it was not what he had expected. He had thought that he would end up in a torture chamber or a cell, but not in such a place.
Despite everything, the armed guards had followed them and had positioned themselves, motionless, against the opposite wall from where they stopped. While Frey was taking in the surroundings, a liveried palace lamplighter entered, carrying a small ladder. A second carrying only a candle climbed the ladder and lit the candles of an enormous chandelier, whose light muffled the rays of the setting sun that filtered through the narrow window.
The tall man gestured to a gigantic leather-covered chair that sat before an equally oversized desk.
"Please, Mr. Frey, take a seat."
Frey accepted the offer, and the tall man paced to the window and looked out for a moment, before drawing the heavy brocade curtains. He looked at the window as if he were looking at it for the first time. It was narrow, obviously designed to shoot arrows through.
"This building was a fortress before it became a palace," he commented.
The words hung in the air, and Frey turned them over in her mind, wondering if there was some hidden meaning behind them. He didn't reply, but waited for the man to continue and expand on the statement, if he did. The man considered the situation and smiled for the first time, revealing teeth of such brilliant whiteness that they made even his pale skin appear sallow.
"Forgive me, Mr. Frey; You are not quite what I expected."
"And what did you expect...?"
The tall man bowed as a fencer might have done to someone who had just scored in combat.
"Forgive me, again. It's been quite a long and horrible day, and I've almost forgotten manners. I am Osval yerónimo, personal secretary of his highness Duke Emmanuel."
Frey wasn't quite sure if he should stand up and bow again, though he didn't get a chance to because Osval hurried behind his desk and sat down. Frey realized that even in that comfortable chair he remained with his back straight, like someone accustomed to the iron discipline of a soldier.
"In response to his question, the truth is that from the description he had of you, he expected someone less…refined. Serves me well, I suppose." He opened a small leather-bound notebook before him. "I see that you are a Platinum rank adventurer. Good. Very well."
"Because I am here?"
"Dieter! John! You can wait outside."
Osval gestured to the armed guards, who opened the door and slipped quietly and discreetly out of the room. Once they were alone, Osval linked his fingers together in front of him and began again.
"Tell me, Mr. Frey, are you familiar with ratfolks?"
Frey felt as if his heart was about to stop, and he suddenly felt his mouth go dry. He considered his words with all the care in the world.
"I know something about them, but I have not personally met any of them."
Osval began to laugh. It was a cold, mechanical laugh, without the slightest trace of humor.
"Very well. I understood that this was not the case."
"What does it mean?" the intrigue made Frey snap. He didn't know where this conversation would lead, but he could imagine several possible conclusions, and none of them were pleasant.
"You served in the sewer guard and assured your superiors that you had met them. Isn't that true?"
"You know it is."
"Yes, I know." Oswal smiled again. "In my opinion, you don't seem like the typical adventurer who accepts a mission as a sewer guard. Platinum rank adventurers rarely jump at the chance to chase goblins through our sewers."
Frey was beginning to get used to that style. His surprise was not as great as it might have been at the unexpected nature of that statement. He realized that it was something that was part of Osval's techniques, who liked to keep the people he dealt with in a state of insecurity. It was like measuring the opponent in a duel, and Frey smiled back.
"I'm not a conventional adventurer."
"Really? How interesting! Some day you will have to explain to me how this phenomenon came about."
"Maybe we can have some tea later."
"Perhaps perhaps. But back to the ratfolks. How many times did you meet them?"
"On several occasions."
"How many, exactly?"
Frey counted the number of times he was willing to admit: the meeting inside the sewers, the attack on The Stinky Pig, and the fight in the Riverheim sewers. He thought that, under the circumstances, it might not be very diplomatic to mention the encounter with the giant mutant rat inside Fritz Helstaff's house, nor the battle with the Clan Marchin warriors at the Alchemist College, let alone the events at the city cemetery.
"Three."
Osval consulted the notebook again.
Another piece of the puzzle that has fallen into place, Frey told himself. "He doesn't really know anything; he's just coaxing me out. His style is to intimidate people and then see what they confess." Of course, that knowledge would be of no use if he ordered him to be taken to the dungeons and tortured. She decided that she would try to get him some answers.
"By what authority are you doing this?" he asked.
"With the duke's" replied Osval with absolute certainty. "Why does he ask?"
"I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here. I can tell that Emilia's invitation was just a bait."
Osval gave him a long, chilling smile.
"That I can explain to you quite easily. What do you know about Fritz Helstaff?
Once again, Frey felt her heart leap into her mouth, and she fought to keep the guilt and surprise from showing on his face. A slight glint of amusement in Osval's eyes told him that the man had detected something in his expression.
"It's a familiar name," he replied. "I think I saw him on one occasion entering the guard quarters."
"Very well. Allow me to share some information with you… I have your word as a gentleman that nothing I say to you will leave this room."
The tone in which the words were spoken made Frey understand that Osval did not simply count on his gentleman's word, and he did not doubt that there would be serious and violent reprisals in case he failed to trust that man.
"Please, continue. You have my word that I won't tell anyone."
"Fritz Helstaff was murdered."