Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  Willadene held the very small cup to his lips. “As long as my mistress thinks it well and proper.” She was having the last word after all, for his eyes were already closing.

  9

  Long before the first morning bell, while the night still held grasp on the four portals to Kronengred, there were travelers heading toward the northern gate—and certainly no ordinary march of a merchant caravan or the pounding of some messenger.

  There was one horse between the two of them, and yet neither rode. The horse itself moved with hanging head and there was a rime of dried sweat on its thin flanks. To the right of the clearly near-spent animal trudged a man in border mail and helm, a blood-darkened badge on the sleeve covering the arm he used to hold reins looped once about the saddle horn by which he urged the mount forward.

  His companion was in much worse case, head hanging so that his chin near touched his breast, his lower face a mask of dried blood as he snorted for breath through a smashed nose. Instead of mail he wore a jacket of brine-hardened leather, and he certainly lacked both the sword slapping now and then against the other’s thigh or any other sign of weapon. His matted hair was gray-white with dust, and twice only the support of the horse to which his hands had been lashed kept him on his feet when he stumbled.

  “Holla—the gate!” The voice was husky but the border guard managed to gain the attention he wanted. A lantern swung down from a beam overhead to more fully reveal the wayfarers.

  “Who goes?”

  “Vacher of the Hawk Liners—with a prisoner.”

  There was some mumbling from aloft and a wait during which the prisoner would have gone to his knees save for the support of the horse. Then words reached them.

  “ ’Tis Vacher right enough, served with him on the Burges route, I did. Let the man in, dolt—can’t you see he is fair done?”

  They did not throw open the great gate but from the postern to the side there emerged light of a kind. A knife sawed through the cords which held the prisoner and he fell, lumpish face downward, while a flask was pushed into his captor’s hand.

  Two more lantern bearers pushed their way to the scene, one of them wearing the slant bar of an underofficer on his helm.

  “Wot you got here!” He came to the point at once, giving the body on the ground a prod with boot toe.

  The border guard finished his drink. “That there’s maybe something as the Cap’n will be glad to set eye on. Raider—”

  Two of the men in that small group snarled, and one went as far as to half draw his sword.

  “A raider,” Vacher continued, “as may know something as should be shared with honest men—such as why me an’ Samnnel an’ Jas’ was ambushed like they knew we was comin’. The Hawker, he couldn’t spare no more men and me, he knew I was woodsranger for Lord Gerorigius a’fore he took and died, so I had the best chance maybe to get through. What I did—an’ wi’ him along, too.”

  But suddenly he tottered and would have fallen in turn had he not been caught by the man now beside him.

  “Get ‘im in,” commanded the underofficer, “and have the set bones to ‘im. See this other is all properly tight also.” Once more he indicated the subject of this order with a kick to the inert body. “I’m for the Cap’n—trust he’s back from patrol. Big doin’s in the city last night and we was called out special.”

  They obeyed orders with the snap of well-drilled men. But so intent were they on those very orders that they did not note a shadow lying belly flat on the ground, arm over face to better conceal its pale curve. When one of the guards caught hand in the prisoner’s mop of hair and pulled up his head and one of his fellows swung a lantern closer to the blood-soaked face, the shadow tensed. But it continued to lie where it had stationed itself at the first sound of the newcomers until the whole of the party passed back through the postern gate—and for a number of counted breaths afterward.

  When the skulker moved at last, it was to squirm on belly back along the wall for what was equal to several strides and then, on hands and knees, scuttle to the protection of a cart. He could hear the snoring of the farmer sleeping above, willing to forgo any better bed in order to be first to the market in the morning.

  The shadow did not need traditional gates to pass into the city. Beyond the cart he got to his feet and flitted away from the wall. The past Dukes had prudently had that land cleared of any form of hiding place long since. Yet the watcher found his way unerringly to the vast round of a rotting stump near the size of a small tower. Then came a scratching sound and he was gone.

  The First Bell boomed out its daily message when a man, his lean body covered with a patchwork of rags, again came into view—this time not in the outer world but within a room, as if he were thin enough to melt through the cracks between the ancient boards.

  “Hobbert.” The oiled voice gave his name as the only greeting. “An’ wot ‘as brought you out of your hole now?”

  The man half cringed, almost as if he were greeting Duke Uttobric himself most formally. “News I do have, Wyche.”

  “That being?”

  “One of the Hill Hawks jus’ corned in. An’ he had Ranny—brought him in tied to his saddle.”

  “If he came so,” the huge man commented, “then the lack wit was still alive—an’ . . .”

  Hobbert moved a little closer. Once he even dared to glance at the tall tankard which stood within easy reach of the other’s hand.

  “He—he knows somethin’ then—”

  Wyche’s broken-veined face became a mask of malice.

  “What a man knows can bring ‘im trouble, Hobbert. Like this—” He pointed to a large roach, foolhardy enough to attempt the top of the table in daytime, and brought his tankard forcefully down on the insect.

  “I don’t know nothin’,” Hobbert gabbled in a hurry. “Only what I jus’ come here to tell you, Master Wyche.”

