Ammas had not known how he would feel upon seeing his childhood home for the first time in twenty years. He hadn't been sure the place would still be recognizable, or even that it hadn't been razed to the ground. The Kerrells had been given Losris Nadak, but he knew nothing of what had been done with the Mourthia holdings in Gallowsport. His family had close ties to both places, but the Kerrells did not, and so the Emperor might have gifted the old manor to anyone he pleased. Or he might have had it torn down brick by brick, if that suited his fancies. Given his feelings on Senrich Mourthia, Ammas had thought that was fairly likely.

The last thing he had expected was to see it so well preserved. Dilapidated, yes; a sense of forlorn decay clinging to the stones, certainly. But beyond the wrought iron fence on Rowancroft Street that was exactly what he saw: his father's house, still standing, empty as if waiting for him.

For a moment he found himself leaning against the fence, not trusting his legs to support him. Carala frowned at him, her eyes glittering under the hood of her cloak. "Are you well, Ammas?" she murmured. She had rarely spoken above a whisper since they had arrived at Gallowsport, and not solely because they were traveling in disguise.

He could not answer, not just then. Some of the windows were broken. The roof of the eastern wing was sagging and might well collapse within a few years. The grass in the courtyard had grown long and rank, and his mother's garden was choked and overgrown. But the house was still there. Varallo Thray might be waiting for him in the courtyard, as he had twenty years before, seated in the carriage that would take them to Talinara, to a meeting with the Emperor and his father that turned out to be just another of the Grand Chancellor's many lies.

"I am," he said finally. "We shouldn't use the main gate. There's a postern around the corner where we should be able to slip in unobserved."

Carala nodded and followed, staying close at his side. There was an agitation in her that was subtly different from what Ammas had witnessed three weeks ago in Vilais. This early in the day -- the clocks had barely struck ten -- she had not been so on edge that he could recall. Still, she retained an admirable amount of self-control, and so far had not drawn the attention of anyone who might be hostile to them.

There were few people on the streets in this part of the city anyway, though he saw a few loafers sprawled out on street corners and perched on the edges of rough benches outside taverns here and there. So far there had been no trouble. Based on the tavern rumors they had heard last night and this morning about Mourthia House, they hadn't expected any. Still, Gallowsport was what it was, and when they had parted company with the others a little over an hour ago Ammas had gravely instructed Barthim not to let Casimir out of his sight.

"You will be doing the same with Carala, I am hoping," Barthim had said with none of his usual good humor. This was his first time in this city and he did not like it one bit. The bouncer had been watching Carala with a nervous eye ever since they'd come within sight of the city -- not for the usual reasons one might set a watch on a pretty young woman in a place like this, but because since she had cut Syerre's throat he had wondered what she might do if threatened again.

Ammas had agreed with no hesitation whatsoever. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement that Vos was to mind Denisius in the same fashion, but after what had happened with the werewolf Nashal Ammas was not sure Lord Marhollow needed minding. Any Swiftfoot wolf, to say nothing of a common Gallowsport thug, who attempted to menace Denisius might be in for a surprise.

None of this was on his mind at the moment, however. Perhaps selfishly, he thought only of the lonely structure before him, and what he might find within. Only now, as he led Carala down to the alley where the wrought iron fence formed a corner with the high stone wall that surrounded the rest of the grounds, did it occur to him that he had never expected to see this place again in his life, or even set foot in Gallowsport at all.

That summer night twenty years ago he had crept down this same alley between Mourthia House and the outer wall of the half-deserted Admirals' Home beside it, only from the other side, cloaked and hooded just as he was now, the missive from Varallo Thray clutched in one hand and the same skymetal dagger at his waist clutched in the other. Then the alley had been empty because even while under arrest Senrich Mourthia's reputation was such that no thug or layabout would wander so close to his property; now it stood just as empty for strangely similar reasons. Its gloom and closeness made Carala even more anxious, however, and she pressed closer to Ammas, her woodland scent tantalizing in his nostrils.

"Here," he whispered, about three quarters of the way down the alley. An archway pierced the wall, sealed by a rusted iron door that wouldn't have looked out of place in a crypt. Once it had been surmounted with a verdigris-encrusted bronze emblem of the Mourthias, but that was long gone, pried off and melted down when his house had fallen from favor. Ammas had long since lost the key to this door, but its lock turned easily enough to his twinhooks. Actually opening it was more of a challenge: the hinges had not moved in years, and he was only able to push it about a third of the way open before it froze completely. Carala slipped in easily enough; Ammas had to squeeze through, grimacing painfully, and only fitting at all after he had passed his pack to Carala through the small aperture.

He was insistent on closing the door, muttering that they must show as little sign of their passage as possible. Sweating and cursing he shoved the door back into place and fastened its lock. "Well, we got in this way," he said under his breath, standing straight and peering at the door with his hands on his hips, "but we may have to find another way out." He offered Carala a wan smile, but it proved a sorry effort, and so after drawing a deep breath he turned his gaze on the courtyard.

This had been his mother's domain, but no trace of her was visible. Her rosebushes and sunflowers and verbena were all long gone, replaced by ragweed and clots of dry earth. The pond by the greenhouse -- itself largely destroyed, most of its glass panels shattered -- was slimed over and stagnant. Even the small grove of seretto trees she had spent years cultivating had been chopped down.

A sigh escaped his throat. "Better than I expected," he murmured to Carala, retrieving his pack. She was watching him with a frown, her hazel eyes unreadable through flecks of amber. "Come. We'll use the servants' entrance and see if there's anything to be found within. I don't imagine the things we need are gone. They were a trifle immovable."

Carala nodded, silently following him. A strange aroma wafted from Ammas, something bitter and smoky, and it made her heart ache in a way it sometimes did when she caught her mother unawares after some taunt (or whole evening's worth of them) uttered by her father. Soon she realized that it was the scent of grief. She wondered if he was even aware of it, or if she would understand what it was if not for the connection she had somehow forged with this man. Almost without thinking she laid a hand on his shoulder as they wandered through the knee-high grass. That wan smile returned to his lips briefly.

Drawing his dagger, he led her to a sagging pair of double doors built into the side of the house. He had called it a servants' entrance, but Senrich had never employed many servants, and Ammas remembered his father using it himself on nights he had worked late at the Grand Curia. Other times it was used by visiting clerks and students from Nightgate who had come to attend lessons with the Overseer.

Mourthia House was a rambling structure that had begun as a small manor and had grown through a multitude of additions and expansions over the centuries. To the uninitiated the interior was no doubt a bewildering warren of vast rooms, winding corridors, twisting stairs, and staid old halls, but Ammas could walk it all blindfolded. That was fortunate, for the interior was almost too dark to see.

There was only a narrow loophole for a window here, a small room where one might wipe one's boots off or hang up a cloak before making for the bulk of the house. What little furniture had stood here had long ago been carted away. With a frown Ammas reached into his pack and drew out the caged airy spirit, dangling it from a chain and letting it light the way as he led Carala deeper into the house.