The Riftwar Saga Series Books 2 and 3: Silverthorn, A Darkness at Sethanon. Raymond E. Feist
buildings, and Pug could see an alien-looking house, the central building circled by a large court and several outbuildings. The entire property was surrounded by a low wall, no more than four feet tall.
They worked their way down the hillside to a gate in the wall. There were several barren fruit trees in the courtyard, and a garden area overgrown with weeds. Near the front of the central building a fountain stood, topped with a statue of three dolphins. They approached the fountain and saw that the interior of the low pool surrounding the statue was covered in blue tiles, faded and discolored with age. Kulgan examined the construction of the fountain. ‘This is fashioned in a clever manner. I believe that water should issue from the mouths of the dolphins.’
Arutha agreed. ‘I have seen the King’s fountains in Rillanon, and they are similar, though lacking the grace of this.’
There was little snow on the ground, for it seemed the sheltered valley and the entire island received little even in the most severe winters. But it was still cold. Pug wandered a little way off and studied the house. It had a single story, with windows every ten feet along the wall. There was but one opening for a double door in the wall he stood facing, though the doors were long off their hinges.
‘Whoever lived here expected no trouble.’
Pug turned to see Gardan standing behind him, staring at the house as well. ‘There is no tower for lookout,’ continued the Sergeant. ‘And the low wall seems more likely to keep livestock out of the gardens than for defense.’
Meecham joined them, hearing Gardan’s last remark. ‘Aye, there is little concern for defense here. This is the lowest spot on the island, save for that small stream you could see behind the house when we came down the hill.’ He turned to stare up at the castle, the highest spires of which could still be seen from the valley. ‘There is where you build for trouble. This place,’ he said, indicating the low buildings with a sweep of his hand, ‘was fashioned by those who knew little of strife.’
Pug nodded as he moved away. Gardan and Meecham headed in a different direction, toward an abandoned stable.
Pug moved around to the back of the house and found several smaller buildings. He clutched his knife in his right hand and entered the closest. It was open to the sky, for the roof had collapsed. Red roof tiles, shattered and faded, lay about the floor, in what seemed to be a storeroom, with large wooden shelves along three walls. Pug investigated the other rooms in the building, finding them to be of similar configuration. The entire building was some sort of storage area.
He moved to the next building and found a large kitchen. A stone stove stood against one wall, big enough for several kettles to cook upon it simultaneously, while a spit hung over a back opening above the fire was large enough for a beef side or whole lamb. A mammoth butcher’s block stood in the center of the room, scarred from countless blows of cleaver and knife.
Pug examined a strange-looking bronze pot in the corner, overlaid with dust and cobwebs. He turned it over and found a wooden spoon. As he looked up, he thought he saw a glimpse of someone outside the door of the cookhouse.
‘Meecham? Gardan?’ he asked, as he slowly approached the door. When he stepped outside, there was no one in sight, but he did catch another glimpse of movement at the rear door of the main house.
He hurried toward that door, assuming his companions had already entered the building. As he entered the main house, he caught a hint of movement down a side corridor. He stopped for a moment to survey this strange house.
The door before him stood open, a sliding door fallen from railings that had once held it in place. Through the door he could see a large central courtyard, open to the sky above. The house was actually a hollow square, with pillars holding up the interior of the partial roof. Another fountain and a small garden occupied the very center of the courtyard. Like the one outside, the fountain was in disrepair, and this garden was also choked with weeds.
Pug turned toward the hall down which he had seen movement. He passed through a low side door into a shadowy corridor. In places the roof had lost several tiles, so that occasionally light shone down from above, making it easy for the boy to find his way. He passed two empty rooms; he suspected they might be sleeping quarters.
He turned a corner to find himself before the door of an odd-looking room and entered. The walls were tile mosaics, of sea creatures sporting in the foam with scantily dressed men and women. The style of art was new to Pug. The few tapestries and fewer paintings on display in the Duke’s halls were all very lifelike, with muted colors and detailed execution in the finish. These mosaics were suggestive of people and animals without capturing details.
In the floor was a large depression, like a pool, with steps leading down before him. Out of the wall opposite obtruded a brass fish head, hanging over the pool. The nature of the room was beyond Pug.
As if someone had read his thoughts, a voice from behind said, ‘It is a tepidarium.’
Pug turned and saw a man standing behind him. He was of average height, with a high forehead and deep-set black eyes. There were streaks of grey at the temples of his dark hair, but his beard was black as night. He wore a brown robe of simple material, a whipcord belt around the waist. In his left hand he held a sturdy oak staff. Pug came on guard, holding the long hunting knife before him.
‘Nay, lad. Put up your scramasax, I mean you no harm.’ He smiled in a way that made Pug relax.
Pug lowered his knife and said, ‘What did you call this room?’
‘A tepidarium,’ he said, entering the room. ‘Here warm water was piped into the pool, and bathers would remove their clothing and place them on those shelves.’ He pointed to some shelves against the rear wall.
‘Servants would clean and dry the clothing of dinner guests while they bathed here.’
Pug thought the idea of dinner guests bathing at someone’s home in a group a novel one, but he said nothing. The man continued, ‘Through that door’ – he pointed to a door next to the pool – ‘was another pool with very hot water, in a room called a calidarium. Beyond was another pool with cold water in a room called a frigidarium. There was a fourth room called the unctorium, where servants would rub down the bathers with scented oils. And they scraped their skins with wooden sticks. They didn’t use soap then.’
Pug was confused by all the different bathing rooms. ‘That sounds like a lot of time spent getting clean. This is all very odd.’
The man leaned on his staff. ‘So it must seem to you, Pug. Still, I expect those that built this house would consider your keep halls strange as well.’
Pug started. ‘How did you know my name?’
The man smiled again. ‘I heard the tall soldier call you by name as you approached the building. I was watching you, keeping out of sight until I was sure you were not pirates come to seek ancient loot. Few pirates come so young, so I thought it would be safe to talk to you.’
Pug studied the man. There was something about him that suggested hidden meanings in his words. ‘Why would you speak with me?’
The man sat on the edge of the empty pool. The hem of his robe was pulled back, revealing cross-gartered sandals of sturdy construction. ‘I am alone mostly, and the chance to speak with strangers is a rare thing. So I thought to see if you would visit with me awhile, for a few moments at least, until you return to your ship.’
Pug sat down also, but kept a comfortable distance between himself and the stranger. ‘Do you live here?’
The man looked around the room. ‘No, though I once did, long ago.’ There was a contemplative note in his voice, as if the admission were calling up long-buried memories.
‘Who are you?’
The man smiled again, and Pug felt his nervousness vanish. There was something reassuring about his manner, and Pug could see that he intended no harm. ‘Mostly I am called the traveler, for many lands have I seen. Here I am sometimes known as the hermit, for so I live. You may call me what you like. It is all the same.’