He soon lost track of their route as the coach bounced and clattered through
the labyrinthine maze of streets. The houses pressed closer and closer overhead
and just as there seemed barely enough room for the coach to squeeze any
further, they reached their destination. They had left the noise of the market
place far behind, and as Fabian climbed down onto the grimy cobbles, he felt
oddly nervous. The townhouses that surrounded him were all four or five storeys
tall and as they leant out over his head, leaving just a narrow slit of sky,
their small, deep-set windows peered down hungrily at him.
“It’s that one,” muttered the driver, nodding towards the last house on the
street. It was even taller and more asymmetrical than the others. A mixture of
architectural styles had been piled on top of each other to create a haphazard
column of crumbling render and gnarled timbers. It looked to Fabian like a stiff
breeze would send all five of its crooked, gabled storeys tumbling to the
ground. There was a sign over the gate, beautifully painted in gothic script
that announced enigmatically: The Unknown House.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” asked Fabian, turning back to the
coach, but the driver just gave him an odd smile as he dropped the luggage at
the gate and climbed back onto the coach.
Fabian sighed, hefted his bag onto his back and climbed up the flagged path
to the front door. There was a large iron knocker in the shape of a snarling
wolf, and he clanged it three times, before stepping back to wait for a
response.
No one came, and after a few minutes he pressed his ear to the door and
listened for footsteps. He heard another sound instead: a mournful, unearthly
moaning that throbbed gently through the wood. Fabian felt a tingle of fear. No
mortal being could make such a noise. He stepped back again and turned to speak
to the coachman, but he was gone. The coach was already turning a corner and
disappearing from view. I wonder if I could find the cathedral, he thought,
looking back down the winding street.
With a screech of rusted hinges, the door opened.
The eerie droning sound flooded out onto the street and Fabian turned to face
a towering, fur-clad giant of a man, who had to stoop to fit his broad shoulders
out through the doorframe. “What do you want?” he growled, through a long,
shaggy beard. He spoke in such a thick Kislev accent, though, that it sounded
more like: “Vwaht do you vwant?”
“Uncle Jonas?” asked Fabian, doubtfully.
The giant’s eyes narrowed beneath his thick brow. “I’m no one’s uncle,
child,” he said. “I’m no one’s anything, thank the gods.” He eased his massive
bulk back in through the doorframe and stepped to one side, signalling for
Fabian to step into the gloomy interior, “Jonas probably won’t return until
tonight. You’d best speak to his wife, Isolde. Come inside.”
Fabian hesitated, looking wistfully back over his shoulder at the street,
before stepping into the house. He found himself in a muddle of narrow
corridors, cramped staircases and sombre, dark panelling. The Kislevite had to
remain stooped as he led the way beneath the low, beamed ceilings. Strange
objects pressed in on them, crowding the shelves and cupboards that lined the
walls: china dolls and stuffed birds crowded every available space and crooked
pictures shook on the walls as the man stomped across the uneven floors. The
whole place was filled with the odd, whirring buzzing sound and as they
approached a door at the far end of the hallway, it grew louder. The only light
came from a single, filthy window, and it was hard to see clearly, but Fabian
thought he could make out two large sentries flanking the door. As they reached
it, however, he realised he was mistaken. The bulky figures were actually the
stuffed carcasses of two massive bears. They were an imposing presence, despite
their dusty, moth-eaten fur and Fabian found it hard to look at their snarling
faces as he hurried though the doorway.
They had entered another narrow hallway that ended in a rickety spiral
staircase. The Kislevite waved one of his meaty fur-clad paws at it. “She’ll be
in the Tapestry Room. Second on the left.”
Fabian nodded, and squeezed past the man towards the stairs. “Thank you…” he
said, waiting for the man to supply his name.
The giant gave a low chuckle and nodded back. “Kobach,” he said, in an amused
nimble, before stomping away.
“Kobach,” repeated Fabian quietly to himself; not sure if it was a name or an
insult. The stairs shifted unnervingly beneath his feet as he climbed up to the
next floor. There was another door at the top, and as he pushed it open and
stepped onto the landing, the droning chorus grew even louder. As Fabian looked
down the long twisting hallway, he thought he could discern some kind of melody
in the noise, as though the house were humming a lullaby to itself.
