by Andre Norton
The girl gave a start now as the Second Bell boomed out the orders for the day. She slipped out of an alley and hurried down the street. There was rising clatter and sound as the merchants unshuttered their shops, calling greetings from one to the other.
Halwice's shop was the ground floor of a three-story building. And while its neighbors were hung with banners urging this or that product upon the possible customer, her windows were trimmed with boxes—some green and lacy with ferns, others bright with flowers. Even her roof, Willadene knew, had been put to use with racks of shelves each bearing trays of plants, while Halwice's back door gave upon a stretch of well-nourished and tilled land, producing more healthy crops than one might usually find in the heart of a city.
Willadene slowed. Jacoba could well guess where she would head. And already she might well be reported to the Reeve for straying. Could she be bringing down trouble on Halwice?
The shop shutters were still up and there was no sign that the Herbmistress was starting her day. Willadene's head suddenly came up. That scent—it had the same evil promise that she knew meant trouble.
She was at the closed door. Only— The latch cord was out—then why were the shutters closed? With caution, the girl raised her hand to the door. There was something wrong—she stifled a gagging protest.
Though she had not been aware of it, she had given the door a nudge and it was swinging open. All the crowding scents she loved were loosed—but with them something dark and dangerous she could not name. . . . Halwice?
The shop was dim with the shutters closed. She could see only the bulk of counter and shelves. And she stepped within as warily as if she were certain some trap waited beyond.
2
The great bell's first sounding had not awakened the man who had left coverlets trailing behind him from the bed as he had crossed to draw the heavy curtain a little aside and look out on a dawn-grayed city. Uttobric of Kronen had never been an impressive figure even when decked out in the robes of formal ceremony. He was still less so now as he chewed his lower lip, his mind awhirl with the thoughts which had given him very little sleep this past night.
His scanty stock of gray-brown hair stood on end above a narrow face worn by deep crevices of wrinkles, two bracketing each side of his thin-lipped mouth, others furrowing his forehead. He stared shortsightedly out into the gloom where the twinkle of a few lights below marked the coming of a new day of—
Of course he had regretted the ravages of the plague, as any just man would; however, he certainly was not responsible for becoming the only male left in the straight line of descent. Now he could acknowledge to himself that he had both feared and envied his predecessor on the ducal throne. Wubric had been everything he was not—a ruler secure enough to be able to turn his attention to other matters.
Uttobric did not have to turn his head now and look back at the table, where two candles were fast guttering out, to remember what lay there: reports—too many of them. . . . Between them they would pull him to bits if they might.
Whom could he trust? Sometimes he even suspected Vazul—though that Chancellor, if Uttobric were swept away, would certainly fall with his lord, since he was not of the old nobility but rather the merchant class, a man of keen wit and wily action, all seemingly at the Duke's service.
It was Vazul who had made that suggestion the night before—one which had shocked Uttobric at first. The Duke still thought of his daughter as a child, content to amuse herself with a handful of carefully selected companions, of no proper service to him because of her gender. But what had Vazul pointed out? That very gender might be put to use now.
Uttobric loosened his hold on the curtain and padded back to the high-standing bulk of his craven bed. He picked up the holder of an unlighted candle and the miniature which lay beside it on the bedside shelf and then, lighting the candle from one of the dying ones, he dropped into the chair nearby and held the miniature of his daughter closer to his eyes.
It was his secret belief that commissioned artists always flattered their subjects; that was only good business for them. Yet Vazul had assured him—and it was true that Mahart took most of her looks from his wife's now-extinct line. He could see the soft rolls of dark brown hair, the slightly triangular face (that pointed chin was certainly his). But above that the mouth was generous, curving in the hint of a smile. Large eyes of an unexpected green were lashed thickly, and the brows delicately marked. Yes, this was no longer the face of a child, and he had to admit to himself that if the artist had not lied with his brush his daughter was possibly fair looking.
Beauty might snare the passing attention of a man, but anyone shrewd enough to provide what he, Uttobric, might have to demand could well wish more than just a pretty face and the fluttering attentions of a green girl. Dowry—
Uttobric tossed the miniature onto the table among the papers. Favorable port treatment? That would be too ambiguous. No, he would have to make it plain that on the wedding day he would proclaim the groom his accepted heir.
The small man in the tall-backed chair sighed. Could it be done? King Hawkner was over blessed with sons, it was true. He might be willing to provide for, say, a third or fourth one of them in this way, and Kronengred was a rich prize. Once the alliance was set, then changes could be safely made. For Hawkner's army was idle, and idle soldiers need to be occupied lest they view what lay about them and make a few decisions of their own.
Uttobric scowled at one shifting pile of reports. Of course he knew that he was stripping the western frontier and the mountain territory dangerously of trained manpower. The complaints of merchants grew louder and longer all the time. Let this Prince of the Blood Royal bring with him enough guards and that could be easily remedied.
If—again the Duke bit down upon his lip. If they had time! Saylana—now his mouth twisted as if he would spit—her backing—even Vazul could not pierce deeply into her ranks with his expertly trained spies to learn for certain who would rise for her if there came a day which actually tested them in open opposition. Wubric's daughter, unable by law to claim the throne—though she had a son, Barbric, around whom all her plotting was twisted.
