To her surprise, she was somewhere she recognized. The tunnel had taken her to one of Papa's studies- which was supposed to be on Eldergrave's third floor, for whatever that was worth. It was a warm and spacious room, the dark-paneled walls hung with hunting trophies, framed blueprints, and old tapestries. A beautiful Samarqish rug spread over most of the floor, covered in complex knotwork designs. Papa's huge hardwood desk lurked at the end of the room opposite the main door. A Dictavox machine was perched on one of its corners like an avant-garde sculpture. The door she'd come out of would normally have led to a servant's corridor-though with so few staff those passages saw little use anyway.

Nikha turned up the arc-lights with the valve by the main door, listening to the comforting hiss of the phlogiston through its conduits. Then she set her pack and rifle down against Papa's desk, plunked down in his overstuffed swivel chair, and immediately drank half a canteen of lukewarm water. "Ahhh..." For the next minute or two she just leaned back, basking in the feeling of being off her feet. She had to keep moving, of course, but the trip through that dark and awful tunnel had drained her. A thousand questions filled her head, about what was going on and how had it happened, about who had done it and where these monsters were coming from, and most of all about why: Why us? Why now? Why do it at all? Such intellectual pursuits were soon interrupted, though, by a rumbling from her stomach.

First, she rinsed off the hand she'd smashed the worm with. It had started to sting and tingle a little bit, and after she wiped it off she noticed a faint reddish burn on the palm. It looked like the one she'd gotten from touching Yesika's cleaning lye once, and she hoped it wouldn't blister and peel like that one had.

Now that her hands were free of monster guts, she pulled the rucksack up onto Papa's desk- which was already clear but for a blotter, pen, inkwell, and the Dictavox. Nikha opened it up and went right for the salt venison. It was spicy and sweet at once, just a little gamey, filling without being too greasy or too tough. Chef Baseer had made it for her from a red stag she'd taken a few weeks ago, explaining the recipe in his accented Tsev. He'd mixed together salt, spices, and some sweet chilis from his native Algiz, far in the Empire's southeast. Eating it made her think of him, and she dearly hoped he was alright.

After finishing a few pieces (she had plenty, luckily) she washed them down with a sip of water and repacked the bag. She felt much better, now, and was about to sling on her kit and keep moving when the Dictavox caught her eye. It was a miraculous machine from Cymdwyth, a confection of cast brass and machined steel topped by a flared bell like that of a wind instrument. Papa had imported several for his workshops and had delightedly shown her how they worked upon their arrival. With the control toggle set to "Y," one could speak into the bell and the machine would cut a corresponding groove into a rotating wax cylinder. Then, set the toggle to "D" and the machine would 'read' the groove, reproducing the voice along with any other sounds it had picked up. It could even play music, like having a whole orchestra on a wax tube. Nikha had found it interesting, but Papa was entirely smitten with the concept. He'd quickly switched from written notes to wax recordings for much of his scientific work. Speaking his ideas out loud helped him think through them, he told her.

What this meant now, of course, is that if Papa knew anything about whatever had happened, he may have recorded it. Nikha checked the cylinder in the machine, but it was blank, unused. She tried the desk drawers next. The left side was all locked, and the top two on the right. But the bottom right was open-just a little, but enough it hadn't locked. She slid it open and made a disappointed sound. The drawer was full of recorded cylinders, but they were all warped and melted, with some even stuck together in clumps. Someone had deliberately destroyed these. But who? Papa? She doubted it. He was a very meticulous man, to the point of deriving some obscure pleasure from recording things and noting them down. Maybe it had been the same people who'd caused this whole mess, killed Yesika and those others?

No way to tell. She went through the drawer, not expecting much but checking anyway. It looked like the sabotage had been accomplished by simply opening the drawer and tossing in some burning paper. The cylinders near the top were in the worst shape, congealed into a single mass speckled with ash. She worked the point of her bayonet in around the blob's edge and pried it up. The recordings below were better, but not by much. Runs of molten wax had dripped across them, destroying the fragile grooves. They got tossed too. She rummaged through the remainder and was about to give up when she found a cylinder at the back bottom corner. The second half was a loss, coated with melted tracks. The initial part, though, looked playable.

