“Ecstatic to see you, he says,” Kemp muttered to her as they fell in behind him. “No mention of the peasant, though.”

Nikha gave a diffident shrug. “Sometimes it’s nice when no one pays attention to you.”

“Mm.” He was quiet a moment. “I’m surprised you can talk to him like that.”

“What do you mean?” she replied, confused.

“Just…he’s older than you, but you treat him like a servant or something. My da would tan my hide if I talked to a grown-up like that.”

“Oh. That. Well, he’s a viscount, and my father’s a full count. That’s a rank higher in the nobility, you see? Even I’m above him, technically. Though,” she scowled, “if my father were around I’d probably get in trouble for being rude just like you said. It’s just…”

“Your mother,” Kemp said softly.

“Yes,” Nikha said, shocked into an answer. She frowned, waiting for him to ask questions, questions she didn’t want to answer- but to her surprise, he said nothing.

They were quiet for the next few minutes as Yeskov led them through more filth-spattered hallways. They passed various unsettling things on the way. In one spot the carpet had been torn nearly to shreds, and even the boards beneath showed great scratches. At an intersection further on, an acrid and chemical smell filled their nostrils, some strange gas that irritated the throat and shortened the breath. Most of the side doors they passed were normal from the outside, but Nikha spotted one that had a stream of what looked like tar running slowly from its keyhole. A few minutes later all of them jumped at a loud thump from the ceiling. It repeated itself a few times, then stopped. They walked faster.

Yeskov paused outside the doorway to a small gallery room. Its floors were checkerboard marble, andf the path to the door opposite was flanked by two rows of plinths. The glass sculptures they supported were strange and spiny and difficult to look at- Nikha had certainly never seen them before.

“You will want to watch your step here,” said the viscount, “And get over to the left. It’s…perhaps I should just show you.” Nikha watched skeptically as he sat down at the left side of the threshold and slowly scooted forward. Then her jaw dropped open when he crossed over and fell- sideways. When he got to his feet, it looked like he was standing on the wall, a full ninety degrees from vertical.

“Great and holy Martyrs above,” whispered Kemp.

“Don’t ask me why it’s become like this,” said Yeskov with a tiny shrug. “It was certainly a shock the first time I passed through.”

Meanwhile, Nikha’s eyes narrowed as they flitted between the sideways Yeskov and the upright sculptures on their plinths. “Why don’t they fall?” she muttered to herself.

“Why even ask at this point?” Kemp shrugged and slid into the sideways room himself. He fell to the left just as Yeskov had, just keeping his feet.

“Because it ought to be one or the other! That would at least make a little sense. Both is just- ugh! Not! Right!” She shook her head in annoyance and got down on the floor to join them. Her stomach lurched as she crossed the threshold and gravity switched. She fell heavily to the floor-or wall, actually-and landed on one knee. Kemp proffered a hand and she let him help her up.

“How long are things sideways?” Kemp asked.

“It seems to be contained to this gallery.” Yeskov stepped over a length of faux-column trim. “Though since discovering this phenomenon, I’ve been much more careful entering unfamiliar rooms.”

“Nikha’s been tossing spent shells at anything she’s not sure about. I guess you could use buttons or something. It might help.”

Nikha herself had been staring at one of the unfamiliar sculptures. It was of glass or crystal, colored a pale and iridescent green. The shape was spiny, but more than that she couldn’t tell: something about the way it caught and refracted the light made it hard to look at, so hard her head began to hurt almost immediately and she had to look away with watering eyes. She perked up at the mention of her name. “I could give you some empties too, viscount. If you like.”

“Ah, that will not be necessary, though the courtesy of your offer is, of course, greatly appreciated. I don’t plan on doing much more exploring. In fact, I only came upon you because I was searching for food.”

“I thought you were in the refectory. What happened to all the food in there?”

An embarrassed look crossed his face. “As I said, much drink was consumed last night, and one of the common consequences of overindulgence is…regurgitation. I don’t know who’s responsible, but the stores in the refectory were, shall we say, contaminated.”

