Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  “That which was sent upon us was—evil.” She had puddled some of the water in a scarf to hand and rubbed it across her face. The numbness of the potion had faded and her mouth now only felt raw from the ordeal. “Halwice left the kill for wound rot.” And kill it certainly was, she thought with a faint flutter of amusement. Now that she was free of the stench she felt curiously light-headed, almost as if all about her was a mummer’s play to be laughed away.

  “And that was what you spat upon the thing?”

  Spat upon the thing, thought Willadene, a most courtly way of describing her action.

  “I know not what it was.” Now she dared allow herself a drink from the flagon. “But, yes, I think that the dose of my mistress’s potion put an end to it. Only—who has such perverted knowledge as to summon such a thing?”

  “Vazul—summon him, mistress. What moved through here he must know.”

  Now Willadene allowed a weak laugh born of shock to break bonds. “Best we bring him a mop and a bucket—”

  But she discovered that now she could pull up to her feet with the aid of a chair and, pushing the weight of that before her to keep her steady, she headed once more for the signal rope.

  “That is the end of it,” Vazul said. “The fellow was mind blocked.”

  The Duke shifted in his chair. “Who has such powers—save the Star? And no one of the order would betray their beliefs so. You are certain?”

  “As certain as seeing a dead man who gasps out his life when the question is put to him can be,” the Chancellor returned.

  “Then—” the Duke’s hand rubbed across his chin and he peered piercingly at his servant “—there is something beyond our understanding. What said the Abbess?”

  “She casts the crystals this night, Highness. But remember, those of the Star follow no lord’s leadership. They stand apart from any of our worldly disputes—though I believe that she was shaken when she heard of this woods-runner who had a power not authorized by her own orders.”

  “I trust,” the Duke said dryly, “that she is shaken enough to seek some sensible explanation—and that having found such she will share it with us. The Bat—”

  “We found him in time, Highness. But that he will be able to carry out any ploy soon is another matter. Halwice affirms that he is past the danger point.”

  “This girl of hers—”

  “As you ordered, Highness. She may guess that she is in the castle, but that is all she knows beside the task she has been sent to do. However, Highness, this other news the borderer brought us. It would seem that the Bat was successful even though he had to suffer for it.”

  “Losing us only one thing,” the Duke returned, “that one who went up from the city and whom the Wolf may acknowledge as master.”

  “He will acknowledge him so no more. It was a neat bit of night attack. No wonder they hail the Prince as a master of war craft. And so, Highness, we can now move on to the next part of our game.”

  “It will be no game"—the Duke sounded sour—"if our herald and his escort may be ambushed on the way.”

  “Our borderer tells us the north road will be watched. The Hawker is calling in all but a thin screen of his forces to ensure that. And he, as is the Prince, is a man who understands this business. I have here—” from somewhere about the folds of his robe he produced a seal swinging from a chain ‘‘—the official seal of Kronen. That together with your letter of congratulations and welcome, the message delivered by the herald, will certainly hold the Prince’s attention.

  “It was masterly, Highness, for you to so subtly suggest that Prince Lorien’s advice would be acceptable.”

  The Duke quirked an eyebrow. “Well, every once in a while I do have a thought or two, you know, Vazul. And if Lorien accepts our invitation to celebrate his victory—’’

  “When he accepts,” Vazul corrected him smoothly. “There will be a feasting, a jousting—the Prince has a liking for such entertainment—and, of course, a state ball—the High Lady Mahart to receive him and on your behalf present him with the victor’s circlet of the Star.”

  The Duke’s lips pushed forward peevishly. “Another of these balls—!”

  “Ah, but as your Highness well knows, the High Lady is in the first bloom of her youth and remarkably well looking. There may be others deemed more beautiful, but she seems to be born with a natural grace of person which makes her noticeable in any company, even if her rank were not known. And balls are the proper meeting places for ladies and their would-be suitors.”

  He was smiling, but those lips thinned as hurling through the air as if she had leaped from some height and quite a distance came Ssssaaa.

  The creature looped herself above on the Chancellor’s shoulder and was plainly hissing into his ear as if giving some urgent report.

  Vazul was on his feet, and the Duke looked up at him startled.

  “There is trouble in the tower! No.” He put out a hand to keep the Duke from grasping the small bell which would bring a quick answer. “Do you want the whole of the castle alert? I shall take the inner way as usual.”

  He was gone behind the screen that half divided the room, leaving Uttobric to gnaw at his nails, his thoughts summing up every calamity which might be upon him.

  10

  Mahart took two stitches in the heavy linen intended to form the foundation for a new altar panel she had promised to the Abbey in honor of her being advanced there to the role of lady patroness, and then tossed the scratchy cloth onto the table. Her fingers would simply not obey orders today, and in fact her thoughts were very far from conscientious labor at the moment.

  Lady Famina bobbed up from her stool. “Your Highness wishes?” she was quick to ask.

  For a moment Mahart gazed at her. Yes, there was very much something she wished, but she completely doubted Famina could supply it—and that was information. Zuta had gone to order some more of the restful sleep incense and had not yet returned, and certainly neither of these ninnies was of any use. Perhaps— She frowned, not realizing that Famina might take that expression personally.