As he passed the first door, he noticed that it was open and squinted through
the gloom to see if the room was empty. It wasn’t. His pulse quickened as he
realised at least two of the shadows in there were alive: a couple of hooded
monks were sat close together, whispering to each other in hurried, urgent
tones. They looked up angrily at Fabian’s approach and one of them leapt to his
feet and slammed the door shut. Fabian only caught the briefest glimpse of his
face, but it was enough to unnerve him even more. The man’s pale, narrow
features were beaded with sweat and his bloodshot eyes were running with tears.
He hurried onwards, towards the awful sound. Finally he reached the next
door. There was something strange about the frame. At first he struggled to see
what exactly it was in the half-light, but after a few seconds he realised the
entire structure was carved from the jaw of some monstrous leviathan. With a
grimace of disgust, he saw that its bleached teeth were still in place,
surrounding the door with rows of jagged canines.
This close, the sound was really quite terrifying and Fabian looked back down
the corridor, wondering if even now it might be possible to escape. He could
imagine how amusing his brother would find it though, if he arrived at the
cathedral, having been too scared to wait in his own uncle’s house. I’d never
hear the end of it, he decided and after taking a long, hitching breath he
tapped gently on the door.
The noise stopped immediately, as though the house were holding its breath.
The door opened slowly, flooding the hallway with smoke and warm, yellow
light. A beautiful woman looked out at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes. Her
pale skin was flushed with warmth, or alcohol and her thick black tresses were
tousled and unkempt, as though he had woken her from a deep sleep. She gave him
a languid smile and stooped to place a long, moist kiss on his forehead, as
though they were old, intimate acquaintances. As she leant back again, Fabian’s
eyes rested briefly on the expanse of ivory cleavage straining at the
emerald-green velvet of her dress. He blushed as he realised she had noticed the
direction of his gaze and the woman’s smile broadened as she stepped back into
the room and signalled for him to follow.
It was a large room, but every inch of it was crowded with crates, chests and
piles of books. The walls were lined with thick, faded tapestries depicting a
gaudy multitude of creatures, both mythical and real. There was a large,
canopied bed in one corner and next to it an oil lamp was quietly hissing,
filling the room with soft, shifting shadows. The light also picked out a haze
of scented smoke that was hovering at about the level of Fabian’s face. He
couldn’t place the aroma, but as he inhaled the fumes he felt a pleasant
heaviness in his limbs and suddenly realised how tired he was.
“Take a seat,” said the woman in a soft voice, waving vaguely at the jumble
of furniture that cluttered the room. Then she yawned, reaching up in a slow,
feline stretch, obviously conscious of how flattering the light was as it played
across her curves. As the light shimmered over her hair, Fabian noticed it was
bejewelled with dozens of tiny, yellow flowers. Once she had finished
stretching, the woman curled up in a large, leather chair and rested her chin on
her hands, gazing through the smoke at Fabian’s discomfort with obvious
amusement.
He finally found a chair and perched awkwardly on the edge of it, looking
everywhere but at the woman. “Your servant told me it was best to wait here,” he
muttered, “until my uncle returns.”
“Of course,” she replied, nodding sagely. “And who is your uncle?”
Fabian frowned and finally met her eye, wondering why on earth she had kissed
him so fervently if she had know idea who he was. “My… my uncle is Captain Jonas
Wolff,” he stammered, wondering if he had come to the wrong room.
The woman flicked her ebony hair back from her face and looked up at the
ceiling as though trying to recall something. “Jonas Wolff is my husband’s name
too,” she said, seeming a little confused. “How odd.”
Fabian waited for her to continue, but she just frowned up at the ceiling in
silence. He took the opportunity to admire the long, pale curve of her neck and
as he did so, he noticed a silver chain that pointed enticingly to the neckline
of her dress. The chain ended in a small, ivory figurine of some kind, but
Fabian could not quite make it out through the heady fug. After a few minutes,
the silence began to seem a little odd. “Then, are you Isolde?” he asked.