Kemp made a disgusted sound, while Nikha frowned and said nothing.

“Thus, my abortive expedition- but it worked out in the end, since I found you!” Another forced laugh. He seemed to be expecting something, so Nikha put on an expression approximating a smile. It was enough to get him to keep walking. At the other end of the gallery he clambered up the wall and rolled awkwardly back into the normal gravity in the hall outside. He extended a hand, but Nikha ignored it and pulled herself up. She was nearly his height anyways. For a few seconds, she was between gravities, her upper half pulled one way and her legs another. It was so unpleasant she rushed the rest of the way up, barking her shins on the doorframe. Her face was clammy with nauseous sweat, but she still turned around to help Kemp. Unlike her, he had little enough pride-or more than enough brainpower-to take the help. She heaved him into the corridor and he immediately made for the corner, gagging.

“That-hack!-isn’t a nice feeling,” he managed. Nikha nodded in vigorous agreement.

“Ah, quite,” said Yeskov. “We’re nearly there- as you’ll perhaps recognize, Lady Nikha.” Kemp snorted softly at the honorific, and Nikha couldn’t help preening a little in retaliation.

“Yes, I believe I do.” The hall on this side of the gallery was indeed familiar. It seemed like the…calamity, for lack of a better word, had left certain chunks of Eldergrave’s layout intact, but had scattered them like meatballs in a spaghetti bowl of tangled, spurious halls. Nikha’s stomach growled at the thought of pasta. She quite enjoyed Remulian food, and it had been far too long since she’d eaten anything but jerky and hard cheese. It was a pity about the food in the refectory.

They walked down more spoiled corridors. It almost seemed like a battle had occurred here. There were chips and gouges in the plaster of the walls, and even a few bullet holes. Bloodstains abounded, though there were no corpses. Nikha imagined some graying, disembodied hand dragging the bodies off, collecting them for some unknowably awful purpose, bringing them to someone who could put them to the darkest of uses…she shook her head violently, drawing a glance from Kemp. Things were bad enough without her scaring herself. A few windows broke up the walls, but they were entirely clogged with the steel-gray thorn vines that had blocked her path what felt like ages ago. She heard the faint metallic pings as they grew against each other.

Yeskov’s pace quickened as they neared the refectory, evidently eager to reach whatever dubious safety it provided. They rounded the final turn and stopped before a nondescript paneled door, and Yeskov gave it a few solid knocks.

“Password!” came a muffled call form within.

Yeskov grimaced, eyes darting all over. “Er…what was the question again?”

Nikha thought she heard an exasperated sigh from beyond the door. “The finest year for Chateau d’Allerans port.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Perfect,” she whispered to Kemp. “Of course it would be something like that.” He just shook his head.

“Dry or sweet?” asked the viscount.

“Sweet, you ninny! Port is always sweet!”

Yeskov rubbed his chin. “Well, it usually is, but some of the Lusitilian cultivars are best known for-“

“What! Year!”

“Ahhh…1193! I remember now, 1193!”

“Finally! Martyr’s sake, man…”

The door unlocked and opened. Kemp gave her a capital-L Look, and all she could do was pinch the bridge of her nose in consternation. Despite all the airs she’d put on over her place in the peerage, the fact was that many of the nobles she’d met were like this- and she didn’t much like them for it. Prim and proper to a fault, concerned only with aristocratic frivolities…Papa called them cloud-men: “Just as far removed from the world, and just as insubstantial.” She was glad he let her roam about in the foothills instead of learn about wine.

The pair followed Yeskov into the refectory. It was a mid-sized dining room, much of the dark-stained floor taken up by a long wooden table. A utilitarian phlogistic chandelier lit the room, its arc-lamps dull and buzzy. The walls were painted burgundy, bare except for a few small landscapes-which had thankfully gone unchanged. A door opposite the entrance led into the apparently-soiled kitchen. The place smelled of alcohol, vomit, and stale sweat. What she noticed most was the room’s emptiness. When Yeskov said “other survivors,” she’d expected a crowd, but there were only three other people in the room. A man and a woman sat at the table on either side of a chessboard, looking surprised. Another man had been guarding the door, but he followed them in. All wore tattered finery in similar condition to Yeskov’s.

