The Ethereal Plane had become dark and stormy. The toxins in the air were now so thick Baron Rostov could neither breathe nor cast a spell. Having not expected so swift a deterioration, within several seconds he was helpless and would have been dead within minutes. But the Djinni opened another portal and carried them through.
“This enemy of yours is both powerful and uncaring to do that kind of damage to the Ethereal Plane! But we are at your destination, and now it is I who would suffer from long exposure to this unaccustomed plane. Call when you need me.” And Saleem swirled himself into the diamond.
In Wolf’s Lair the Baron was now an exposed spirit, a ghost of sorts, gasping for breath and aching—the Ethereal toxins and his time in the Plane of Air had both taken their toll. He wanted to curl up on the floor and sleep. But a soul outside a body does not recover, so he started exploring immediately.
He was in a dark, cold, foul-smelling cell—apparently picked by the Djinni because there was no one within and few nearby. Floating through one wall, Rostov found a pair of prisoners—one man dressed in the now-ragged clothes of a peasant and another whose clothes looked new and whose limbs seemed unaccustomed to the chains that held them. The peasant looked to be only hours from death by exposure, which made him a poor choice to ask questions of but easy for a ghost to occupy. It would do the man no harm, if little good, so the Baron floated into him.
The balm of soul-plus-body, even with the latter manacled and half dead, soothed him greatly. After a few minutes concentrating on recovery, Rostov turned his attention to his cellmate, wakeful, fretting in his chains, apparently new to the Stokavski pits and perturbed by having to share a cell with an inferior.
He raised the peasant’s head and said, “You are restless, my lord.”
At this, the other man started. “I thought you were dead.”
“Nearly so, my lord, but not yet. What news from above?”
The man stared at him. “You seem … odd … somehow. And why would you care about what’s happening above?”
“Hope springs eternal, my lord.”
“I suppose it must, for a thief. But that’s an odd sentiment here.”
“Here is an odd place for a noble to be, is it not, my lord?”
The man laughed bitterly. “When every Stokavski is a count, nobility counts for but little.” Then he looked more carefully at the Baron, who gazed steadily back, not a peasant’s response.
Finally, the Count asked, “Can you help me?”
“That depends on what you need,” replied the Baron.
The Count laughed again. “That should be obvious! A way out of here!”
“Can you not bribe the jailer? Do you not have friends?”
“In times like these, friends are hard to know. And the jailer never so much as acknowledges my bribe offers. Not even the customary payments for better food.” As he spoke, the Count concentrated on the Baron while moving his hands in what the wizard recognized as a magical fashion, but the heavy chains blocked him; he growled in frustration.
“I will not be in this body long,” said the Baron. “If you wish my help, I need to know more. Who are you, and what is happening above?”
The Count paused in thought before responding. “Very well. You’re certainly not the thief I’ve watched dying this last while, but I have to hope you’re not a spy sent here by my enemies. So I’ll tell you what I can.
“I am Gaspar Stokavski, former Captain of the Guard here. I’ve been tossed in this hellhole for plotting to open the manor gates to Radi’s minions who have laid siege to us. There seems to have been such a plot, but I am innocent of it.”
Gaspar shook his chains. “What is so frustrating is that the plotter is still at large, and I, who should be his hunter, am chained up like a dog down here!”
“Who is this Radi you speak of?” asked the Baron, hoping he already knew the answer.
“Radimir Stokavski … going by the name of John Porter.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“First, tell me who you are, sir! And what do you know of Radi?”
“I’m sorry that I must keep you at a disadvantage, but my own position here is precarious as well. I will tell you that this John Porter, or Radimir Stokavski, if they are the same, is causing great trouble up and down the valley.”
“So whoever you are, you’ve met our Mr. Porter?”
“That I have, and I’m trying to stop him,” declared the Baron.
“Then you should know more of his history.
“Radimir was a rising star—aggressive, brilliant. He was popular among the younger Stokavskis, and his conservative views matched those of the ‘old family’. He was given great responsibility early on, made Hunt Master of the Black Pass Forest, and became one of the select few who are encouraged to travel out of the valley regularly and learn more of the world. My own career was similar, though less spectacular.
“But he became obsessed with something that the Stokavski old family called ‘Radi’s peculiar project’. At first that project annoyed, then angered them. They finally had Ancient Vladimir order me to assassinate him. To avoid alienating Radi’s many friends, I chose to hire an outsider, a first-rate assassin, to do a quiet job.
