by Andre Norton
Between Vazul and Zuta, Mahart had to submit to being coached for such an affair. This would be worse than entertaining all the elder women at her teas. The audience watching her for any misstep would be avidly intent. Thus she set herself to learn a role she had no desire to play but which appeared to be part of her uncertain heritage.
“The High Lady Saylana will be present,” Zuta announced. “She will occupy the lower seat. It is Your Grace who enters first, and she must curtsey—though not as low, of course, before she seats herself. She will have at least three of her favorite ladies with her, and they will stand on the lowest step of the dais to the far right.
“I shall be your chief lady—with your favor—” She paused and Mahart nodded quickly. “And it is best that you invite the Lady Famina of the House of Ranavice, which so far has not openly committed itself to sponsorship of either side of our old inheritance dispute. Then there is the Lady Geuverir of Krutz—her father is one who is very loyal to His Highness.
“With Your Grace’s permission, these two have been summoned this very day to be presented to you. You remember that Lady Honora.” Zuta smiled mischievously.
Mahart surely did and with a prick of irritation. The pompous dame had sailed into her presence several weeks ago, giving off very clearly that she was only doing her duty and the object of that duty was not to be highly considered.
“The Lady Honora is Lady Geuverir’s mother. And Lady Geuverir is said to have inherited certain traits of the maternal character.”
Mahart grinned. “Thank you kindly, Zuta, for your warning.”
She duly met her new attendants.
To Mahart’s taste they were overdressed, and she noted that the Lady Geuverir gave a sidewise look, which was not complimentary, at what she herself was wearing. On her the Lady Honora’s imperious features were certainly repeated. The Lady Famina was round cheeked and pearls of sweat on her forehead wet down her fringe of hair. When she spoke—only in answer to some direct question—she had a slight stammer.
Mahart’s own short experience of contact with the court had quickened her ability to sense some things, and she was very much aware that High Lady Saylana’s attendants would far outshine these two. But she could count upon Zuta at least to catch eyes—unless they would all be centered on Mahart herself!
The court was indeed a trial. It was held, as had been usual, before the last bell in the late afternoon so that the great throne room was lighted not only by forests of candles in high, standing holders but also all by the westering sky through the windows at the meeting of wall and ceiling.
Mahart had refused nearly a third of the jeweled pieces urged upon her, but even so, a look into her mirror made her think of some little town girl tricked out far too much. Her cream satin gown was draped with a netting of pale gold in which was caught a heavy sprinkling of diamonds. A wide necklace of the same stones covered most of the skin displayed by the low-cut neckline, and a flashing tiara weighed on her head, making her uneasy about its safety. She continued to hold her head stiffly upward to assure that it would not slip.
The only part of what the maids and Zuta had done to her that she really enjoyed was the fragrance which had come from the most beautiful jeweled bottle she had in her collection—a recent gift from the Duke, fashioned like an open rose.
Somehow the fragrance stiffened her determination to make this indeed a court to be remembered as she led the way, with Zuta two steps behind, dressed in a shade of her favorite rose, and the other two ladies tricked out with flounces, ribbons, and gems enough to avert Mahart’s attention from them quickly.
She made her entrance at the stately pace she had practiced for so many hours in her room, acknowledging the deep bow of the Chancellor with a raise of her hand, which she then laid on his arm as he led her up the five steps to the ducal throne. For this hour she was the chosen representative of their ruler, and the deference of those assembled in the room was rightly centered upon her.
The other chair, one step below her throne, was empty, but High Lady Saylana was already advancing with what seemed a lengthy train of followers. Most of them melted into the crowd of waiting courtiers, but she was escorted by a trio of mature and perfectly gowned beauties.
Saylana herself had chosen satin and netting also, but hers was moonlight gray and the stones caught in the overdress, rubies—like the bright-red eyes of forest animals. A choker of the same stones was clasped around her throat. Lapping a little over that were hints of flesh rolls. And there were wrinkles no cosmetic magic could hide about her mouth and at the corners of her eyes.
Those eyes were as bright and seemingly as fiery as the rubies. And she did not lower the head on which her hair was confined with jeweled bands. Her gaze holding steady and with the faintest of mocking smiles about her reddened lips, she sank into the deep court curtsey which Mahart readily recognized as being subtly insulting, her three ladies also sinking in a whirl of wide skirts behind her.
The whole affair was a wearying ordeal. At least twenty maidens of high blood were handed to the foot of the dais by one of the heralds, her name and house announced clearly. Mahart tried to manufacture smiles which were as close to welcoming and pleasant as possible and murmur correctly the name over the young lady who was bent in the awkward position of the lowest point of obedience.
She had to listen and remember those names, be sure that none was offended and slighted. Then that portion was finished, and the herald by the far door announced the heirs to be recognized.
Mahart had been able to ignore Saylana during this press of duties, but she was well aware now that the other stirred in her chair and was leaning forward a little.