  The other snorted. “You were a bar since you drew your first breath, Hobbert. But sooner or later"—his hot stare swept the smaller man from head to foot and then back again—"you’ll settle accounts. As it is, this time you’ve used what little wits as rattle around in that lousy skull of yours.” His grin was hardly better than his malice of a few minutes earlier.

  “Get you to the kitchen an’ tell that slob of a Jacoba as how I’ll stand you a full belly for once.”

  Hobbert disappeared—this time through the conventional doorway. The chair, large as it was, squeaked as Wyche shifted his weight. He was neither grinning nor scowling now. ‘Twas never really lucky to be caught up in the plots of the nobles. On the other hand—let a city get in such a muffle as the hand of a man was ready for his neighbor’s throat—now that meant rich pickings for him as let the others do the blooding while he did the harvesting.

  That Ranny was taken suggested perhaps a major danger to those who had his own—temporary—allegiance. But any pile as old as Kronengred had secrets within its walls, and a man could well have his throat slit before he could flap his tongue.

  Yes. He took another long pull at the tankard. To pass on Hobbert’s message might be to his advantage for the present. He tapped the stained board of the table with his fat and puffy fingers. How—and who—that took some thinking on.

  During Willadene’s exploration of the room where Nicolas lay and she appeared to be imprisoned for the present she had come across a chest. Perhaps the contents had once been precious—robes of state. The clean odor of cedar had greeted her when she had managed to raise the heavy lid, but the garments, too long folded, slit and tore at her handling. However, she got out enough of them to form a pallet not too far from that of her patient.

  By Halwice’s reckoning that last dose should give him several hours of sleep. She had hungrily finished the solid food on the tray—rolls stuffed with mince of meat—cold, to be sure, but nonetheless welcome. And she had drunk very sparingly from the pitcher of water. The flagon of wine which had accompanied it she pushed to one side.

  For a while she sat on th
e bed she had contrived and watched Nicolas. It seemed to her that his sleep was peaceful, and under her light touch his skin was no longer heated as much. Halwice’s potions worked well, always supposing she could reach the patient in time.

  However, it was not Nicolas the wounded charge who interested her now but rather Nicolas the man. She did not know how clever she was at estimating age, but she felt that he could not be too many years ahead of her. Both Halwice’s and the Chancellor’s treatment of him had suggested that he was of some major importance to those secrets she knew existed but refused to try to explore. If the Herbmistress wanted her to know something she would tell her—and that Willadene held to.

  He was, of that much she was certain, a spy—ears and eyes for the Chancellor and beyond him the Duke. Only someone with strong nerves and quick wits could play that role for any length of time.

  She wondered if he still nursed suspicion of her as he had from the first. She—

  On her pallet of metallic-threaded rags the girl stiffened, and her head jerked around toward the door—that door which was so securely fastened save for the space at the bottom through which the tray had been pushed.

  That space—she regarded it narrowly and as carefully as she could in this dim light. Surely it was not large enough to admit—a man?

  However, one hand flew to her nose. So utterly vile was the whiff she had caught that it nearly choked her. There was something outside that portal now—something which was utter danger.

  She had her belt knife, yes, but she would be no match physically for a determined killer, and somehow she was sure that who—or what—lingered now without had come to slay.

  There was no time to extinguish the lamps. Anyone stooping or kneeling could look through the flap and make sure that the prey was safe inside. Or—

  She did not have Halwice’s everpresent healer’s bag, but before her eyes now, on that tray waiting to be collected, was a pepper mill—perhaps put with all food served as a matter of course.

  Willadene half threw herself across the space between, and her hands closed on that most pitiful of weapons. Whatever was waiting without had not moved, of that her nose assured her. She tried to breathe shallowly, fighting the pressure on her that that filthy odor continued to exert.

  The pepper mill worked quickly as she turned—savagely but silently as she was sure it might give her away.

  Then—

  The flap was being lifted! Willadene planted herself in what she hoped would be the best position and waited—

  Luckily, in spite of the lamps, the trundle bed was out of direct line of anyone so attempting to spy on them. He or she would have to assume the most awkward position in order to view who lay there.

  There was a hand on the swing flap and Willadene was astounded. She had expected a man’s fist; this was the well-kept hand of a woman, a single red-jeweled ring catching fire from the lamplight.

  Hand—then an arm clad in ruby silk, a shoulder, a mass of hair which must have been hastily released from some elaborate headdress, the waving strands hiding the face.

  But those strands were no barrier to what Willadene held. She chose what she believed was her best moment and blew. Holding her own nose tight with her other hand against what might drift upward, she puffed the thick coating of pepper in her palm straight at her target.

  Her answer was a veritable explosion of a sneeze, enough to strip raw the unfortunate nose which allowed it. What she could see of the interloper jerked back and away. The flap of the door dropped into place. Yet she could hear a series of more violent sneezes, plus a smothered cry of pain. Perhaps some of her improvised weapon had reached eyes as well.

  Still, as she crouched there she continued to be aware of that evil smell. For all her torment the unknown on the other side of the door was making no move toward withdrawal.