She took it out and checked the paper label on the end. It was in some kind of shorthand she couldn't read. Only one way to find out what was on it. She took the blank cylinder off the Dictavox's spindle and installed the one she'd salvaged. She checked that the machine had a charge of phlogiston and set it up. Lever to 'D,' lower the needle, and… Nikha flipped the power valve and watched as the drum began to turn. At first nothing but scratchy whispers came out of the horn, reminding her unpleasantly of the tunnel. After a few seconds, though, there was a clunk, soon followed by the sound of Papa speaking from sometime in the past.

"The time is one hour and seven minutes past midnight on Arizday the thirteenth of Lafris, Tsev Imperial Year 403, Unified Year 1230, Old System Year 1229, Gilemikkan Year 5004. On this day, hmm, sixty-two years ago, the Treaty of Salzka was signed between the Thurnian states of Zauber and Belvecheit. And seven hundred eighty-four years ago today, the last Bleu king of Asteroux was assassinated by the Mandat Nouvelle conspiracy. Let's see..."

Even hearing him on a recording was enough to make Nikha giggle. Papa had an odd interest for dates and timekeeping. He'd even bought an almanac from Lusitíl listing important events that had happened on each day of the year. No doubt he'd been reading from it when he made the recording. Which, thinking about it, had been more than two months ago. She wondered if she'd even find anything useful.

"...and Saint Pyrkas's Comet, the so-called Holy Star, is at the farthest point in its orbit," the recording continued. "It last approached Gaea forty-nine years ago, and will not be back for another forty-nine." Papa sighed heavily, the machine reproducing it as a scratchy wash of white noise. "Perhaps it's appropriate. My work doesn't exactly fall under the Holy Star's auspice."

Nikha frowned. That was a strange thing to say. But Papa kept going.

"But speaking of, I'm reaching the final stages. Finally, I've hit upon a suitable alloy for the exterior plating. It possesses sufficient phlogistic inductance, whilst retaining an exothaumadynamoturgical resonance coefficient well in excess of the W-constant. Securing a sufficient quantity of pure enough wolfram has proved almost as difficult, but I believe I've got a line on it now. The Huws machine has been indispensable. In addition, the test dies I've run through the engraver have all been within acceptable tolerances..."

Whatever came next was buried in a wad of white noise as the needle tracked over a damaged section. Nikha doubted she would have understood it anyway. Papa may have been a cavalryman for a while, but engineering and science had always been his true passions. His injury, he'd confided in her once, had been an opportunity. The end of one career, perhaps the start of another.

After twenty or so seconds the recording came back clear. "...will be able to close that line of inquiry, luckily, and mothball the facility. As to the second part of the project, Felisya Hall is almost fully converted." Nikha leaned closer to the bell, excited. Felisya Hall was a big ballroom in Eldergrave's east wing, named for a great-great-great aunt of hers. "The information from Monsieur M. has been invaluable, however I feel about its source. By the time the seventeenth comes around, I am quite confident that everything will be-"

Nikha nearly tumbled out of her chair when the Dictavox coughed deafening static into her face. The needle had run onto the melted section, and she flipped the machine off, wondering. Papa had plainly been working on something important. He'd never mentioned it to her, nor had she heard anything about it from the staff-not even Yesika, who loved to gossip. Maybe it was meant to be a surprise. For now, at least, she had neither the information nor the knowledge to figure it out. That line about the Holy Star, though-that wasn't the stuff good feelings were made of.

The important part, though, was that she now had a destination! Papa had mentioned the ballroom, and he'd mentioned getting it ready for the seventeenth-and today was the eighteenth of the month. He hadn't said he'd be there, of course, but it was a better guess than any others she had. Maybe it was worth trying to find Papa's workshops too-there might be more recordings, or something else that would help her figure out what she was doing. So, all she had to do was get to the east wing and Felisya Hall. That ought to be easy, right? Right?

Nikha sighed, resting her face in her hands. Well, she'd never finish the trip if she never started it. She put the wax blob back in the drawer as best she could-leaving a mess in Papa's study felt wrong-then put on her pack. She double-checked that her gun was loaded, slung that too, and headed out the next door.