The warm smile returned to her face and she looked back at him. “Of course I
am, silly boy.” She rummaged down by the side of her chair and lifted a strange
contraption up onto her lap. It looked like an oversized violin, but it had a
cranked wheel attached to it and the soundboard was covered with a row of small
teeth-like keys. “Are you a fan of the wheel fiddle?” she asked. Before he could
reply, she began to turn the handle, filling the room with the awful whining
buzz he had heard earlier. As she played, the woman closed her eyes and mouthed
a stream of silent words. She seemed to quickly forget all about her guest.
As the droning notes washed over him, Fabian felt his head growing lighter
and his eyelids growing heavier. He tried to keep himself awake by studying the
animals depicted on the tapestries, and to his delight he realised they were
moving, dancing across the walls of the room in time to the music and fluttering
gaily across the ceiling. Scale seemed to have no meaning for the crewelwork
creatures. Rats pounced viciously on horses, wrestling them to the ground with
their teeth, and monkeys rode on the back of goldfinches, waving little flags
above their heads as they circled the light fittings and skipped around the
doorframe. Fabian laughed to himself, thrilled to think that Jakob had missed
out on this incredible carnival, just so that he could be lectured by a bunch of
sour-faced old priests. The music eddied and swelled, enveloping his thoughts
with its odd, serpentine phrases. After a while, he slipped gratefully into
unconsciousness, dragging the creatures down with him into his dreams.
“Isolde, what have you done?” cried an angry voice and Fabian woke with a
start. For a moment he could not place his surroundings. The oil lamp had burned
itself out and the only illumination was a few shards of moonlight knifing
through the gaps in the wooden shutters. He saw the dark-haired woman curled up
on her chair, fast asleep, but still clutching the strange instrument to her
chest. With an inexplicable feeling of guilt, Fabian remembered what had
happened and lurched up from his chair. His head spun sickeningly and he felt as
though the floor was giving way beneath him. He turned towards the door, to see
the owner of the voice.
An elderly gentleman was stood in the doorway, and Fabian immediately
realised it must be his uncle. He had the same regal bearing and aquiline
features as his father, but if anything, they were even more refined. He was
obviously much older than Hieronymus: in his late seventies possibly, and he had
to support himself on a long, delicate cane; but his clothes were perfectly
tailored. His doublet, jerkin, and hose were all jet black and embellished with
delicate silver needlework, and he wore a high, ermine-lined collar, ribbed with
sparkling leaves of silver. His long, grey moustache was waxed in a flamboyant
curl and as he took in Fabian’s slender form, he dipped his head in a graceful
bow. “Fabian, I presume?” he said, annunciating each syllable with the soft,
precise tones of a poet.
“Yes, my lord,” gasped Fabian stumbling through the chaos and taking the
man’s hand. “I was instructed to wait here by your servant, but I was tired
after the journey and—”
“I can imagine what happened, child,” interrupted the old man, giving Fabian
a kind smile. He eyed the sleeping woman with concern. “My wife has been a
little unwell of late.” He placed a hand on Fabian’s shoulder and looked deep
into his eyes. “Don’t give any credence to anything she might have told you. The
poor thing has become slightly confused. She inhabits a strange fantasy land
half the time.” He gestured to the wheel fiddle. “She finds it helpful to
indulge her passion for music.” He chuckled. “But it’s not always so helpful for
everyone else.”
He steered Fabian out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him. “As
you have no doubt guessed, I’m your Uncle Jonas,” he said, leaning on Fabian’s
shoulder for support as they headed off down the corridor. “I had hoped to be
here to meet you, but I got caught up in a dispute with some rather disreputable
foreigners.” They entered a smoky, book-lined study. A small, cast iron
fireplace filled the room with light from its merry, crackling blaze and Fabian
helped the old man into a seat beside it.
“Did you mention a servant?” asked Jonas, signalling for Fabian to sit next
to him and handing him a small glass of thick, ruby liquid.
Fabian eyed the glass suspiciously, still feeling unsteady from his
unexpected nap. “Er, yes,” he replied. “Your butler, I think. A large Kislevite
man. He showed me to your wife’s chambers. I think he was called Kobach.”