by Andre Norton
“And those,” cut in the footman, “are largely play, as I have heard tell from one just returned with the last caravan. They have no outlaws to hunt.”
“Would we could say the same. Now in Duke Wubric’s day it was different.”
“Yes,” cut in another voice from across the board. Willadene, after a quick glance to identify the speaker, dropped her eyes modestly to her plate while she listened as best she could under the fogging of clamor.
“Yes,” the speaker repeated. “Our late gracious lord was a mighty one with sword and spear in his time. Are there any wreckers who dare now to ply their traffic along Southcoast?”
He was a younger man than the other two, slender and dark of hair, and he moved with an odd deliberation, Willadene learned in cautious quick glances. Then he looked directly at her and she near choked on the bite of sweet bread into which she had just set her teeth.
Though he was dressed in the sober rust-brown clothing of a scribe and there was even a spot of ink on the hand holding his spoon, this was—but how could it be?—Nicolas!
Halwice’s skills were great, to be sure, but to return a badly wounded man to this apparent unhurt outward seeming was more than Willadene could accept. However, she noted the stiffness of his upper body, that he was eating slowly, as if to raise a loaded spoon or a chunk of bread to his lips was something of an effort.
There was no recognition in his glance at her, and she took that as a warning. However, apparently his comment on their past ruler was not altogether accepted by the other two opposite him.
“You speak free of one of Lord Vazul’s household,” the herald commented, and the girl could see he was watching Nicolas almost warily.
“Now that is a remark which is interesting.” Nicolas shifted a little on his bench perch as if hunting some ease which he could not find. “Certainly the wreckers were of no benefit to Kronen—any more than the Red Wolf of whom Prince Lorien has so prudently deprived us.”
“The coast watch has had half its force withdrawn. What do they now? patrol the harbor streets seeking— what—rats out of ships decaying at their moorings? There are reports from the south that lure lights have been seen again,” the herald said sourly.
Nicolas grinned. “Oh, but our Lord Duke may have the answer already on his way to us. After a spot of outlaw harrying the Prince might indeed welcome a change of scene and opponents.”
The footman was frowning and the herald flushed. “We shed our protection now until we have to depend upon outsiders for aid. And why? What danger stalks within the walls of Kronengred which the Duke fears so much he must draw all our troops homeward? There is talk in the town—Lord Vazul should know—is he not of a merchant clan? We live on our trade and our Lord Duke—”
He hesitated and Nicolas, still smiling but in a way Willadene could not like, asked: “And our Lord Duke does what is best for the city—even as he swore at his crowning. You speak of rats in ships, my friends. There are such to be found elsewhere also. Who knows what lure lights have been set and where?”
He was deliberately baiting the man now, the girl knew, and she could not guess his purpose. Nicolas was certainly Vazul’s man and so the Duke’s—but his comments now could be taken for covert criticism of them both. Was he trying to get disloyal answers?
He was getting to his feet, in a manner which might have suggested taking leisurely leave of the company. Only she could read signs enough to guess that only his will kept his body under control. Every healer’s instinct made her want to go to him—to make sure that the insanity of his being here now had not again opened his wound. But once more her own need for cover kept her where she was, though her hunger disappeared as she watched him walk away.
“Provocateur.” The herald watched him with narrowed eyes. “I say that there are too many talking behind their hands and striving to entangle honest men in nets these days. At least we know that the Prince has no stake in games played here.”
He arose in turn, but Willadene did not miss the smirk on the footman’s fleshy face as he watched his late companion depart. Instinctively she called upon the higher sense. She did not know what really lay among the words she had just overheard, but that they might have second meanings she could guess.
Now the footman turned to Julta as if the maid had just seated herself. He had been peeling an apple neatly, and now he quartered it and extended one portion to her on the tip of his knife with a courtly flourish.
“Your lady prepares to welcome the hero?” he asked in a playful tone.
Julta did not appear to notice the offering he would make her; instead she arose abruptly and Willadene was only too ready to follow her.
“As does yours also.” The maid laughed with no humor and swept away. As Willadene caught up with her, she said grudgingly, as if she did not wish to share the information but believed she must, “He is of the High Lady Saylana’s following—recently come to her from the household of Lord Brutain.” Now she smiled one-sidedly. “The High Lady has a liking for lusty men in her livery.”
If Julta had thought to rid herself of the footman she failed. Apple and knife discarded he caught step beside the maid so closely that Willadene, now flanking her guide, was able to catch every word he said.
“Hoity-toity are we, mistress? There are them as ruled here before your lady gave her first birth squall. Best watch your manners—”
“And you, yours, lackey!” snapped Julta.
He was still grinning. “Cat claws.” He laughed.
“You’d be a handsome piece like as not if you’d give over frowning. Try it some time.”
Julta took a long step ahead and reached out as she went to draw Willadene with her. “Now that is the way—”
Ignoring the footman she nodded toward another door than the one by which they had entered.
However, when Willadene turned in that direction, glad to be away from the sly teasing of the footman, she discovered she was not able to escape so easily. For he abandoned Julta and bore down on her.