  In her lifetime so far she had had precious few secrets—and most of them had been so tame as to not hold even her own interest. Zuta was the only one who had shared, beside Julta, those days in the past when she had been her father’s forgotten prisoner.

  Since life had switched a full way around from quiet to taking part in the court, they had indeed traded at the rare times they were alone together opinions—most of them derogatory—about the new company into which they had been plunged. But—no, this was something she wanted to think about before she shared it even with Zuta.

  “Your Grace—” faltered the Lady Famina, and Mahart realized that the lumpy child must be fearing that she had in some way offended her new mistress.

  “It is nothing, Famina.” Mahart sketched a yawn. “I find it close and airless here. Shall we take a turn in the rose garden?”

  Rose garden, she thought disparagingly—a stretch of ancient earth between two frowning walls with a number of straggly plants over which a gardener watched with deep concern for their continued lives. The fields—the free fields—with their wealth of flowers. And—in the last dream there had almost been another—she was certain she had seen a shadow.

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Both ladies were on their feet waiting to follow her those decorous two steps behind which etiquette demanded. Thus her own idle words had sentenced her to a period in the open—if there could be any real “open” within these walls.

  As she went down the stairs and through the doorway below she eyed those walls about her with a new interest. Yes, she dreamed when she slept—and now looked forward to those dreams. But when she had stirred awake last night, nudged into consciousness somehow by something she did not understand, that had not been a dream!

  Though all her unordered, unsupervised reading had taught her much about the past, and she thought she knew the castle from its infancy as a traders’ command post, to her it had
been a place of shelter, certainly not always comfortable.

  She had always known that the walls now standing were very thick—thick enough to conceal—what? A small shiver made her pull her shawl the closer. What of the many legendary tales she had read? Not of this castle to be sure—but of others—where were secret ways through such walls.

  It was because her own tower had been such a tight part of her life that she had never perhaps thought of such a thing as there being more to the walls about her than she could see and touch at her will. However—she could remember as if she had just heard them moments ago—those sounds behind a wall in her bedchamber. Not the scampering of rats or other vermin—no. Remedies supplied by the Herbmistress as well as an alert corps of cats kept them free of such pests.

  But she would take Star Oath that she had heard sounds which had swept within the walls about almost one quarter of her room. They had been strong enough to bring her out of bed—night lamp in hand—to walk along the suspect barriers. Only, they had died out so quickly she could not really center in on them.

  Now, standing in the rose garden, she turned slowly around, not to look at the few wizened blossoms showing but at the castle itself. The Black Tower! It was the space of the garden away from her own quarters and for years it had been so shunned that people seemed to have forgotten it.

  Ghosts—? She shook her head at her own thoughts. There had been no more stories of specters these past few days. Yet she wanted nothing more than a chance to inspect that section of wall in the fullest light she could summon—have all the heavy window drapes pulled back and several lamps placed to best advantage. Only, to do so would certainly raise questions and ones for which she had no answers.

  She was still staring musingly at the Black Tower when Zuta came hurrying down the path, brushing past the two ladies who scowled and pulled aside their skirts. There was certainly no bonding friendship in Mahart’s household.

  “Your Grace"—Zuta had to pause for a moment to catch breath—"His Highness’s herald has ridden forth with the invitation. ’Tis said that if Prince Lorien comes it will be within days!”

  Mahart bit her lip. It was a long time since Kronengred had welcomed a conquering hero, one with all the attributes of this one—a notable feat of arms behind him, of high birth, likely looking according to rumor, and all the rest that was ever accorded a legendary prince. She also remembered word for word—scowl by scowl—exactly her father’s opinion of this event.

  She, Mahart, was to make herself so desirable to this stranger that he could find himself wedded to her—ready to serve her father’s purposes. And she had not the least idea of how such a deed could be accomplished. Though she could well guess her life, if she failed, might be far from even as palely pleasant as it was now.

  “Your Grace"—Zuta had drawn much closer—"there are ways—”

  “Charms?” demanded Mahart dryly. “We are not caught up in some ancient tale.”

  “Halwice’s compounds, Your Grace. There will be the victory ball and you are to present the circlet of the Star—Is that not the truth?”

  Rumors did spread with lightning speed through this pile, Mahart knew. “Yes.”

  “Then, Your Grace, send for the Herbmistress. There are arts in plenty wrought from the very hearts of flowers and that which is earth-rooted, which can aid a woman. You are not aged enough to know much of such matters, but I have seen ladies well past their bloom turned into maids new come to court—at least for an evening. You need no such creams and false enchantments—but there are other ways to make any man notice one and be led to follow.”

  That, also, Mahart knew. She loved fragrance for itself and what it wrought within her—such as her beautiful dreams. However, she had never tried to use any such as a lure. But perhaps this was the time she would be driven to it.

  “Can you summon this herb wife?” she asked. “I have heard that she does not go from her shop except for some great illness or disaster. Certainly she would not consider the concocting of a new fragrance to be such. I have seen her at the Abbey, and she has the air of one noble born, not to be used as a servant.”

