by Andre Norton
Ssssaaa had unwound and pattered across to claw a way up to Vazul’s shoulder. Willadene put her hand up to her throat, still a little warm from that furred body. But she was ready enough to get to her feet and obey Halwice. The sooner she could gain freedom from this befouled room the better.
Yet she hesitated as she passed Nicolas and hunted awkwardly for words. He had always made her uneasy in a strange way she did not even try to understand.
“The Star be with you, master,” she blurted out.
Again she saw that smile—this time for her. “And with you also, mistress of many talents.”
Vazul bore down upon them. “We waste time. I shall get aid and the dove chamber it will be. Also we shall search for the source of that!” He jerked his head toward the spot on the floor. “And in that search, Mistress—” he looked to Halwice “—certainly you have interest.”
Days seemed to run into each other now as far as Willadene was concerned. Back in the shop, her guard guide dismissed, she obeyed Halwice’s instructions for the relief of her body and settled down to rest. The Herbmistress had left the plaque on her door saying that she had been called away and the window shutters were still up. Willadene was not even aware how tired she was until sleep overcame her. And it was the boom of the closing bell that night which awoke her with a start from a sleep too deep even to hold dreams.
Ashamed that she had so forgotten the trust Halwice had given her she dashed her face with the scant water remaining in the basin and tried to order her thoughts. Certainly the Herbmistress had had orders to go out—she always did and those had been made up the day before. If any seeking them had come, they had found the shop closed and would return in the morning. She had better check that such were ready to be handed over—and there was the matter of the district tax also.
She got out of the crumpled and stained clothes she had slept in, washed, and redressed. For a moment or two she stood before the fireplace after she had relaid the fire. There was a pan of mush which could be fried for a quick and filling meal, but an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach dissuaded her from any such effort.
However, it was when she arose from setting the fire that she became aware of something else. She had always been aware and accepted the fact that each human as well as animal carried a personal scent which had nothing to do with cleanliness of body and clothing but was far more subtle and yet such identification could not be wrong.
Halwice she knew well and had from their first meeting. She was certain now that she could trace either Nicolas or Vazul, should the need arise—though she was no hound of the hunt. And in the outer shop there was always a medley of scents.
It was as if all the odors of the herb shop—those native, those introduced—she thought now, lay in levels—some thick and close, others thinning to the faintest of traces.
In Jacoba’s kitchen it had been much more difficult, for there foul overweighed fair. Willadene sat back on her heels, her head up, her nostrils high. One by one she sifted through the smells about her—remnants of cookings, stronger yet of herb mixing, close to the closet bed that scent which identified Halwice. She told over on her fingers those she could identify without question.
But—there was something else. Willadene got to her feet. Since she must start somewhere—and where not too many of those layers of smells mingled—she went to the back door. It was shut and barred, and the light of the single lamp which she had brought with her gave but little light. To her eyes there was no sign that that door had been tampered with.
Still—her instinct was not wrong. By the Star, she would swear that in this room there had been another presence, one she had never met before. At Halwice’s invitation? Of that she could not be sure. However, unease drove her now to pick up the lamp again and march into the shop itself.
Laid out on the counter in a row of various kinds of containers were the orders Halwice had made up. Most of them were usual—flavorings for the baker (who also dealt in special demands for sweetmeats); spices; three separate packets for old Dame Lorka, the Reeve’s mother-in-law, who suffered greatly in any chill weather from aged, aching bones; a cough syrup; two pomanders gayly housed in gilt net balls (those Willadene had made earlier in the week), and they would go for courting gifts.
Last of all there was a basket woven of sweet fern, its handle twined around with silver ribbons. That was kept apart from the others—being for the castle and not for the town dwellers. And particularly this time it was intended for the High Lady Mahart herself, bespoke by her in writing of her own hand.
Each of the waiting wares Willadene inspected closely and could find nothing that was not what it was supposed to be. At last she turned to the basket. There was a violet wash for the hair, also violet-scented cream for the hands. And last of all a box of wood, the kind made to hold nubbins of night incense. The symbol carved deeply into the cover of that container was a very ancient one, and the wood was as dark as if it had been put to such use many times over.
Delicately Willadene pried the cover of the box up. The scent within was not obtrusive, for what it had to offer would only come to life when dropped into a charcoal-heated brazier. But she held the box close to her nose and her hold on it tightened.
Three times in the days past she had carefully watched Halwice put together this familiar concoction for the High Lady. Willadene could repeat easily every ingredient which went to make up the mixture. Only—today there had been a change. Through Halwice’s choice? Through the High Lady’s orders? Either explanation might hold the truth.
Yet—taken with the fact that there had been a stranger within the inner room—she could remember only too well her own experience with that which she had faced in the Black Tower and could not explain. Or at least had not had time for Halwice to make clear, though she was somehow sure that the Herbmistress had had no dealings with such as that serpent of green light.
