by Andre Norton
“That comrade being?” the Duke demanded. “Noble or baseborn?”
“He did not appear openly but kept to the Wolfs own quarters, and none ventures there except under orders. The Wolf rules with the lash and the stake.”
“Yet he rules,” Vazul said quietly. “With such as he commands, it takes a man of unusual personality to hold so close rein. There was no way of finding out the identity of the visitor?” He spoke now to the newcomer.
“Chancellor, for that I ride—tonight. The network is well in place as usual.”
For the first time the Duke’s lips formed one of his sour smiles. “Good speed” was his farewell.
When the panel had closed behind their visitor, the Duke looked to Vazul. “You put great trust in this Bat of yours—has it not always been your plaint to me that to trust entirely weakens one?”
Vazul was smoothing the fur of his creature. “Your Highness, the Bat has good reason to hate as we hate—and is there not truth in the saying he who has the same enemy is in some manner a comrade? Yes, I trust this night journeyer of mine because he not only carries a burning hate within him, but one he has learned to control, that he may accomplish best what is asked of him.”
The Duke was now eyeing him thoughtfully. “I have you, Vazul, because we both well know whatever fate the future holds will serve us equally. However—now that you have made clear the worth of my daughter to our plans—does she have any confidante who might be seduced into betrayal if such a moment of need arose?”
“Highness, the principal lady—in fact the only lady for the past four years—who serves Her Grace, is Zuta of Lakley.”
“Lakley? But that—She is kin to Darmond?”
“She is a victim of Lord Darmond’s greed,” Vazul returned calmly. “By rights she should be lady there—with the coming of the plague he moved upon his grandfather’s hold with force enough to hold it. It was given out that all those of the true bloodline died from the sickness. Sickness—and steel—as has been whispered. She could not have inherited the title and ruled there—being female. But she was entitled to daughter’s share, and that was worth a little bloodletting—her father having been very lucky in several ventures overseas. It was her nurse who saw her safely into the hands of Lady Janis of Ille. When the plague brought down that guardian my sources appraised me—” He continued to stroke his pet, and the Duke uttered one of his snickering laughs.
“Always you see the future worth of any deal, Vazul. You administer her birth funds, of course.”
But the Chancellor shook his head. “Unluckily no—Darmond being what he is and having false witnesses to say she is not the true heir. However, as all of us, she can hope for a less burdensome future. She has funds to draw upon, from her mother’s line though they may not be her own, and she is very clever. Her Grace has been safe these past few years because they were so closely united.”
“Another of your eyes and ears, Vazul? If so, she is acceptable—you will nourish a traitor no more quickly than I would.”
“No. She knows nothing of our shadow servants, Highness. But she is my source of information concerning Her Grace and all which pertains to her. Concerning Her Grace, Highness, there is another matter—”
“That being?”
“When she made her pilgrimage to the Abbey she walked it. To have ventured into the heart of the city in a horse litter would not have served the purpose. Now—Her Grace must learn to ride, Highness.”
“Ride!” The Duke blinked rapidly several times. “But there is no need for her to make any journey.”
“Except through the city, Highness. Think now, when the feast day you have planned comes and you ride forth—will it not seem strange to all that your daughter is carried in a litter? The people now know she is no invalid and will wonder why she journeys half hidden from them.”
“Ride!” repeated the Duke with a snort. “How, pray you, can she learn such a feat within less than twenty days? The girl has never been near a horse!”
“Highness, your Master of Horse is counted the best in all Kronen. There is that large court where the guards drill—it can be made private for periods of Her Grace’s instruction.”
“All right. If it must be done to humor the baseborn in the streets, let it be so. You always have such good reasons for your suggestions, Vazul.”
“That is why I am of service to you, Highness,” returned the Chancellor.
So now Mahart, whether she wished or no, became introduced to what might give her in the future another form of freedom. Her lessons were well supervised by an elderly man, who plainly considered these hours of instruction in a way a reflection upon his status. But he knew his job well, and she was eager for any new knowledge. There always remained in the back of her mind that dream she had now dreamed three times over—of being free in flowered meadows under the open sky. Learning to govern this animal, which was presented to her each morning at the same hour, might well be another key to the outer world.
Luckily she proved to be a very apt pupil, graduating from boring rounds on a very placid old mare to at last a younger and less sluggish mount. Though the Master of Horse never expressed any satisfaction at her progress she could guess by the slight changes in his attitude that she was in some ways measuring up to what he considered a credible performance.
If she came to enjoy this new learning she could not say the same for Zuta. The practice place was seldom in full sun and since the year now advanced to harvest it was chill for anyone who merely stood enshawled, watching the action but not taking part in it. Mahart, catching sight of a cold-pinched nose and not missing the accompanying shivers, finally suggested that her companion withdraw into the tack room beyond. Then she became so absorbed in what she must remember to do properly that she completely forgot Zuta. Nor did anyone know that the lady-in-waiting was joined there by one dressed in simple garb but of noble materials—carrying no house shield adornment.
