by Andre Norton
“Faugh!” Mahart stood before the long mirror Julta tilted to a proper angle. “I look like a fête doll. Saylana will, I think, be properly pleased.” However, she did not appear to find that of any great importance.
The great hall, which had been cleared for the occasion, was three stories high, and two of the balconies above were packed with such of the major servants who were not on active service so allowed to watch the pageant below. Behind their carefully preserved lines there was a shoving lot of lesser rank. Willadene had hoped to see Halwice somewhere—knowing that the plain robe her mistress favored would be more conspicuous amid all the finery about than it usually was. But there was no sign of her.
Her own clothing and hair held some of the strong scent Mahart had demanded her ladies to use and she noted that those on either side of her withdrew a little whenever she moved as if they found close company oppressive. However, Julta was with her and the maid had fared no better from their efforts.
Below on the first of the balconies were stationed the musicians. Since the Duke had small liking for music, those who had served his predecessor had to be hunted up again and quickly rehearsed—to what result they would soon see.
On the dais at the north end of the long hall the Duke had already taken his seat, as if by being to the fore he could somehow speed up the procedure.
Mahart was already making her way up to the second highseat a step below her father’s, and close behind her came the Lady Saylana, her sea-green robe patterned with a webbing of silver in which were caught pearls, while such jewels lay in costly loops across her white shoulders, quite openly revealed, and aided in lacing her bodice and as well were threaded through her hair, giving stability to a miniature tiara which bore a far too startling resemblance to the Duke’s coronet.
Beside the Duke’s throne stood a squire of the body resplendent in a ceremonial tabard bearing Uttobric’s arms and holding with care a cushion on which lay a circlet of silver so tipped and inset with diamonds that it appeared to outflash nearly all other surrounding jewels.
There was a fresh blast of trumpets, even more ear torturing here within the confines of the hall than they had been in the open. The throng of courtiers standing below the dais quickly parted, rippling as all bowed or curtseyed to the solitary figure on whom centered all eyes.
This time the Prince did not come in gear of war but rather, much in contrast to the other men there gathered, he wore breeches of a gray which was near black. A tunic of the same drab color was, however, near hidden by a tabard worked in such a splendor of metallic threads and gems as to nearly blind the eyes of those who watched him advance at a steady tread.
The Duke twisted in his chair. Vazul had stepped forward to announce the Prince. Willadene was too far away to really distinguish the expression on the faces of any below, but she had the feeling that the Duke’s hatred for display was working on him, as, with a jerk of his hand, he summoned the squire into position beside his daughter.
Mahart could see faces, but she wondered more about the thoughts behind them. She had heard her father sneeze twice and could well believe that he had waiting for her later a blast of anger for the spices which certainly clung jealously to her.
Saylana was as blandly smiling as ever. But that smile was certainly now centered on the Prince, and Mahart herself viewed him as Vazul droned on concerning the mighty victory and the debt that Kronen owed this over-the-border stranger.
Without his mail trappings Lorien did not seem as difficult to assess as he had been at the banquet. Only the brilliance of his tabard somehow made the man fade a little—he also could be one wearing, a little awkwardly, borrowed robes.
“Kronen has known many heroes"—that was her father. “It is our greatest privilege at this hour to welcome a new one to those ranks—to the fore of those ranks! That one who is not bred of our land has yet cleared it of a growing evil is certainly an act designed by the mercy of the Star. And it is the Star’s own gift which is now offered him.”
On the cue she had been waiting for, Mahart got to her feet and with both hands lifted the glittering circlet which the squire held ready. Lorien would not kneel, of course, since he owed no liege service here. But he did stand on the lower step of the dais, making it easier to settle the coronet on the head he bent slightly in her direction.
Now, her flesh was tingling, since she was the one to give honor there would be no flourish of sword but another and far more personal part of the ceremony. The stiffness of her sleeves seemed to bind her arms as she lifted her hands so that they closed on Lorien’s gem-collared shoulders. Leaning forward (he might help her a little, she thought with rising irritation) she managed to give the kiss of honor, her lips barely brushing his cheek.