“Good to be back, good to be back,” said Yeskov, voice full of awkward jollity. “Lady Nikha-and, erm, Kemp-allow me to introduce you to Baron D.A. Magadan”-he indicated the chess-playing man-“the Marchioness Yevgenia Pleskanina”-the woman-“and Baron Mihailo Gerontez”-the amateur sommelier at the door. “Lady, gentlemen, allow me to introduce Lady Nikha von Kranssov, the daughter of our host, and her, ah, companion, Kemp.”

All three goggled at them a moment, then began talking over each other.

“Where did you-“

“You really decided to bring her here-“

“Yeskov, you-“

“Quiet!” the man called Magadan shouted. He was tall and well built with a thick, dark mustache. He was a bit younger than Papa, and though he wasn’t in uniform, Nikha took him for a military man.

“You really are a damned fool, Yeskov,” muttered Gerontez. He was younger than the other two, slight and pale with a pointy nose and fiery ginger hair.

“Is this really-must we-“Pleskanina cut herself off, looking down and frowning. She had watery blue eyes and blond hair. Her long face was clammy and drawn.

Yeskov ran a finger along the inside of his ruff, sweating a little. “I came upon them a little ways past the gallery, if you must know. I wasn’t- I wasn’t going to leave them there alone.”

“You did the right thing,” said Magadan gruffly. “Welcome, my lady, to our humble abode, such as it is. Please, have a seat.” He waved stiffly at the table. Nikha watched him a moment, then slowly moved over to it and sat down. She took off her rifle and pack, leaning them against the table next to her. Kemp took the seat to her left, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair.

The woman Pleskanina drifted over to them, the torn hem of her blue gown dragging on the floor. “Are you alright, Miss Nikha? Your bandages-“

Nikha rested her hand on her scraped up arm. The dressings were filthy on the outside, but not soaked through. “I’ll be fine.” She narrowed her eyes at the woman. “So will Kemp.”

Pleskanina’s gaze darted over to him as if she hadn’t noticed him until now, and a fluttery hand covered her mouth. “O-of course we’ll help you too should you need it, Mister, um, Kemp.”

“I’ll live,” he said flatly.

“G-good. Good. You’re a friend of Miss Nikha’s, then?”

Even under the circumstances, Nikha couldn’t resist playing around a little. “He’s my adjutant, in fact.”

A faint look of confusion crossed the woman’s face. “I…see.”

“What’s an adjutant?” Kemp whispered.

“A military officer’s assistant. Often a trusted confidante and advisor as well.” She put just the smallest of smug smirks on her face as she said it.

His brow furrowed. “I’m not anyone’s assistant except my da’s, you-“ He paused as her smile widened. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?” She nodded, worried she’d burst out laughing if she spoke aloud. “Fine. That’s a point for you.”

Pleskanina watched the whole exchange with something between confusion and worry on her face. She cleared her throat. “I’m afraid we’ve no food, but I could fetch some water if you’re thirsty.” The look she gave them now was wan, hopeful.

Nikha and Kemp looked at each other, then shook their heads at the same time. “I actually have some food, if you don’t mind traveller’s cheese and jerky.” She gave them a questioning look while grabbing her rucksack.

“I’m afraid such things disagree with my constitution,” Pleskanina said, nervously rubbing at a stain on her dress.

Yeskov turned it down as well. “Hurts my teeth something dreadful,” he explained. Magadan and Gerontez just shook their heads. Nikha frowned at them for a moment, then shrugged. If they wanted to be prissy, they could starve. It just meant more food for her and Kemp. It was still strange, though. Yeskov had said he was looking for food when they met him.

Kemp must have been having similar thoughts. He leaned in and whispered to her as she passed him some food.“Something’s not right with these people, Nikha. We should leave.”

She thought a moment, then gave him a tiny nod. “I agree-but I want to ask them some questions first. Please?”

That last word seemed to surprise him. “Alright,” he said, sounding reluctant.