Once inside the dining room, the Lord did not stop, but continued walking across the room through to the hall. Pearson followed as best he could: the servants were rushing about, cleaning the room before any of the nobles should take it into their heads to leave. They – the servants – were walking carefully woven paths, but stepped aside almost gracefully until Pearson had passed, then resumed. The emissary was used to this, but still looked around, until he reached the hall.

He passed through the double doors, then faltered a moment. Shouldn't Orlandi be somewhere ahead? Pearson could see nothing to the front, nothing but the oily flames of candles, the statues and paintings lining the hall that terminated in darkness. He took an involuntary step back, towards the safety of the lighted lawn.

And there was a person at his back, and Pearson whirled, embarrassingly quickly.

Of course it was Orlandi. Pearson cursed himself silently for being high-strung as he looked up, trying to find Orlandi's face. The Lord was still dressed in the wide slit-sleeved shirt he'd had on when he had taken off his cloak. The green of it, especially in this weirdly-lit hall, was so dark that it only took a little persuasion to pass off as black. The Lord simply stood for a moment, as if deciding to comment on Pearson's weakness. Then he strode over to the nearest table and picked up a candelabra. Two of the three candles flickered, and one went out. Orlandi relit it with one of the others.

"You have no cause for alarm in this house."

He addressed the remark to the candle, but Pearson nodded. He looked past the Lord, down the hall again. Orlandi finished lighting the candle, then transferred the candelabra to the other hand and held it up. He began to speak, then stopped. He scowled. Then he turned, took a few steps down the hall, and gestured with the light to a painting.

"That, it you can see, is my great grand-father, Duke Alphonse II. Notice the richness of color in the background. The tapestry behind him still exists; it hangs in the second dining room, if you wish to see it." Before the emissary could respond, though, Orlandi had moved on to another painting, further down the hall. "This is his father. He stands here, as you can see, in armor he received from the second Thanen king. Again, the paint is vivid, though it is more foreground color in this work." And, again, Orlandi continued.

Pearson realized, soon enough what he was doing. There was a proposal that Orlandi wanted to make: a larger piece of news to impart, or a request on the part of Pearson's lord, that was of such a nature that the Lord had to find the words to put it in. Meanwhile he was showing his guest around, inviting him to admire his acquisitions, displaying his riches so as to impress the emissary. And, in a withdrawn way, Pearson was impressed. The works Orlandi was showing were clearly of high quality, carefully created, and of exceptional richness. Some of the paintings were the Lord's own work: a noble should not be without some sort of artistic training, and Orlandi, it was proved, was no mean artist.

But below the surface of Orlandi's proud show, Pearson saw something that disturbed him almost as had the flick-lit hall. The Lord Orlandi, while not mad, was not entirely sound, either. This was revealed in part, by some of his paintings: storm scenes, scenes of death, a great self-portrait in dark reds and browns, sweeping lines of black. The background was an undecorated wall, set with a window, and in the window dark branches stood motionless in the sweep of wind.

They had come, now, to a hall just off the main foyer. It was sectioned off into panels, and covered with tapestry; each panel showed a different scene in the cloth. One panel, just at the end, was a great depiction of the Orlandi crest, backed with black. Pearson looked up at it as Orlandi began to speak.

"The crest, of course, of my ancestral name. Presented by the king himself, to the first of the Orlandis." He looked over at Pearson, then back at the tapestry. "You are aware of its origin, no doubt. No?" Pearson shook his head. "Then I shall inform you."

He walked forward, candles held high. "The snake is for treachery." He looked over at Pearson. "The Orlandis won their title through treachery."

Pearson very carefully said nothing.

"The Orlandi to take the title was Flores I. He helped the king in the early stages of the first Torhaus War by periodically defecting from side to side, and informing each about the other. A useful skill, considering he was never caught."

Pearson was duly impressed.

"At the end of the war, the king rewarded him with land. But he decided that traitors, however useful, were still not to be trusted. So he and his successors kept the Orlandis under house arrest for three generations, and under close surveillance for the next seven."

"Two centuries," said Pearson,"out of a nine-hundred-year line."

Orlandi nodded. "Precisely."

The emissary looked up at the crest. "And what of the bladed rose? As I remember, that was the sign of the Teian house."

"…It was. Is." Orlandi looked out across the dark hall into the foyer. "Come." He swept away from the crest and across the foyer. Pearson, still unnerved by the dark, followed.

The Lord Orlandi led the emissary across the foyer and up of the of the long curving stairways. At the top, the two rejoined into a single hall, leading to the back of the house. Orlandi stopped at left wall of the junction and lifted the candelabra onto a stand. Pearson watched as the lord turned to a deep-hued curtain, set on the wall, and pulled the cord to open it.

The emissary's eyes widened. "Nallei!"

PTG: There we go. More update. Now I shall scurry off and see if I can write more. Ta!