I decided that after I got the finely dressed Gertriss tucked safely away I’d make one more stop before calling it a day. I hadn’t seen Evis in nearly a week, and it was my turn to show up on his stoop. And while I’d never seen much in the way of paintings adorning the dark wood walls of House Avalante, Evis or one of his staff might know more about what happened to Lady Werewilk’s late fiance than even the knowledgeable Mrs. Hemp.

I briefly considered taking Gertriss along to Avalante. She’d need to meet Evis sooner or later, if she was going to work for me. And that was just the kind of needling I thought Mama needed. But then I made a rough estimate of the pitch, volume and duration of the screeching Mama was likely to emit in the wake of such a visit, and I decided to put off any visits to halfdead Houses until they were absolutely necessary.

I backtracked, using the Big Bell’s spire for reference, and made it back to Darla’s right on time, and a full half an hour before the girls did.

Gertriss was radiant. She’d had a manicure, a pedicure and tutelage in eye makeup, and I swear she was already losing the farm-girl stomp and barnyard voice.

Darla saw it too. “She’ll never go back to the pig-pens,” she whispered, as Mary and Gertriss giggled and chirped in front of a tall mirror.

“Not dressed like that,” I agreed, chuckling. “Mama is going to have a spitting fit.”

“Seven o’clock sharp,” said Darla. “I’ll be here. Someone put me behind in my work today.”

“Seven sharp,” I said. We stole a kiss, and I got Gertriss out of there before she bought anything else.

Visiting my halfdead friend Evis is a little more complicated than just walking up and knocking.

House Avalante is monstrous. I often wondered how long it would take me to jog around the thing, even if fences and gardeners and butlers would allow it. And that’s just the five stories above the ground-most of Avalante is well below that, and even though I’m privy to Evis and his inner sanctum I’ve never seen the bottom of the subterranean House.

I make sure I wear my Avalante pin, and even then I introduce myself a half a dozen times to a half a dozen blank-faced minions. They know me by now, but the questions and the hard looks never change. I’m frisked for weapons, I’m told to sit and wait, once I even brought a bag with an apple and two sandwiches, and they searched that too.

Evis always apologizes, and I always shrug it off-my reception at most of the other halfdead Houses would be far worse, and would most likely culminate in unpleasantness of the fatal variety. So being patted down for knives or siege-engines doesn’t upset me too much.

Evis was sleepy-eyed and yawning that afternoon, and by his standards, he was hardly dressed-his jacket was unbuttoned, his shirt was wrinkled and his tie was draped across the back of his chair.

“Long night?” I asked, settling back into his luxurious leather reclining chair.

“Annual House financial meeting,” said Evis, with a toothy yawn. “Takes forever. Boredom would have killed me, if I weren’t already dead. Cigar?”

“Certainly,” I said. Evis grinned and produced a pair of Southlands, and we cut and lit and puffed.

“I doubled my staff today,” I said, once we got the stogies going and the brandy decanted. Evis lifted an eyebrow and chuckled.

“Did Three-leg Cat take a wife?” he asked.

I explained about Gertriss and Mama. Evis guffawed and grinned throughout.

“You’re a soft touch, Markhat,” he said. “Mama’s got you wrapped around her little finger, and you know it.”

I nodded. It’s never wise to argue with the man who just poured you a snifter of brandy older than all your grandparents. “She’s a good kid,” I said. “I’m letting her stay on for one case. Then we’ll see.”

“Bring her around,” said Evis. “She’s got to be better to look at than you.”

I nodded. “When we get back,” I said. “We’re heading out of town tomorrow on a case. Probably be in Wardmoor for a few days.”

Evis frowned. “That’s almost Troll country,” he said. “Past the old walls, isn’t it?”

I nodded and sipped. “House is called Werewilk, place is called the Banshee’s Walk. Ever heard of it?”

Evis frowned. “Crazy artist lady, is that her?” he said. “Offed her fiance a few years back?”

I sat up straight. “I heard there was an accident. Something about a horse.”

“Word was she put a bur under his saddle,” said Evis. Then he shrugged. “But who knows. It was just gossip. Rich man falls off a bucking horse. Woman doesn’t attend the funeral. Tongues wag.”

“How rich was he?”

“He was the eldest son of Horave Elt. Heir to the Elt foundry empire.” Evis raised his cigar. “He can afford more of these than I can.”

I whistled. “Did father Elt take it hard?”

Evis shrugged. “You’d have to ask him that, Markhat. That’s all I know.”

I sighed, turned my attention back to my cigar and Evis’s brandy.

“That’s some strange country, Markhat,” noted Evis, after a while. “Lots of stories about Wardmoor.”

“Every house is haunted, every shaded lane infested with ghouls,” I agreed. “But don’t worry, I’ll sleep with the sheets pulled up way over my head.”

Evis chuckled. “Just a lot nonsense, those stories. People probably say the same about the Heights.”

I shrugged. People actually said a lot worse, and Evis knew it, but it wasn’t worth pointing out.

“Still, that reminds me, Markhat. There’s something I’ve been meaning to give you, ever since you made the acquaintance of Encorla Hisvin. I’ll be back in a moment, help yourself to another glass.”

Evis rose and padded silently out of the room. I poured, sniffed and drank, alone in a dim chamber deep in a house full of vampires and oddly and completely at ease.

I heard a door click, and Evis was back, a narrow wooden case in his hands.

“Mind you don’t wave this around at the Watch,” he said, handing me the case. “It’s not legal, in the strictest sense, unless you’re a city employee.”

The catch wasn’t locked, so I opened it.

Inside was a sword. A shortsword, about the length of my forearm, with a double-edged silver blade that gleamed with the promise of ready mayhem and a dark wood grip already stained here and there with something that was not applesauce.

“It’s ensorcelled,” said Evis. “Blows struck against reanimated corpses will be particularly efficacious.”

I took it gently from the case. The edges glowed a faint ghostly silver in the candlelight.

Just perfect when dealing with someone named the Corpsemaster, I thought. I wondered briefly if it was also intended for use against the halfdead.

“The spellwork will also be potent against halfdead,” said Evis, very quietly. “It’s the same one we use on our crossbow bolts. Though of course I hope you will use it carefully in that instance.”

I put the sword back in its velvet-lined case and closed it firmly shut.

“I’m always careful with big butter knives,” I said. “And thanks.”

Evis sat. “Don’t thank me,” he replied, grinning. “I have no idea where you got that, never seen it before, anyway I prefer a crossbow myself.” He produced a deck of cards from somewhere in his desk, shuffled them with an expert’s ease and let his dirty white eyes meet mine.

“Surely you have time for a few hands,” he said. “Luck might be with you, tonight.”

I laughed. “Luck lost my address years ago.” I am a lousy card player, and Evis knows it, which is why we never play for real money. “But who knows. Deal, and we’ll see if she’s found me tonight.”

Evis shuffled, and I cut. By the end of the night I was down another four hundred and fifty crowns.

It seems Luck gets lost as easily as I do, in Rannit, these days.

I’m never late for a date with Darla. She’d be more likely to forgive dirt under my fingernails or Evis’s brandy on my breath than a lack of punctuality.