  “What’s to do—?” The words were clear enough for her to understand but slurred. She slewed about to face the pallet.

  Her charge was open-eyed now, and frowning again. On hands and knees Willadene crawled to him and firmly placed her hand over his mouth, at the same time nodding toward the door.

  There were still muffled sounds to be heard from outside. However, Nicolas seemed to understand her warning and she took away her temporary gag, her fingers brushing over the stubble of his unshaven jaw.

  The girl flattened herself down beside him, her lips very close to his ear. “Outside—strove to crawl through the door flap—”

  His eyes widened a little and she saw that his lips were shaping visibly a second, single-word question.

  “Who?”

  She shook her head. This was certainly no time to explain her singular talent. She only knew that the one outside carried that same stench which had sickened her when Wyche had tormented her with his attentions—yet certainly the visitor was not that tavern lounger.

  Had she the wealth of products which rested on the shelves of the herb shop—and a little time—she could have perhaps worked out a defense. What she waited for now was to have that one who had come so secretly summon help and force the door.

  On impulse Willadene took from her own neck that thong which held her privately concocted amulet. At least she could move, but Nicolas was helpless against any such attack. Or was he? For into that tiny bag, sewn with thickly protective stitching only a fortnight past, there was a very ancient recipe against ill.

  Even Halwice had averred that the Old Ones of the past had known more of the power of growing things than any modern herbalist. Much had been kept secret, those secrets dying with their holders. Finding Willadene drawn to what were her own oldest records Halwice had encouraged the girl in her researches.

  Heart-Hold had not been the only growing gift for a world which would recognize its properties—though so much had been lost. Raising Nicolas’s head while he stared at her in amazement, she slipped about his throat the cord of the amulet.

  But as that left her grasp she bent over, wracked by pain in her middle, bile rising. That stench closed her in, wrapped about her like a blanket. She saw Nicolas watching her, his first amazement fading to something else—a mixture of alarm and concern. Then his hand arose feebly and he pointed past her in the direction of the door.

  There the lamplight was very faint, and yet there was a greenish glow drawing a line along the floor, outlining the bottom of the swinging panel. And it was more than light.

  Clasping her hand tightly across her nose Willadene scrambled for the remedies the Herbmistress had left. One of those was all she could depend upon now. Perhaps the very fact of her gift made this assault so terrible for her.

  She paid no attention to the dangling dosage spoon as her free hand closed about the bottle. Yet she dared not draw too heavily on its contents, for that in itself might bring her down.

  Willadene drew a full mouthful from the flask. She held herself taut. This was like taking in coals to lie on the curl of her tongue, and she fought the muscles which would force her to spew it forth again.

  She was no longer aware of any except her own pain and sickness, yet Nicolas seemed unaffected by what had come with that curl of green. It was past the door flap now, drawing itself in a snake’s form, as if it had more substance than mere light.

  Once more Willadene forced herself to move, holding one hand pressed hard to her mouth, feeling as she went as if she were also writhing reptile fashion across the floor.

  She would have only one chance and that she would make the most of—

  The green line raised its foretip and swung back and forth as if it possessed eyes and were searching for prey. Willadene could hold no longer. Forcing herself to lean as closely as she could to that thing of the dark she spat forth all which was in her mouth—and the liquid struck true!

  It was as if she had hurled a blazing hearth brand on the thing. Twisting, turning, appearing caught in the mess, it struggled wildly and then—was gone.

  The girl huddled together. Her mouth was numb but—the smells he
r tormented nose now gathered in were only the honest ones of what had happened here. The overpowering stench of evil was gone. She silently thanked the Star for the thought which had protected them—that the remedy Halwice had concocted to fight wound rot had indeed been an enemy to this other thing.

  She listened. There were no more wheezings from without. But the withdrawal of the Dark’s foulness had already assured her of that.

  Still sick and shuddering, she longed for the comfort of one of Halwice’s soothing potions. Her face was down on her knees as she huddled, her arms tightly about her. There was that to be done—a sickroom must be kept as clean as possible. But at that moment she was too weak to move. She hardly heard the voice from behind her.

  “Mistress, what was that which came?” There was no sharp note from Nicolas now.

  Somehow Willadene turned her head so she could see him. He had braced himself up on one elbow and was staring at her as if she were one of the night goblins meant to frighten children into better manners.

  In spite of the dryness of her throat she was able to give an order.

  “Lie—down—would—you—tear that—open again?” Her words came so slowly. But from somewhere she found dregs of strength—enough to push, having to put all the protection her failed energy could summon—a footstool across the door flap. That exertion left her half lying across that would-be barrier, panting.

  She must get to that remaining spot on the floor—but before she touched it—lest some of the evil still rest within—she must have her defense.

  Wearily she crawled toward Nicolas. “The amulet—” She spoke between gasps as she was forced to rest every few lengths she won. “Give—”

  His hand was already at his throat and on the cord. Without being able to lift his head too high from its support he worried it off, and finally it was hers once again.

  “What did you do—?” He was certainly more alert than she had seen him since she came here. It was as if watching action itself was playing some part in his healing.