Mahart continued to make her solemn rounds. Apparently the fact that she could stay in the saddle, arranging her wide, divided skirt in proper falls; keep a straight back; and have her rein signals obeyed was all that was going to be required of her. The lessoning had become such a routine that she found herself able to occupy at least a fraction of her mind with other things.
Her eighteenth birthday was looming ahead. She could only remember very faintly when that had been a date of note. These past years, the full of a celebration had consisted of the good year wishes of Julta at her rising, similar ones with a small gift from Zuta, and the appearance of a footman sometime during the morning bearing a salver on which rested her father’s remembrance, formal good wishes delivered in a monotone by memory from the bearer.
Now she was going to be, she gathered, the center of festivities of some extent. She would appear in the heaviest of formal court dress with her father on the west balcony, to be shown off properly to any of those in Kronengred who were interested. Then, later, she would practice this new art of hers in public, riding behind her father to the Abbey, to present a birthday gift to the Abbess.
She already knew that she was going to be walled by half the guard, protected carefully from any contact such as she had rebelliously indulged in before. But at least her father could not forbid her meeting with the Abbess, and so perhaps with some others of those who supported the shrine.
Mahart had already discovered that the scented candles of the inner shrine and the incense alight there were the product of the Herbmistress she had heard so much of. And, if protocol would not allow her to visit Halwice’s own shop, there could be a good chance of such an encounter at the shrine—though she knew better now than to try personally to bring that about.
Her hour’s exercise done, she allowed the Master to help her dismount, thanked him civilly as she always did for his efforts on her behalf, and headed for the tack room. There were other entrances to this exercise court, of course, but one could not clear out barracks and interrupt military matters so that no guar
dsman could get good sight of Her Grace—and the Duke’s decree in this matter had been strictly followed.
She looked for Zuta, but the room was empty and it was a full moment before the lady-in-waiting appeared. She still had a shawl bundled closely around her chin, above which her face was a little flushed.
“It is done for the day,” Mahart said. “Now what have we before us?”
“The Mistress of the Robes, Your Grace. As you remember, at last fitting your train would not lie flat.”
Mahart sniffed. “Might as well clothe me in armor—these state robes are near as heavy. Very well—let us go.”
She was always glad to get away from this guard section. There was a grimness about it which made her uneasy, and twice she raised the pomander which swung on its girdle chain to sniff at the fragrance it held.
“Your Grace?”
Mahart looked inquiringly at her companion. At least Zuta had dropped that fold of shawl so she could see her plainly.
“Yes?” she prompted when the girl did not continue.
“It is nothing—only just talk as usual. Concerning the ball. The High Lady Saylana—she is sometimes in despair of her son—”
Mahart grinned. “As well she might be, lumbering fool!”
To her surprise Zuta glanced swiftly around. “Your Grace"—now her voice was hardly above a whisper. “It is said—and has been proven—that castle walls have ears—and tongues.”
Mahart grasped the pomander more tightly. That was really a bald hint as far as Zuta was concerned. Mahart hesitated before she asked in as low a voice as the other had used: “It is that perhaps the High Lady has some plan?”
Marriage—her father had spoken of marriage! Could it be that he would strive to brace up what he considered to be a shaky ducal throne by uniting her with Barbric? Her jaw set a little. She had been her father’s tool, but there were some things—
“It is to favor the Lord Barbric.” Zuta’s now-whispered words came in a rush. ‘‘When you open the ball, all know the Duke will not lead you out—as is usual. It has always been known that he disdains such niceties.”
“And I certainly cannot dance alone.” Mahart tried to think of pacing through the stately steps allowed the ducal family and almost laughed at the picture her imagination painted of her father indulging in such a show. No, he would remain firmly on his throne, as uncomfortable there as ever, enduring that he must be present.
“His Highness must signify that you choose your partner,” Zuta was continuing.
“And Barbric will be well ahead of the line,” Mahart snapped.
“He will be the only one protocol will permit you to select,” Zuta said. “Your Grace knows well that His Highness has enemies in plenty. Should you choose without due thought, you might well alienate some family he wishes to bring into his party.”
That was true enough, Mahart had to conclude. So be it—Barbric must be her choice. Luckily in the stately paces of the opening dance one did not have to approach one’s partner past the touching of hands at the end of outstretched arms. It was deadly dull, as she knew from the hours she had been drilled in its turns—deep curtsey to answer deeper bows, and the final delivery of her to her proper dais seat.
She shrugged now. “I shall remember, Zuta. But what will be my father’s answer to this bit of diplomacy?”
“His Highness cannot deny your choice, Your Grace. It will be the only proper one.”
It seemed in the days which passed all too swiftly that there were a great many proper choices to be remembered. She hated the heavy robes which weighed so on her slender body. They had a session in which her hair had to be tamed into a coiffure which would allow a wide tiara to be anchored to it. At least the Master of Horse had at last released her, doubtless having reported to her father that she would not disgrace their name by sliding out of the saddle.