Slowly the girl closed the lid on the box. Behind her, on the fourth shelf, there was the very twin to the box. And in her head was the formula Halwice always used for its filling. Meddling this might be and the Herbmistress be angry for it. Yet—
Willadene measured powders, added drops from two tall bottles and bone-dry peel cut in strips from another bottle set by itself at the far end of the shelf space. She kneaded together what she had so carefully chosen, and it resembled nearly dried clay when she had done. Still, it crumbled in large flakes into the empty box as she filled it pinch by pinch. Breathing a little faster Willadene set it beside the one she had taken from the basket. There was certainly no difference in appearance. And she must believe that what she had done in Halwice’s absence was right. Before she could change her mind she repacked the basket.
Oddly enough as she put the rejected box on a lower shelf, pushing it behind a larger one, she felt relieved as if Halwice herself had stood there watching and signaling it was right.
If she was to open properly by Second Bell she must rest now. There had been no promise of when the Herbmistress would return. In fact, Willadene had been left with the impression that she was to keep shop for perhaps more than just one day. And she was tired. As she folded her clothing over the stool and slipped into the trundle bed she raised her amulet to her nose, striving so to deaden any odor which might keep sleep away.
It, too, had now the faint trace of another. She remembered Nicolas. Vazul seemed very sure of his future protection, and Halwice remained to see him moved to new quarters. But what sword or knife had brought him down? And why? That he was liege man to the Chancellor in a most private way she understood. But— Her eyes closed of their own accord and she slept.
The First Bell in the morning brought her awake. She looked first to the cupboard bed, hoping to see Halwice there beneath the covers, but it was smoothly flat from its last making. The main thing that she herself felt now was hunger, which grew ever sharper as she washed and dressed. All the remaining queasiness of yesterday was gone.
The mush browned in the skil
let, and Willadene found herself repeating one of the old rhymes from the ancient herbals:
“Good for the belly,
Good for the day.
In all that cometh,
Star shine the way.”
She repeated that last line as she forked the fried mush onto her plate and reached for berry syrup to give it flavor. Four squares of mush later she decided that the good of the belly was well satisfied. And, as she busied herself with the housekeeping duties before the Second Bell, she wondered what this day was going to bring.
When the shutters were down and the door unlatched for business she was restless. Halwice had left none of the simple orders Willadene was allowed to fill written on the slate. She could not weed in the garden for fear that some customer would find her missing from her post.
However, within a few moments she was well occupied. The first of the orders the Herbmistress had left had been called for. She exchanged greetings with the baker’s maid—a powdering of flour on the girl’s round cheek to mark her service.
However, Realie was full of news, eager to spill it. “He took the Wolf—killed him as one stamps upon a bug,” she gurgled. “Now the Duke has asked him to Kronengred for a thank offering. Star help us, Master is all which way trying to think of new sweeties, ’cause there will be crowds and parties—”
She was still prattling on when the solemn-faced assistant of Dr. Kemp came in to collect his order. It was he who offered a ghoulish detail or two, supposedly brought in the night to the gate guard about the hunting and harrying of what was left of the mountain outlaws.
So it went through the morning. Much of what she heard, Willadene was sure was far from fact. But two points seemed to remain certain. Prince Lorien had led his men over the border and effectively put an end to the strongest of the outlaw outposts and he was now invited as a conquering hero to visit Kronengred by a missive sent via the Duke’s own herald.
At length all the orders were collected, though at times the shop was crowded with those exchanging the latest news. Mistress Lowfard was especially centered upon since her brother was of the gate guard. And if she did not speak much, her few words rooted suggestions.
Only the basket for the High Lady remained. And Willadene’s sliver of chalk squeaked on the slate as she was at length left alone. But not for long, as a page wearing castle badge came swaggering in.
“There is a basket for the High Lady Mahart.” He leaned against the edge of the counter and regarded his nails as if their condition was more important than the task. “She grows impatient—” He glanced up at Willadene with a sly grin. “You are supposed to be able to make a beauty out of skin and bones—with certain potions—or so they say.”
“Your Lady’s basket stands there.” She found his impudence a little too much after the business of the day.
He tossed a small purse knitted of silken threads on the counter and reached for the basket, giving an exaggerated sniff of its contents as he pulled it to him.
“Your mistress’ll have business in plenty,” he commented, for some reason of his own still lingering—though Willadene noted that now he eyed speculatively the contents of the basket. ‘‘What with the Prince coming in for a grand ball and all. Big times in Kronengred for us all.”
“So most this day have said,” she returned. “You have another errand?”
She was eager to get rid of this young cockerel, brilliant in his house tabard and clearly very sure of himself. It had been a long day and she was tired. Only the fact that he did come from the castle kept her listening. Perhaps he had even spoken with Halwice and had some message to pass along, was merely tantalizing her out of pure mischief.
“Yes, I was asked by the Lady Zuta to pick up a box of cream. High and mighty as she would like to be, she does not run her own errands—yet!”
Zuta—first lady of the High Lady’s household. Willadene had picked up enough gossip to know at least her name. But there had been nothing on the counter readied by Halwice bearing such a name.
“My mistress left no such order,” she returned.
He shrugged. “Perhaps it was forgotten. I understand your mistress now has weighty concerns—she tends Vazul himself—the Chancellor having gone to his bed with ague.”