However, with Mahart wed to a Prince Royal who could call upon Hawkner's own forces, one would think several times about any treachery. He glanced at the miniature. He had never really understood women. Her mother he had first seen at their own wedding—fair enough, yet he had always been pricked by the thought that she led some kind of secret life into which he had no entrance. Though he had not really cared. Then the plague and all his doubts were ended. The fact his daughter had survived had just been one of those jests of fate the raging disease had played throughout the city.
He expected no trouble from Mahart. The girl had been close kept all these years and had had no chance to form any interest in some boy of her own age. The thought of being a Princess Royal would be enough to dazzle her into welcome compliance. Yes, he would summon Vazul and—
He was startled by the discreet tapping at the door. Though he was no trained warrior he was out of his chair in an instant and reaching for the pillow sword resting each night as the ceremonial defense at the foot of his bed.
He flushed as he realized he had to clear his throat before he could harshly answer. “Enter!”
The door did not open very far, just enough for a very tall and thin figure, robes wrapped about him to aid in speed, to sidle in.
The robes shone in the dim light, which also picked out the heavy, gemmed gold chain which lay on the man's narrow shoulders, the signet at its end dangling near his belt.
“What's to do, Vazul?”
For the Chancellor to seek him out in this fashion was against all custom. Now the visitor was closing the door tightly behind him, almost as if he feared some follower.
“Your decision, Highness?”
In this gloom it was almost impossible to see the face of the speaker, only his height (for which Uttobric secretly could not forgive him) as he loomed over his master
as he approached the table.
“Why must you come at this hour to know?” demanded the Duke testily.
“Time never waits for men—men are its servants.” The rich voice was that of a practical speechmaker, one who was able to sway his fellows if the need arose. “And time is running out, Highness. The Bat has not returned.”
Uttobric took a tighter grip on the sword he had not yet relinquished.
“Taken?”
Vazul shrugged. “Who knows? But he has never failed to report within the promised time before. He is mind blocked to the best of our ability, but we do not know what resources they may have. There are indications that Her Grace has had contact with several from overseas during the last year. Each land has its men of secrets, and some remain secret save to him who uses them. But this means, Highness, that you must move swiftly.”
The Chancellor stood in the full light of the candle now. He was thin nearly to the point of emaciation, and his robe of crimson patterned on the breast with the ducal arms appeared nearly too heavy for him to support. His hair was cropped short as if he were a fighter, but his incurved cheeks were covered with a short-trimmed beard, while his pale gray eyes appeared to possess the same gleam as a sword blade showed. Only because he knew that Vazul would rise and fall with him, did the Duke trust him. The man had a wily mind, seemed sometimes almost able to read the future—at least light upon some of the perils lying in wait there.
“But if the Bat did not report—” the Duke now said slowly.
“How do I deduce that an alarm is sounding?” The Chancellor shrugged. “Because I know him as you should as well, Highness. He is the best of your eyes and ears, and there has never been any fault in the information which he has brought. We know that he crossed the border two days ago—he made touch with our man there. He should have reported at sunset last eve. Whatever chanced to delay him lies within your own realm, Highness, perhaps even here in Kronengred.”
Uttobric slammed the sword back in its sheath and returned, his lips curved downward in sullen pout, to the chair he had earlier arisen from. With a wave of his hand he beckoned Vazul to another on the opposite side of the table.
But before the Chancellor joined him Vazul picked up a triple candle stand and lit all three candles so that there was enough light that each of them could well see the other.
“So we do not even know now whether the plan is feasible,” the Duke said, blinking in the glow of light. “He was to tell us how matters lay with Hawkner. What do we do now, approach the King openly with our suggestion? He may take it in one of his whimsical moods and think it a jest, an improper one.”
Uttobric squirmed in his chair. He had met King Hawkner on only two occasions—one his wedding—and both times he had felt overshadowed and almost a lackey awaiting the King's pleasure, though Kronen was not part of his kingdom—Oberstrand—and never had been.
Oddly enough, there was movement on one of the Chancellor's shoulders which continued down his right arm until, from under the heavy embroidery of his wide cuff, there appeared a sleek black head. So dark was the fur that covered it that one could only catch a gleam now and then of yellow reflecting the candlelight from two eyes above a narrow pointed snout. The Duke watched distastefully as the whole of Vazul's pet appeared—though the creature seemed more than just an animal and certainly its lithe, long-bodied shape, the very short legs sharply clawed, could not be seen anywhere else in Kronen that Uttobric knew of. He hated the creature, still something had always prevented him from ordering the Chancellor to at least keep the thing out of the ducal presence. It sat up now and licked down its chest.
The Duke made an effort to ignore it. Instead he returned to his querulous question of earlier.
“Do I go, hat in hand, and approach Hawkner through Lord Perfer? Our ambassador is a fool, and we do not know how much he can be trusted.”