No wonder—the first bedecked popinjay issued into place before Mahart was Barbric, Saylana’s son. He was tall, but he carried himself awkwardly and had a slack mouth—certainly no prince to ride in a maid’s dreams. Nor did she like the way he eyed her as he straightened from his bow—as if she were some sort of prize for the winning. There were many tales circulating in the castle about Barbric, and none of them carried to Mahart by Zuta had been edifying. She was glad now to see him move on.
As for the rest, they were just faces—one or two comely, the rest Mahart, used only to her father and Vazul, found childishly young.
The affair came to an end at last, and she must make her own exit, a little dubious about her long, wide skirt as she descended the steps. She had only to stumble to make Saylana’s attendance a pleasure instead of a duty.
Once she was back in her chamber Mahart spoke more sharply than she ever had to Julta.
“Rid me of this!” She was already tugging at the tiara which she was sure was what was making her head ache so. Then she had to stand patiently as they unwrapped her from jewels and dress. Here in her room where there were not so many other odors to conceal it—for it seemed to her the entire court had been doused in warring perfumes—she could smell again that refreshing rose scent.
All right: she had performed as her father and Vazul had wished—dared she ask a favor in return? Zuta had said the Herbmistress could be summoned to the castle. But, by the Star, she herself was deadly tired of these walls and the bindings her birth had put upon her!
By the Star. On her bench while they rebraided her hair into its usual fashion a thought struck her.
“Zuta,” she said eagerly, “have you ever been to the Abbey of the Star Sisters? I know that they welcome ones who seek answers—”
“Never, Your Grace. But—” she favored Mahart with a keen gaze “—several Duchesses and High Ladies in the past have sought them out.”
“So it is a permitted thing!” Mahart exclaimed. Why had this idea never come to her before? “I think that I shall petition my father to allow me to do this. It would be well, since he seems to wish to shift some of his formal burdens onto me, that I make the acquaintance of one who is supposed to know all which passes—the Abbess of the Star.”
Vazul, his attendant creature wreathed around his n
eck like a second chain of office, bowed himself into the Duke’s presence. Somehow at this hour, since tasting the splendor of the full court display, the Chancellor secretly found his master even more meager and without presence.
“Well?” the Duke snapped even as his Chancellor straightened again. “How did it go? Did she make a fool of herself and are half the court now laughing behind their hands?”
Vazul allowed himself a small smile, one suggesting satisfaction.
“Her Grace, Highness, was all you could wish her to be. It passed as if she had done this duty many times before.”
The Duke stared at him under his eyebrows. “So—did those various eyes and ears you keep about pick up any comments later?”
“Only the most favorable ones, Highness. And in her court dress the High Lady looked truly at ease on the throne.”
The Duke shuffled some of those papers which always seemed to gather about him. “And that she-wolf—did she show?”
“The High Lady Saylana made her proper appearance, Highness. She acknowledged your daughter in the most correct fashion. However, among the scions of high birth presented Barbric was the first.”
“She would parade him like a new war horse, would she? I take it he has little resemblance to his sire?”
“None that could be ascertained during such presentation, Highness.” Vazul stroked his pet. “He certainly does not present the appearance of a leader of valiant men.”
The Duke snorted. “If he can stick on a horse and wave a sword, she will have it he is his heroic father’s true son. Now—” he scrabbled among the papers until he found one which he held close to his weak eyes “—I see the Bat was helpful as usual. But what happened to him that delayed this report? Oh, sit down, man, you must have a story to offer for that.” He waved the Chancellor into another chair.
Vazul’s slight smile was gone. “I think, Highness,” he said slowly, “we have a Bat wearing other colors somewhere among us.”
The paper crunched between the Duke’s hands. “He was taken, then?” he demanded, his voice rising.
“There was an attempt which near succeeded. He has those who will give him cover when necessary. One such is a woman you know well—Halwice the Herbmistress. She herself has a network of informers who have served us very well in the past, for her products are not all of Kronengred, but much comes from abroad.
“The Bat was given a packet to deliver to her, and he knew, or believed that he did, the seal set on it. It gave him a reason for going undercover in her house until he could contact me. But that packet was tampered with.
“When she opened it he was struck as if dead and she made prisoner within a helpless body. Had it not been for chance, that an inn brat she had befriended came to her aid, she and the Bat would have been taken up by the Reeve’s guard.”
“He set the trap?” The Duke’s thin face flushed. “By the Star.” His fist thudded on the table. “City law or no city law I’ll have the fellow to rigorous question!”
Vazul was shaking his head. ‘‘The Reeve was but a tool himself. A message was sent him under a seal that he had reason to believe made a visit to the shop imperative—my seal—or a rough copy of it.
“However, from this we have learned something which is"—he paused—"unsettling. Somewhere there is one with herb knowledge, someone operating outside the sworn rules of the guild. Halwice has warned of such. Twice, if you remember, she detected foreign material among deliveries made to her. But this attack was stronger, she says, than anything she believed might be done. As one who works always among potions she has made herself immune to the known noxious materials which she might chance upon. Yet this struck her down as if she had no defense at all. And her wakening of the Bat was a lengthy and arduous task. One, she says frankly, she doubts she could have accomplished had it not been for the inn girl.”