“You’re a pretty little piece—Julta should take lessons from you. And where might you be going now? We’ve heard as how the High Lady Mahart is housing you for the while— This is not the way back to her quarters.”
“She is not of the household,” Julta said quickly. “Her mistress is here and she must see her.”
“Yes. Old long-tooth Vazul has a rheum. Doubtless that snake thing of his gave him a bite,” drawled the footman. “Well enough, as it just happens, young miss, your way and mine run together. I’ll just go along with you that you do not become mazed by all the twists and turns in this old pile.”
Willadene was at a loss as to how to refuse such an offer. Julta was really scowling, and it seemed to the girl that that expression was divided between her and the footman. Before she could say anything, Julta, with a swirl of her skirts, turned away and was gone, and Willadene hesitated to attract any attention by trying to follow, especially since she had been informed that her goal was in the opposite direction.
“The Lord Chancellor"—before she could move the footman had taken her by the upper arm and was actually propelling her forward—"now one would have said he was forged of steel—never ailed before that I have heard. Bad enough to have your mistress in, is he?”
“I do not know how he fares,” she returned and somehow freed herself of his grasp.
Again the footman snickered. “There won’t be many long faces hereabouts if he has taken to his bed for a space. Has the tongue of Jemu, he has, and that snaky thing of his makes a man’s skin crawl. They say as how you’ve come to make a beauty of our High Lady.” He changed the subject and the girl had a feeling that now he spoke with some purpose. “ ’Course no man can say that the Lady Saylana does not outshine her—”
It was as if he was trying in some manner to pry into her thoughts. Yet she sniffed no touch of that elusive evil in him.
“I have not seen your High Lady Saylana,” she returned evenly.
; “But she would like to see you.”
This time Willadene was on guard, able to evade his grab for her arm. Was he trying to drag her off for some interview with his formidable lady?
“I obey the orders of the Herbmistress Halwice.” She hoped her voice sounded prim enough to make him believe that he dealt with a simple serving girl. “If the High Lady Saylana wishes to see me—which I do not think she would since I am but an apprentice and my mistress would be better equipped to answer any questions—then it must be Mistress Halwice who sends me.”
“You’re an ignorant wench,” he returned. “You might be favored by one far more powerful. Better think on it, girl. No one ever made a fortune by turning a back on opportunity when it offers itself. The High Lady Saylana would be a far better customer for your wares, and even that flat-faced mistress of yours would agree to that.”
The spite in his speech seemed overpuffed, as if he had been defeated where he had expected no trouble at all. Certainly their meeting at the dining table must have been by chance. But then had this newcomer to the Lady Saylana’s household perhaps heard some exaggerated chatter about what Willadene had to offer and decided to please his new mistress by producing her?
“I go where I am sent,” she returned. “And now I go to my mistress.”
“You can go to the Hang Door of Grubber for all of me,” he snapped and turned away, but not swiftly, and she had a strong idea that he would follow to make sure she was going to the Lord Chancellor’s quarters. However, at present she had to concentrate on the directions Julta had supplied.
That she had been right in her surmise she knew, until at last he did disappear down another hallway, though she could not be sure he was still not lurking on her trail.
Here other footmen stood guard, and perhaps he had no wish to be seen by them. Willadene counted doors and then said to the tall livery-coated man who stood by the third, “The Herbmistress Halwice is my mistress. She wishes to see me.”
He appeared to continue to stare over her head, but he took one step to the right so that the door was directly behind him and tapped softly upon it three times.
“Name?” he asked, and she gave it promptly, aware there was now a crack of opening showing. A moment later she was ushered in.
Far from being bedbound the Lord Chancellor sat in a chair nearly as stately as a throne, one meant to have judgments uttered from. Facing him on a far less pretentious seat was Nicolas and, to one side, Halwice was delving into her healer’s bag.
She could believe that Nicolas was fighting to keep erect and face his mentor straightly and that that action was drawing deeply on what energy he had left. Halwice came swiftly to him with a small cup in one hand. Paying no attention to Vazul she stood over the young man and ordered: “Drink it—to the last drop!”
By its scent what she had poured for him was a powerful restorative, Willadene recognized. But why in his weakened condition he had gone to the eating hall she had no idea. And it seemed that no explanation was to be made to her, for Halwice’s attention was now on the girl as she demanded: “What have you discovered? Has the High Lady accepted you without question?”
“She has accepted me, yes, mistress, and she is much pleased with what I have brought. As to what I have discovered—” She gathered that she was to speak openly in this company. “I was taken to her chamber with that I had brought. But there were workmen there, busied on the wall, and one of them—his master called him Jonas—had the smell, not strong, but he has dealt in some way with the Dark.”
Nicolas turned his head to stare at her, and Vazul leaned forward in his chair, though Halwice showed no sign of surprise—she could have been expecting some such report. Around the Lord Chancellor’s wrist that wide black bracelet stared, and yellow eyes regarded her.
“Soooo—” Vazul hissed that as if his nonhuman companion had given voice. Now he addressed Halwice.
“Is there any way this wall can be tested, that we may learn whether what was meant to be a protection has been tampered with?”
