He and Jeanne walked through the spacious ballroom, concealed by a spell that erased their sound, scent, and form. The place was a cacophony of voices. Guests, singing and drinking to excess, reveled in this haunted house within a haunted city. They clapped, they danced, they drank and made merry. On the clean white tablecloths, rows of orange candlelight cast a garish glow on the guests, illuminating their frenzied movements. Some with low tolerance for alcohol even fell to the floor, their faces flushed red. The drunks looked no different from the dead for a moment, then, as if nothing had happened, they would get back up and rejoin the banquet.
A drummer beat a leather drum, the rhythm like a hammer pounding on the listener's heart, causing a maddeningly hot rush of blood to surge through their chest and brain. The drumming seemed to ignite an invisible flame, making the entire room much more vibrant, like a carnival feast painted by an artist who served the nobility, using their most frivolous and magnificent colors.
Suddenly, a man of elegant bearing leaped up. His face was so familiar it surprised Sassel; he had seen this face in a portrait in the dining area—perhaps this man was once the master of this house. He ran to the middle of the room and began to spin, a smile on his face that looked as if it would never fade.
Then, a woman of similar age also leaped up. She was pregnant, yet her body was as thin as a reed, her slender neck looking as if it would snap with the slightest twist. But she spun with the same effortless grace as the man.
A tender, childish voice sang from inside her belly, clear as a silver bell:
—Mother, oh Mother, run no more,
—It is time, it is time for us to soar,
—After you have wed again, with your new child and me!
—Fly from the castle, fly from the window,
—Fly from the prison that holds me.
The pregnant woman spun faster and faster, like a fallen leaf caught in a whirlwind, like a top blurring into motion under the lash of a whip. The man sang too, in a high-pitched, thin voice no normal man would use:
—Father is in the seventh heaven,
—Flying faster than the wind,
—Oh my, oh my, my little darling!
—Father wears the little leather shoes Mother gave him,
—Made from the finest lambskin,
—Made so very exquisitely!
—Finer than my own ribbon,
—Give them to me, oh give them to me,
—Along with your feet!
The black sorcerer led Jeanne through the gaps in the crowd, one hand gripping the longsword at his side—just in case. Mist swirled at their feet, coiling in the yellowed candlelight like a filthy cloak.
More and more people began to spin.
A white-haired old man on the verge of death leaped and hopped like a puppet, throwing his arms high, kicking his withered, shrunken legs, then suddenly bending over, then suddenly thrusting his stomach out. He was like a young man in a fit of madness, or a spring wound from an iron wire. At the same time, he screamed with all his might in a voice like a saw on wood:
—Poor Ellen, poor Ellen,
—Come, leap up, dance now,
—Possessed, possessed!
—Come now, come now! Ooh!
Everyone began to dance, but it wasn't a 'couples dance' or a 'solo dance'. They just spun in row after row, spinning as if they had gone mad. Perhaps this would last for a whole day, perhaps it would last until they fell apart.
In his childhood, occasionally, after listening to his father tell terrifying folktales, he would have these kinds of fairytale-like, bizarre, irrational nightmares that tasted of insanity.
"Inquisitor, what do you think this is?" Sassel asked, his eyes scanning the scene before him. "Some kind of special folk ritual?"
Her gaze swept over the banquet, staring with some disgust at the frenzied guests. After a long moment, Jeanne finally answered him. "I think you've spent too long in a laboratory, black sorcerer. No such folk ritual exists, unless it's a banquet thrown by insane cultists. And this place is absolutely disgusting. If the timing weren't wrong, I would personally execute the master of this house by fire for three days, burning it until it repents."
"Can you talk about something other than execution by fire?" he said casually, his eyes scanning the gaps in the crowd, trying to figure out a path that wouldn't collide with these crazed dancers.
The speed of the dance grew faster and faster, as if countless whirlwinds had been kicked up. They weren't people dancing anymore; it was as if some force was making them spin rapidly, so fast their faces were a blur. Their hair stood on end, their clothes billowed out from the wind, and they became indistinct white cylinders. A chaotic mix of songs blended together. Some were giggling, some were screaming crazily. It was as if it wasn't them singing, laughing, and screaming, but someone else singing, laughing, and screaming for them.
Wine was spilled all over the floor. Glass bottles shattered, the shards were crushed underfoot, and pus and blood flowed out, mixing with the wine and emitting a rotten stench.
They danced until they convulsed, until they foamed at the mouth, as if possessed by ghosts. Some collapsed to the floor with a thud, glass shards piercing their eyeballs, white fluid leaking out. They would barely have a moment to catch their breath before getting up and continuing to dance, their leaking eye-jelly spinning with them, merging into a single white blur.
"Let me think... how to effectively break a black sorcerer's concealment spell?"
Sassel turned his head and looked at her seriously, trying to gauge just how much malice was in the inquisitor's expression.
"Let's go back to the topic of execution by fire. Starting with whether you've ever been burned," he shrugged.
"I have been burned. When I was very young," she said, her tone flat.
"Eh?"
The black sorcerer looked at Jeanne, surprised. Jeanne just looked back at him. After a moment, "The Red Death—have you heard of it?" Jeanne said to him, her face a mask.
"I have some knowledge. You burn cultists. They burn everyone, including themselves."
"Good that you know," she replied. "I don't really want to go into detail, but a little over ten years ago, I myself was pulled from a burning ruin by a servant of the Lord—a Steel Inquisitor."
Steel Inquisitors...
Sassel didn't say anything more. He turned away and slowly drew in a breath of cool air. It spread through his organs. Then he shivered. For casters who dealt with gods from beyond, that profession was far more terrifying than the Empress's Hounds. God knows how those people thought of turning themselves into those kinds of monsters... then again, his sect of black sorcerers had little room to talk about Steel Inquisitors.
A few moments later, they followed Viola and stopped before the exit of the ballroom. The corridor was empty. Sassel looked up at the open doorway, squinting his eyes slightly... this allowed him to see what it was that separated the corridor from the hall.
The cat had told them the master of the house was just ahead, so it wasn't surprising that it would have some precautionary measures. As for why it couldn't leave its room—the black sorcerer guessed it might have something to do with the rules of the labyrinth itself.
The thing enveloping the hall's exit looked like a shadow, or a darkness curled into a ball, so dark that the dim yellow candlelight of the hall seemed like broad daylight in comparison. Against this inky-black background, a not-quite-uniform, not-quite-distinct, grayish outline trembled slightly, as if a small piece had been scooped out of a moldy black cheese.
"Behind this isn't a corridor, but... something even stranger. But this is the only way to reach the master's room," the cat said. "There are no other entrances. Even if you break down the walls, there's just an ordinary corridor behind them."
"I think we still have time to turn back," Sassel took a step back. "This thing gives me a very bad feeling."
Jeanne put her sword directly to his neck.