The Duke frowned. “Who might also have been planted.”
“She has been vouched for, Highness. Her record is very clear from any contact with those we have reason to believe wish to deal ill with us. Before the plague struck, she lived with her parents. Her father was a member of the frontier guard and so away for lengths of time. Her mother was a midwife whom to this day is greatly missed by those survivors who knew her.
“Being alone she was gathered up with the other orphans in her ward and arbitrarily apprenticed to the cook-owner of the Wanderers Inn, an unsavory place but one with which the Reeve’s guard can find no overt fault especially since they are blood kin. This cook is one of those bullies who welcome a victim, and the girl has been hers ever since. Now she threatens to wed the girl to a suspicious character we have been watching carefully, as she wants the bride price. The girl fled for aid to Halwice, who has tested her and discovered she has a natural talent for her own work. Halwice has appealed to the Reeve’s court to reassign the girl to her care and a suggestion"—he smiled again—’ ‘from a high quarter has made this now a fact. No, set your fears to rest, my lord, she is not one of the spiders’ netting.”
“If you say so.” The Duke shruggea. “Now as to this news from abroad—so Prince Lorien is at odds with his father, King Hawkner?”
“So much so,” Vazul said, “that he and his followers—all well trained, some of them former border guards—have withdrawn to the hold of Keesal.”
The Duke dropped the paper he was holding, swept it aside with a number of others to uncover a map. He picked up a round glass from the desk and held it over the northwest corner of the map.
“Near the border,” he commented.
“Near something else also, Highness,” Vazul remarked. “Look to the left of Mount Nastor—”
“A red dot,” the Duke replied, and then lifted his head swiftly to meet his Chancellor eye to eye. “That is the Red Wolfs den!”
Vazul nodded approvingly. “Just so. Of late, the Red Wolfs pickings have been lean. Since you withdrew the garrison at Krantz—”
“Which I had to do!” snapped the Duke. “If we do not keep the main highways free of despoilers the merchants will begin to ask awkward questions again.”
“The Wolf is beginning to hunger, yes. And the Prince’s party is small. This outlaw is bold-thoughted enough to plan a quick raid across the border, maybe believing that he will not be pursued and that it would take time to send our troops thither.”
“Lorien’s men are veterans, you say?” The Duke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin with one hand.
“The Prince is not a berserker out for war on all fronts. However, he is well-known to admire feats of arms and has voluntarily served two terms with the Borderers. In fact, his present quarrel with the King began from the fact that he absents himself from court too much and there are questions raised contrasting his abilities with the heir who is of a rather indolent nature.”
“Can it be done?” The Duke leaned forward in his chair.
“It is far from impossible,” Vazul was replying when there came a diffident tap at the door.
“In with you!” the Duke cried out, loud enough to be heard. The door swung open only far enough to admit a page, looking as wide-eyed as a cornered puppy surrounded by evil-tempered hunting hounds. The small silver tray he bore shook as the Chancellor plucked off the folded paper there before it fluttered to the floor.
“For Your Highness.” He bowed as he held out the message.
“All right, all right. Away with you, boy, this is no morning for interruptions.”
Thankfully the page bowed himself hastily out, shutting the door behind him with a sound which was close to a slam.
Already the Duke had unfolded the paper. His flush grew a little deeper as he tossed it to the table. “It is always so with women—they can never be satisfied.”
Vazul picked the paper up, read the few lines with more ease than the Duke had done, and then, to his master’s complete surprise, said: “Well done. She has learned her part well. It has been true that all High Ladies of the family, Highness, meet with the Abbess
of the Star. They, in fact, provide some funds for the poor. Yes, the Abbey lies without these walls, but the High Lady will go in a measure of state, giving the commoners a chance to see her. There can be no more tales that she is crippled or a monster of ugliness—”
“What!” The Duke’s flush had now deepened alarmingly, and he half arose from his chair, both fists planted on the desktop as he leaned forward to face the Chancellor.
“Who has said such of my daughter? He will choke on those lies when he swings from the north wall!”
“Rumor has said it—and doubtless that rumor was helped along by some we can name. You have kept her so pent that few have ever seen her. Now you have displayed her to the court and those of noble birth, let her also be known and seen by the people.”
Mahart sat, the all-important paper stretched between her two hands. She could hardly yet believe that her daring to address her father with a request had served her so well. Now she rubbed her thumb over his seal at the bottom of that short page and passed to the second part of her plan.
She had never been taught to ride and the second way to reach her goal was to be hidden from sight by the curtains of a horse litter. But her reading in the library had provided her with an argument against that. Pilgrimage—that was it!
Not one in which one made many days’ travel into the mountains in the west where the Star first was manifest. No, but she could cite that her first visit to the all-important Abbey here could be counted a pilgrimage.
Other Duchesses and High Ladies had certainly gone on foot from castle to Abbey in the days past, and it was taken as only fit and proper that they should approach the greatest shrine in Kronen in a mock-humble manner. Mahart was well aware that she would never be allowed to make such a journey alone—actually walking through the streets of the city she had only seen during all these years from balconies as a spread of roofs below.