“Not quite yet.” Vazul was drawing his hand down the back of the creature. “Has Your Highness spoken with the Lady Mahart? She is certainly of an age to be thinking of marriage—of a handsome prince—”
“She chatters like a hoobird if I welcomed it,” snapped the Duke. “Possibly within a breath she would spill it all to that Lady Zuta and then it would be common knowledge.”
“Just so. However"—the Chancellor continued to stroke his pet—"I did not mean make free with the heart of the matter, merely speak to her of marriage. Who knows such a rumor might bring the Lady Saylana's attention and push her supporters out of their holes to your advantage.”
The Duke chewed a fingernail; his glance swept from the Chancellor to those piles of reports. Yes, if they could just stir the pot a little some useful steam might arise.
“Well enough,” he said. “That much can certainly be done. Summon Burris—one might as well get to the thing.”
The Chancellor arose and went to pull the bell rope which would bring the Duke's personal servant. He neither smiled nor displayed any change in feature. It was becoming very easy to bring Uttobric to his way of thinking—-but overconfidence was a sin.
The great bell's boom broke into the most pleasant of dreams. Mahart had never seen the world outside these ancient walls since she was a very small girl, but tonight she had skimmed away from her tower to a place she barely remembered when awake-—a great open field in which brilliant gems of flowers bent under a breeze which carried the scent of summer itself.
The scent of summer—her brows drew together in a faint frown of one seeking a memory. Of course! Now she squirmed free of the tangle of silk and velvet and sat up. Her attention was on the small brazier which sat on the edge of her wide dressing table. No fragrant smoke threads arose upward from it now, but, as she stretched her arms wide, she felt she could purr like one of the guard cats who kept the castle free of vermin.
She was indeed a Herbmistress—that Halwice—to produce an incense which supplied such peaceful and comforting dreams. They said she was a mistress of scents so powerful that they could draw or repel another. Mahart's dissatisfied gaze went on to the array of fancifully fashioned bottles on that same dressing table. Many of those held rare fragrances from overseas—her father was very apt on Winter Turn day to present her with something new of that sort. It was as if in his mind a bottle of scent was an excellent substitute for the dolls of an earlier day— though he had actually continued to present those before someone, probably Vazul, had pointed out that she was at last grown up.
She did not ring for Julta, her maid. Rather, she freed herself from the cocoon of covers, thrust her feet into her waiting fur-lined slippers, and crossed to seat herself on the bench of the dressing table, bending at once to sniff at the last faint remains of the burnt incense.
The candles were hardly used and she snap-lighted them—all four—to lean forward a little to study her reflection in the wide mirror. Her hair was still night braided, but its dull brown shade was certainly not her best feature. She envied Zuta those sleek black strands that looked like lengths of satin. But—she was not too plain! For the first time Mahart allowed herself to believe that.
There were a number of powders and creams available. She knew that Zuta was zealous in using such, but she had hesitated to try, thinking always of the tittering of maids who always discussed the actions of their mistresses behind their backs, or even arousing amusement in Zuta, who would be entirely too kind to tell her the truth. What would she do without Zuta!
It seemed to Mahart that her companion lady was born knowing what Mahart had to learn. She could always say the right thing, do the gracious act, and had been quick when Mahart was younger to cover any awkwardness her mistress might cause. Though sometimes—sometimes Mahart wished that she still had Nurse.
Nurse had known and served her mother and had been her refuge in childhood whenever her father's impatient avoidance had hurt. But Nurse was of childhood, too, gone away with a generous pension to take care of her daughter's family back in Bresta. Then Zuta had come, dazzling with her sophistication, though
she was only three years older. She was an orphan of the plague but of high rank, and seemed well satisfied with her present lot.
It had been Zuta who had told her of Halwice, the Herbmistress. Though she was so close kept in this shell, Mahart sighed and wished away all the fantastical carved furniture and comfort around her; perhaps it might be possible sometime to actually meet this purveyor of dreams and mistress of fragrance.
Only—she was tired—tired—tired— Her mouth drooped at the corners and the growing depression of the last few months gripped her again. She was tired of her life, feeling stifled at times. If it were not that she had in the past discovered the great library what would she have known at all of the world around her—outside that shell her father had forged?
Page by page she had traveled to far countries, confronted strange beasts and stranger peoples—and learned of Kronen of the past and the part her family had played in it. She believed that her father never entered the library; she was very certain that the Lady Saylana did not, though from time to time one of her serving people had come to search out a book, always on the shelves of the oldest ones where the leather backs left dust of decay upon the hands of would-be readers.
There was her daily walk, of course, but it was strictly confined to the pocket-sized garden from which even the gardeners were warned away during that time. And her meals were in the stately, hollow magnificence of that dining room, where her father ate in hasty gulps, sometimes with Vazul, neither of them paying any attention to her.
She encouraged Zuta to mingle with the other ladies of the court. The gossip she brought back was always enlightening. But, of course, there was no mingling of her own with Saylana's chosen servants. Though that assembly had shrunk in size since the death of the late Duke, his daughter still had her adherents and visitors.
Mahart had seen Barbric, her son, from a distance and had not been greatly impressed. His shambling walk and foolish high laugh were certainly not that of a prospective Duke who would do justice to Kronen, but then—what of her father?