“This assassin proposed to gain Radi’s confidence, then kill him in a traditional way, with a powerful, fast-acting poison in his food. The plan apparently worked; one day Radi simply disappeared. I paid off the assassin, assuming the body had been professionally disposed of, and that should have been the end of the matter.
“Then three years later, John Porter shows up, and who’s his personal secretary? None other than the assassin I’d hired, and who had obviously cheated me.”
“Bob Packer!” blurted the Baron.
“Sarah Booles, actually. But if you’re able to make that connection …” Gaspar looked at him strangely. “If you want anything more from me, I insist on knowing your position in this.”
“As I’ve said, I require help in dealing with Mr. Porter. I am … an object of interest to him.”
“Then you would be Baron Rostov. Welcome to Wolf’s Lair.” Gaspar bowed, as well as he could in his chains. “I apologize for the rudeness of your accommodations. We will do better the next time you come to stay in our manor, I’m sure.”
“I’m sure you will,” said the Baron, matching the Count’s ironic tone.
“How can I be of further assistance, Your Excellency?”
Under the courtesy, Rostov sensed desperation. He asked, “Are you aware of what Mr. Porter is attempting to unleash and my role in it?”
“I discovered that Radi’s peculiar project, the reason our elders wanted him killed, had been attempting to open Nazadlan. I assumed that as Mr. Porter he was continuing that attempt. I supposed your role was simply as an obstacle to it.”
“Miss Booles did not cheat you. Mr. Porter is quite dead, or rather undead: He’s a Lich.”
“Ah,” said Gaspar. “That explains much.”
“His project was so obsessive,” the Baron continued, “that with it uncompleted, his soul could cling to this plane. Apparently the poison Miss Booles chose attacked his brain but left his soul an intact body to inhabit. So he’s a very powerful Lich.”
“We Stokavskis think of ourselves as even better versed in the fine art of treachery than other Kalnichovs. But because of Radi’s treacherous webs of intrigue, the Guard holds the manor only by our fingernails … and now this!” Gaspar’s chains rattled as he moved.
“Do you know who plotted to allow him and his forces entry here?”
“I suspect my accuser, my cousin Kristijan: A sick, inbred weasel who hopes to perpetuate his line at the expense of my cousin Celesta. That Goblin maggot has turned his eyes upon the woman who loves me! If I ever found him laying one finger upon her—”
Gaspar’s voice had risen to a scream that now dissolved into a wordless howl. Under it, the Baron heard footsteps coming toward the cell, and abandoned the peasant’s body. If the jailer could not be bribed, it might be that he was somehow controlled by someone who could detect the wizard. To make that harder, Rostov backed into the wall and did his best to feel rock-like.
“Still a bit feisty, are we, sir?” said the jailer, eying his prisoner stolidly from the other side of the bars.
The Count shivered, eyes wide with dread; the bodiless Baron felt like shivering, too. Gaspar had said only that the jailer was immune to bribery, not that he almost radiated darkness.
By now, Rostov’s soul had regained its strength. Silently taking a ghostly deep breath and holding it, he spent a few seconds observing from the Ethereal Plane.
This was the Chief Jailer, and it was clear he had a passion for his work—his soul was nearly invisible in its darkness. He could in fact be bribed, though not by money; it would be a deal with a hideous devil. That dark soul had a tough skin, as well. The man was not versed in magical ways, but he was nearly immune to them. The Baron had no idea how many magic-aware prisoners this man had dealt with, but it was clear their skill had gained them no advantage.
“Stay away!” Gaspar begged weakly
“You need not worry … this time, sir. The masters still have questions that need answers.” With a slight smile of anticipation, the Chief Jailer walked off.
The Baron reinhabited the peasant’s body.
“You … you … you must move quickly,” said Gaspar, still half-dazed with fear.
“I can see he is a dark man,” began the Baron.
“You see nothing!” spat out Gaspar. “He can take souls,” he whispered. And his slumped body showed he believed what he said.
“What can I do?”
“Find the plotter, Radi’s ally, quickly. My guess is you have an hour before the Chief Jailer begins his work on me at dawn, as I have seen him work on others. I will put up no resistance. I will steel myself now to endure what I cannot resist.” The Count closed his eyes and braced himself like a soldier. He paid no more attention to the Baron.