“Perhaps a wardess of the Star might be able to do so, but it would require a lengthy ceremony, one we could not conceal.”
The Lord Chancellor looked as if he were chewing upon something bitter. “Soooo—” he hissed again. “And that we cannot do—yet. Jonas . . .” His attention snapped to Nicolas.
There was a moment of silence, and then the younger man answered as if he had some roll of all the castle inhabitants stretched open before him.
“Jonas—tall, butter fair of hair, giving the appearance of one who is as yet not well trained?” Those questions he shot at Willadene.
“He is tall and fair yes, and the master seemed to be keeping an eye on his work as if some check were needed,” she replied promptly.
“Jonas, second son to Wilbar in the Lordship of Vantol. That was—”
“Outlaw taken two years ago, yes!” Vazul replied impatiently. “If I remember rightly it is now wasteland, since their lord and his son are both dead and there is no direct heir. The remaining landsmen and servitors were taken under the protection of Lord Nemunt.”
“Jonas came to Kronengred with a road draft last year,” Nicolas continued as if he had not been interrupted. “He was assigned by Reeve Laprin as apprentice to the mason Valor, who had applied for the next possible aid. His latest work has been in repairing the balcony of the courtyard opening of the Lady Saylana’s quarters.”
“By the Star, boy, can you shake out the history of everyone under this roof?” commented Vazul. It would seem that Nicolas’s flow of information had indeed pleased him.
The other shrugged. “’Tis no great feat, Chancellor, to keep watch on newcomers. There is another also.” Now he once more turned his head in Willadene’s direction. “You came with Julta to the common table. Did it seem to you that she chose her seat there with any care or was it the first open to her?”
“The latter I would say.”
“There was a footman there wearing a new badge—”
The girl nodded. “He serves the High Lady Saylana.”
Again there was a short silence, and now it was Vazul who took over the questioning.
“Was he cordial to Julta?”
“After Master Nicolas left.” She was not quite sure how to address the pale young man now settling even further back into the chair. “He strove to be pleasant to Julta. She would have nothing of his efforts. Then—then—” Swiftly she repeated the conversation she had had with the footman until she had managed to at last lose him from sight.
“He is Ringglen, also out of Vantol,” Nicolas said. “But you did not sense this same evil in him, mistress?”
“No. Mistress"—she spoke to Halwice now—"could the evil be carried by an object or must it be part of one’s own personal scent?”
“Now that is good thinking, young mistress.” Vazul leaned forward. “You have in mind that this Jonas may have brought to place in Her Grace’s private chambers some foul danger?”
She was remembering the box she had changed in the shop as she answered: “My Lord Chancellor, once before there was substituted for my mistress’s wares something which was not of the proper recipe—though I did not then smell evil. But to change any potion can cause evil, though it is not evil in itself.” Swiftly she related the finding of the box of incense.
Halwice drew a deep breath, and an unaccustomed flush arose on her usually pale cheeks. “Never has that recipe been changed since first Her Grace signified that she found it beneficial for sleeping. To meddle so, someone must have entered the shop— Yet the Star blessing was set upon it—walls, windows, and doors—by the decree of the Abbess herself when first I came to be a guild mistress. We—Lord Chancellor—we may be dealing with some dire threat greater than we have thought!”
He was chewing his lip, and Nicolas had straightened again in his seat, until Halwice caught him by the shoulder and held him as firmly as if he had been a wriggling small boy.
The black fur band ha
d uncurled from Vazul’s wrist and was now as long as a bowstring. Ssssaaa moved with the speed which near dazzled the eyes. Off the Lord Chancellor’s knee she dropped to the floor and then was across the thick carpet in an instant until her formidable claws caught in Willadene’s wide skirt and she streaked upward to her shoulder. Oddly enough the Chancellor began to nod.
“Yes, we do have a weapon of sorts to use against the invisible. Girl, can you take Ssssaaa unseen back to Her Grace’s chamber? Once there, let her roam at her will. If anything has been hidden there to do Her Grace ill Ssssaaa can find it. This she has done for me many times over. Which is the way"—he smiled grimly—"I have managed to keep both my office and my life as long as I have.”
Halwice had caught up a discarded shawl and threw it over the girl’s shoulder, effectively concealing what rode there now.
“Star Point luck go with you, mistress.” She was surprised at that encouragement from Nicolas.
But the Chancellor offered a warning instead of good wishes.
“Should one of the High Lady Saylana approach you again—” He seemed undecided.
Willadene, daring, made answer to what she thought he would say. “I take orders from Mistress Halwice,” she returned. “So my answer would and will be that I am sent to the High Lady Mahart and her I am to serve.”
Halwice smiled. “Just so. Perhaps such an approach to you might tell us more. There is this—” And now her voice was that she used when she gave instructions. “Something moves within these walls which is partly of our kind for learning, partly of menace, and partly of an evil I cannot detect—save it is of that nature. We must delve for the right foot before we pull it forth.
“Now we must all be about what we should do. You, Nicolas, back to your bed and be very sure I leave no restorative within your reach again. Such action is folly I had not expected of you. And, Willadene, I must return to the city. What you can learn—” She looked inquiringly to Vazul.