  “Your Grace.” It was the Lady Geuverir who had shuffled forward. Big ears, thought Mahart swiftly, and ready to use them; she must be watched. “Your Grace, she has been within the castle but this morning. It is reported that the Chancellor is ailing and the Duke will have none but her to diagnose his illness.”

  True enough. Vazul for the first time had not been present when she had had that interview with her father last night. And his absence had been a distinct change from custom.

  “Is she still to be found here?” She asked that of Zuta in an attempt to make Lady Geuverir better aware of her lower place—at least in this company.

  “I shall discover, Your Grace. And if she is not in attendance on the Chancellor still, I shall bring her,” Zuta promised swiftly.

  “What was that?” The more he spoke the stronger Nicolas’s voice became.

  Willadene, inwardly shaken by both her facing of rank evil and her use of the potion, lifted her head with an effort.

  “I—I do not know—save it was evil come into sight and body of a sort. Such I have never heard of—save in a hint or two in Halwice’s oldest books.”

  “Ssssaaa—” Something soft rubbed against her arm, and she looked up to see the Chancellor staring about him in open amazement. He quickly averted his eyes from the site of the strange battle.

  His creature curled up about Willadene, bumping her head against the girl’s chin, her hiss certainly not a threat but rather meant to soothe.

  “What came?” Vazul almost showed his teeth as would a hound.

  “Black evil—” Willadene still shuddered. Word by halting word she got it out—what had happened when the flap door had been lifted—her own attack with the only weapon she could lay hand upon—and then that which followed.

  Vazul had caught up the flask she indicated, held it closer to the nearest lamp. “And this?” he demanded of her.

  “It cleans wounds—there can be no flesh rot—” mechanically Willadene answered.

  “Also it very effectively disposed of that thing sent upon us,” Nicolas reported.

  The Chancellor again regarded the mess on the floor. Repugnance was easy to read on his thin features. Willadene, in spite of herself, held a blush of shame. Then he turned on her.

  “Your mistress—”

  “Lord Chancellor.” The girl no longer felt so lightheaded; it was as if the warmth of the animal now against her cheek was oddly restorative—like a cordial she had freely drunk. “I am new come to Mistress Halwice’s service and am one who is but a beginning student of her craft. What happened here I cannot explain—you must ask it of her. Though—”

  “Though—” he prodded her when she did not continue.

  “There is truly evil here—within these walls. And it lives—and—hunts!” Why she was so sure of that she could not tell.

  Her legs had not been strong enough when he had appeared to bring her to her feet; rather she crouched, having to raise her head at an angle to look at him.

  “Halwice—” Even as he said that name Willadene’s head turned. She had caught that familiar scent in spite of the thick miasma in this chamber. And she was right. Beyond the full reach of the lamps there was a sudden gap of shadow, and she who had stooped to come through that hidden door was indeed the Herbmistress. But she halted even as she came to the lamps, her head up and her nostrils expanded.

  There was that about her which kept them all silent as if they shared a feeling that she must not be disturbed. But Willadene could see her nostrils expand as if she would draw in every odor lurking there, recognize it, name it, be ready to deal with it.

  Paying no attention to Vazul, who shifted from one foot to another as if he were irritated at her ignoring him, she spoke directly to Willadene.

  “Well done.” Only two words, but the girl felt as if some chain of distinction had been dropped over he
r head. Now the Herbmistress did have time for the Chancellor.

  “A secret known well enough to bring an attack is strong warning, my lord. Chancellor, Nicolas must be moved—now!”

  Vazul had a stubborn set to his mouth. “Where?”

  “Think, my lord. ’Tis said you know the inner ways as well as the Bat—” For the first time she looked down at Nicolas with a smile, which he returned. Willadene wondered a little at the change that expression made in his face—it seemed to erase years as well as some of the lighter signs of the pain he had suffered.

  “There is the dove loft,” Nicolas remarked. Now there was almost a trace of mischief in his tone as he addressed Vazul directly.

  It would seem at first that the Chancellor was going to refuse outright, but then he shrugged. “Perhaps you are right—if we can get you there. It can be reached across the roof with supplies. And you will see him there in care,” he said to Halwice.

  It was not quite an order, as if even he dared not lay any command upon the Herbmistress. But she nodded. And then she turned to Willadene.

  “You must hold the shop again. Also, I was seen this time in the courtyard here. Thus let it be said that I have a patient of high rank—perhaps—” she half smiled at Vazul “—even yourself. Or else that there is some other need for me. You are clever with thinking of ploys, my lord, I leave this one for you.

  “Now, child.” Having somehow dismissed the Lord Chancellor as if, being no longer particularly needed, he had vanished indeed, she spoke again to Willadene. ‘‘When you return to the shop, drink deep of the mixture on the top shelf of the second case, that in the amber bottle. Do not eat until evening. But be as usual about the business. I have been summoned to attend someone of high rank, you know not who. The district tax lies in the money drawer, already bagged. Give it to the Reeve’s guard, but see also he returns you a receipt even as you have seen him do for me. And—” Suddenly she leaned forward, stooping a little, and touched Willadene lightly on the tip of the girl’s nose. “Trust your gift always.”