Six Heirs by Pierre Grimbert Read Free Book Online Page A

explaining why he was breaking into his own house. Worse yet, Mess wouldn’t necessarily confirm his story.
    Finally, he reached the small terrace. The game was practically won; it was down to the final play. By gripping the decorative reliefs, he climbed the facade until he reached the little cornice two steps above him. All this seemed more difficult than it used to be. No doubt this was merely due to lack of practice. Then, once perched on the ledge, he pulled on the wooden shutter that covered the window to the third-floor hallway, praying to all the gods and their whores that Mess hadn’t locked or closed it.
    The wood scraped against the rock and the hinges creaked, but the shutter opened. Reyan hoped that the noise would be drowned out by that of the storm and wouldn’t wake his cousin. He waited for another rumble of thunder before slipping into the house and closing the shutters behind him.
    For a moment, he delighted in the simple pleasure of no more rain falling on his head. Then he listened closely for the sound of footsteps, but all he heard was the pitter-patter of water droplets dripping off his clothes onto the floor.
    He took off his cape and his soaked shoes and rolled them up together. The bundle under his arm, he headed for his old bedroom. His cousin had no doubt kept it the same as always. It had been that way for a century, and Mess was attached to tradition, to their ancestor’s historic patrimony and other drivel of the same sort meant to prevent moving even a stick of furniture.
    He passed in front of two doors opening to empty rooms, and then, after a final turn in the hallway, he arrived at his destination.
    Reyan noticed a strange odor wafting through the air; he glanced toward Mess’s bedroom across the hall.
    His door wasn’t closed.
    Perhaps his cousin was not at home? It would really be a shame to have put forth so much effort at discretion in an empty house! He wanted to know for sure, and approached the door.
    The odor was immediately stronger and Reyan felt uneasy; a morbid idea began to form in his mind.
    He pushed open the door with the back of his hand and reeled, pinching his nose shut.
    A corpse was lying there. Mess.
    A flash of lightning illuminated the room, and Reyan was certain. The odor was awful, penetrating, and he had to muster his courage before approaching the bed.
    There were no obvious signs pointing to the cause of death. His face didn’t look tense, and he was wearing his nightclothes. Reyan could only conclude that it had happened in his sleep, and that someone had touched the body afterwards.
    Someone had laid him out on top of the covers. Someone had pushed his legs together, stretched his arms out, and tilted his head back slightly. Someone had pulled his clothes over his limbs. So why did they then abandon the body?
    The odor became unbearable and Reyan turned away.
    Thunder clapped and someone was in the doorway.
    Someone, or something.
    Reyan would keep each detail of this moment with him forever. A man with a dagger and wearing a scarlet tunic was watching him silently. He was bald and his face was painted: black eye sockets, black nose, black ears, all set against white face paint. Altogether, it had the morbid appearance of a humanskull. A monstrous, expressionless skull, lifeless except for two blazing flames: the eyes of a demon.
    The actor was well traveled and could recognize what stood before him. One of the messengers of Zuïa, a furious madman, a cursed Zü killer.
    In the flash of light, the thing spoke. His voice was guttural and his pronunciation of Lorelien very odd. Reyan wondered, while reproaching himself for the detachment he felt now, at the hour of his demise, if this was part of the usual assassin mise-en-scène.
    “Are you ready to appear before Zuïa?”
    The actor didn’t waste any time answering and charged at the intruder, throwing his cape and shoes at his face. He kicked the disoriented assassin and ran down the hallway.
    His