Willadene was aware he was watching her closely, yet seeming under half-closed lids to have his gaze fastened on the basket.
“My mistress was summoned for her skills yesterday,” she answered quietly. “As to whose bed she was summoned I do not know. If the Chancellor ails may the Star grant him swift recovery.”
He gave a snickering laugh. “Oh, sooner or later he will doubtless be stalking among us again, that devilish creature of his wrapped around his neck. Perhaps he should take care lest it someday tighten muscles and cut his breath. So—” he picked up the basket “—I am to tell the Lady Zuta I know nothing of her order—or do you?”
“It is not here,” the girl replied. “Doubtless it will be made up for her as soon as my mistress returns.”
Again he snickered. “Yes, half the ladies of the towers will be sending their own orders. Though by all reckoning it would take Heart-Hold itself to gain them what they want the most—a king’s son lawfully in their beds. Your mistress will find her trade growing the closer our hero approaches.”
He was openingly sneering as he took the basket and went out. Certainly Willadene could see there was a measure of truth in his scoffing. When Prince Lorien came there would be again a steady increase in the luxury trade. New robes would be ordered, older ones sent to be refurbished with fresh embroidery and laces, the bounty of the herb shop would be called upon.
Heart-Hold, that one name was strong now in her mind. She hunted out the ancient herbal in which she had read the remnants of the tale concerning it. Certainly, had such a plant still existed, it would have again come into sight during the centuries since that first harvesting. Perhaps the whole story was a concealment for a charm—and the secret of its unraveling long since lost.
The book opened almost of its own accord at the page she had puzzled over so many times. Not only was the writing cramped and faded here but there were names and terms so old she had had to search them out in other guides, and there were a number she could not yet translate.
She was slipping her finger along the edge of that most important page when for the first time she made a new discovery—that this parchment leaf was thicker than the one lying before and the one lying after in the book. She had just drawn closer the shelf lamp and was preparing to light the second when once more the door opened.
That smell was one she could not forget. Willadene pushed the book under the counter and turned to face Figis. Again he seemed to have climbed several steps higher in the world, though the old odors of the inn still clung to him. As before he was wearing more decent clothing—his rags gone—though it was far from clean, dribbles of ale slicking his jerkin. His wild mane of tumbled hair had been partly shorn and there was the shadow of some hairs, perhaps more carefully tended than the rest of his person, across his upper lip.
He stood just within the door, hands on hips and one pointing suggestively at a knife which was more short sword than the ordinary tool worn by all free men. So— Figis must have ended his apprenticeship. He would have been well beaten by Jacoba had he dared to flash steel where she ruled.
Now he was drawing deep sniffing breaths, and then his mouth worked as if he would spit but did not quite dare.
“Master Wyche has him a bellyache,” he announced baldly. “He wants something as will take it away. Where’s your mistress, girl?”
He swaggered forward to the counter, his eyes still making darting searches of the shop.
“She attends one gravely ill,” Willadene answered as she had the whole day through. “As for Master Wyche’s ill—”
She did not completely turn her back on him as perhaps he wished, but rather quickly slipped open a drawer and brought out one of the waiting packets they always kept made up. “Th
at will be two coppers.” She laid it on the counter.
She wanted him out of the shop. Now she had been able to pick up a faint whiff of that stench which had always cloaked Wyche’s fat body—evil. Figis had been spiteful, cruel of nature in the past, but now he was turning into something else.
He dropped the proper coppers on the counter and twitched the packet toward him.
“Your mistress, she’s got a lot of queer knowledge.” He grinned, showing a broken tooth. “Jus’ you hope, girl, as how it don’t do her in.”
What lay behind that ambiguous threat Willadene was not to learn, for the Twilight Bell boomed over their heads, fairly shaking the walls about them. He looked startled and was out of the door into the dusk. Willadene reached under the counter for the book after she had put up the shutters and set the night bar on the door. With it under her arm she went into the living quarters, trying to shrug off the uneasiness Figis’s words had left with her.
11
It was not only Mahart who was to dream deeply and to remember what she so dreamed that night. Perhaps it was the whirl of many scents which had surrounded her all day that now led Willadene to her own deep-held private place. She felt this was so real that the moss under her hands, the faint breeze stirred against her, were as alive and in this night world as firmly as she. Her body was stretched even as she might have rested in her bed, but facedown, on the very lip of a rock-walled drop. Though it was night she could see as clearly as if she had cat’s eyes set in her skull—clear sight, even clearer smell.
That crevice in the earth over which her head protruded was narrow; she hardly believed that she could squeeze into it to descend. Still below, there was a pale radiance and as her gaze centered on that her sight seemed to grow even keener.
It was far below, something within Willadene told her that, and she believed that, save for this strange heightening of eye power, she could not honestly see what stood stem erect, leaves fanned out about it. It was no single color, though it was pale as moonlight itself, for the faintest traces of many hues appeared to ripple across its petals. In form it was not too different from the lilies Willadene had seen carefully painted in the Herbmistresses’s books, and its heart was hidden by the bell of petals about it.