Twice she ordered Zuta to see that she was supplied with that night-burning incense which produced in her soothing and restful dreams, and the last supply sent was one large enough that she could have it burnt for three nights running.
The feeling she had every time she was loosed into that place was comforting, but also it became more and more one of anticipation. She was never in the dream inclined to walk, if walk she could, away from where she entered. Yet she became surer and surer that she was the goal of another’s journeying—though no shadow ever broke the stretches of field. She was never afraid, only ready to welcome, and now she awoke disappointed when that other promised traveler did not appear.
Sometimes it seemed that time flew, and others that it dragged sluggishly. Vazul began to ask for audiences, and at first she wanted to refuse. There was that about the Chancellor which always made her feel tense and wary when she was in his presence. Then, as the subjects he advanced in those meetings delved deeper and deeper into matters of which she had been unaware but which now aroused her curiosity to a pitch, she looked forward to his coming.
To her father she had always seemed a non-person—something to be forgotten as soon as she was out of his sight. But Vazul was treating her from the first as someone with thoughts and not just a mirror image of a proper simple child who happened by fate to have been the daughter of the Duke.
This new and exciting interest had come on his first visit to her, and looking back she was sure that the key to it was the actions of his strange pet. For when she had waved him to a seat, uncertain as to what rebuke he must carry from her father, the sinuous black-furred thing had appeared from within his sleeve, ran across his knee, and leaped lightly to the floor over which it went like a flicker of shadow to come to her own feet. Beneath the billows of her skirt her toes had tried to curl within her slippers, and she did not know what she could do if the creature sprang at her.
She dared not raise her eyes from it lest it catch her so unawares, and she longed for the Chancellor to recall it. But the longer she studied it—the thing had raised the forepart of its body, its paws crossed over its upper belly, its head held at a sharp angle as the rippling of its long whiskers suggested that it was testing the air—Mahart found that its strangeness no longer seemed to hold any menace. Impulsively she detached the chain of her pomander from her girdle and dangled it down toward that questing nose.
There was a cluttering sound, very faint. One of those forepaws came forward and claws hooked in the filigreed side of the ball, drawing it closer to the nose. She believed she could actually see the small form swell as if it drew in as deep a breath as its small lungs would allow.
“From the Herbmistress Halwice, Your Grace?” Mahart had been so engrossed by the actions of the creature that Vazul’s question gave her a start.
“Yes, Chancellor. It is of her making. She is well-known for such things.”
“As for healing also,” he commented. But he made no attempt to recall his pet.
The creature at last made the leap Mahart had been fearing, landing on her lap, the pomander held between teeth which looked extremely sharp and menacing, small as they were.
Then its head pushed against one of her hands, and she felt the silken softness of fur she could not help but smooth. There was a vibration through the long body in return which she was certain signified pleasure. Still petting the creature, she looked to the Chancellor.
“What is its name?”
All within the castle knew of it, but never had any name been mentioned.
Vazul was leaning forward, his usually half-lidded eyes very wide, his gaze seeming to search within her as if he would count her very bones. For the first time, she saw him startled out of that usual armor he ever presented to any of the court.
“Ssssaaa.” The sound coming from him was more a hiss than any true word. But she took it for what it must be—his answer to her question. “She would be a friend worth greeting.”
“Ssssaaa.” Mahart attempted as best she could to give the sound the same quality as he had done. And felt warmth as the creature seemed to slide in some way up her arm to h
er shoulder and there chitter into her very ear.
It appeared to her that Vazul was still startled out of his carefully preserved outer shell.
“You have no fear—” It was not a question but a statement. “Your Grace, you have won such a supporter as you will not be able to understand until a dire time comes—”
“A dire time?”
“Yes, time—for time itself works against us. Listen, Your Grace, and listen well, for there is much you must understand before you are totally engulfed by this court as necessity orders you must be.”
He began to talk, keeping his voice very low, as Mahart listened and caressed the creature which had come to her. Her hours spent in the library had laid the foundation for much he now spoke of—but not all, for the accounts there were not of the immediate past but stretched much further back. That her father’s ascension to the ducal throne was questioned she had always been aware, just as she had been early warned against the High Lady Saylana. But now she heard other names, Vazul pausing at some as if allowing her time to memorize each.
His steady voice, pitched even as it would be if he talked to someone his equal in years and knowledge, was in its way like those dreams of the meadow—opening out her world. It was a dark world and there was little in it over which one could rejoice—thus being far from the meadow of her dreams—but her intelligence, already awakened, was sharpened by all she heard now.
“But, my lord, if Kronen is so ridden by this rot what can be done? If merchants cannot trust our roadways they will cease to come. The trade will fail—” She hesitated, thinking of the beggars at the Abbey gate—she had done what she could since her confrontation there to give aid. “It will be again as the plague—”
Ssssaaa hissed in her ear, uncoiled, and was down her knee making a leap across to Vazul.
“Except death will come more slowly” the Chancellor said. “But—for this moment—we must play another’s game—or seem to—”