Papa's study was at the end of the hall, which looked just as she remembered it- with the exception of the carpets being gone for some reason. The wainscoting was dusted, the corners swept, the windows clean. She went to look out of one and got a third-floor view of the manor grounds like she should have. The first door she passed was supposed to be a broom closet. It was. The next was supposed to be a washroom- which, thank the Martyrs, it was. She took the opportunity to use the facilities and top off her water supply. The water even seemed to be, well, normal water. Things were going far better than Nikha had thought they would. This part of the house seemed almost normal. Perhaps she wouldn't have a hard time after all.

Soon Nikha reached the third side door, which ought to lead to a cozy smoking room full of hunting paraphernalia. A sword might be nice, she thought as she opened the door. Or maybe a pistol- “Ahp!" she exclaimed out loud as she nearly stepped out into nothing. She wheeled her arms about, bent backwards, and finally the weight of her kit made her tip onto her back like a falling tree. She scuttled as far away from the doorway as she could before shakily rolling over and creeping back up on her belly. There was certainly not a smoking room in there. Instead, the door opened onto a dark, cavernous void. She could see a rusty metal wall extending from the right side of the door, and the faint suggestion of trussed beams in the distance, but there were no other walls in sight, let alone a floor. Just the black pit, a pit she'd nearly tumbled into. Her forehead was clammy with cold sweat. She stared a few moments more, wondering. It was impossible for this… structure, or whatever it was, to be here. Not only would it not fit inside Eldergrave at all, it seemed to take up the same space as the washroom and closet would. Was it magic, then? A dream? Some kind of- A noise echoing up from below interrupted her thoughts: a high, squealing keen that was possibly metallic, possibly organic, and definitely enough to make Nikha scoot back from the edge and slam the door.

"Stupid!" she whispered, glaring at the door because she couldn't glare at herself. It was like the house-for lack of a better word-was trying to trip her up. Complacency would get her killed or worse. She had to be more careful. On a whim, she drew the bayonet and snapped it onto her rifle. It was the type called a 'knife' or 'woodsman' bayonet, the clip-pointed blade about ten inches long. Truth be told, it was meant more as a tool than a weapon-but a knife was a knife. Maybe it wouldn't stop her falling into a pit, but it made her feel a little better.

Moving on, Nikha rounded a corner into another altered section of hallway. It still looked like Eldergrave, but the walls had been haphazardly hung with sheets of red and purple cloth. Even the windows and sconces were covered, giving everything a rosy cast. Some were marked with nonsense words or weird runes she didn't recognize, others with designs like magic circles or the mandalas supposedly meditated upon by the sages of Baolei far to the east. The detritus of debauchery littered the floor. Carelessly broken glasses, drifts of empty wine bottles, abandoned clothing-some of it undergarments that made her frown and blush.

Shortly after entering this zone she came round a bend- though none of the hallways in Eldergrave were supposed to be so convoluted- and spotted another of the pale, hairless dog-things of the type that had fed on Yesika. Without hesitation she cocked her rifle and shot it, the Czarp thumping hard against her shoulder. The creature had just begun to turn towards her, and this time the half-inch slug went into its slab-toothed mouth and blew its greenish brains out onto the wall-hangings. She reloaded quickly, the spent case clanging onto the floorboards, and watched the corpse through the sights. For ten seconds it was still, its abhorrently humanish limbs splayed out beneath it. She lowered the hammer, collected her brass and moved forward through the black-powder smoke.

These creatures, whatever they were, seemed to be carrion-eaters. This one had been rooting about in the belly of a fat man wearing nothing but a porcelain mask and undershorts. He was assuredly a noble, or rich- peasants didn't get fat in the Tsev Empire. It struck Nikha that death had stripped him of any special pride or status. He was fat, as any man with a good diet might be. He had physical imperfections-there a wild hair growing on his neck, there a winestain birthmark on his left shoulder. Had he concealed these things in life? Been embarrassed? Bought makeup or expensive clothes to distract the eye? It didn't matter now, Nikha decided. Put him in a muddy grave, and the worms would eat him and the meanest peasant both. He might simply feed a few more. She murmured another short prayer over him, trying not to gag at the bitter scent of the carrion-dog's remains.