He smiled, but it was but a form to suit the occasion, she was sure, as she drew back. Did his nose seem to twitch? Perhaps the spices wore on him even as they did on her father.
But the Prince was holding out his arm and her father had already signaled the musicians above. She set her fingertips with the proper lightness of touch, allowing him to lead her down to the floor and into the stately march about the space left clear for dancing, which was the proper beginning of the ball.
To Willadene above, that march was a rainbow round of color upon color. But her attention was mainly upon the High Lady and the Prince. How did it feel to meet so with one with whom one was to share all the favors and ills of life?
At least he was young and well looking, and his men were bonded to him. But did a conquering hero make a good husband? Perhaps only High Lady Saylana could answer that in truth, and certainly rumor had stalled over the many whispers of how she and her late lord conducted their private moments together.
The stir of lesser servants behind Willadene pressed forward, and Julta spat a warning as she was jostled. Already the grand march had drawn to an end and the dancing was to begin. Lorien dutifully led Mahart to form the first square, bowing as deeply as she curtsied in return.
Perhaps swordplay in excess, Mahart decided, had something to give a man in the nature of grace in dance. Lorien did not caper as she had half expected, awkward since he was so rumored to avoid such occasions at his father’s court.
And he continued to show a pleasant face, keeping his attention on his partner in a very complimentary fashion. She found that their patterned steps appeared to fit in a fashion she had never experienced before with any lordling in a duty dance, and she was both surprised and a little disappointed when the music ceased and their waving chain of dancers came to a halt.
Once more, her fingertips on his wrist, he led her back to the dais where another chair had appeared without undue stir, placed beside her own. She flushed a little at that blatant hint that Lorien was to be considered her property. Still he showed no surprise. Had they already been arranging her future—Lorien, her father, and Vazul? A spark of anger as strong as her spices flared up at that thought.
Somewhat frantically she tried to frame a sentence which might lead to conversation, but their worlds seemed suddenly so far apart that she could think of nothing, which added to her frustration. The more so when she saw the very confident and compelling stare Saylana had turned on her taciturn companion. Of course, since the Duke did not dance, it was now up to Lorien to lead out the second lady of the kingdom. And, as the musicians struck up again, he arose, bowed to Mahart, and went to Saylana, whose smile had all the heat of a midsummer day.
Saylana had no trouble in finding some subject of conversation, Mahart noted as she watched the two meet and part as dictated by the courtly dance. And plainly Lorien was paying attention to her. Twice he smiled broadly and once he even laughed. Yes, this was a game Saylana knew well how to play.
Mahart was suddenly not sure of anything. She had accepted her father’s plans for her eventual marriage, as she had accepted all of his other decrees concerning her actions. Somehow in her mind, until this night, any suitor had been but a kind of puppet set up to dance at the bidding of h
er elders. But Lorien was real in a different way—though her knowledge of men was certainly very narrow, limited mainly to secondhand information received from Zuta. Now she had a fleeting doubt as to whether all she had been told in the way of gossip was indeed united to truth.
Suddenly even this large room seemed overheated, and she wanted to be free of it and all the company around her, allowed quiet to sort out this new jumble of thoughts. Above all she wanted to arm herself so that no action of hers, made in ignorance, would arouse the tittering amusement of those she had long ago guessed had no true liking for her.
Willadene watched the circling, all the bowing and curtseying, the touching of fingertips to fingertips, and decided that certainly a court ball could be a tedious affair—unless one was playing some part of it. She was hungry and she was tired after her exertions to de-scent Mahart. Descent—something new to her experience and one she would greatly like to discuss with Halwice.
Once more she studied the line of upper servants along the front of the balcony. Somehow she had thought that the Herbmistress would certainly be among them. But her dark gown could not be seen among the glitter of house badges and brilliant colors they affected. Even Julta had donned a rust-yellow dress, discarded her apron, and crowned her graying hair with a wisp of beribboned lace in place of her usual tight cap.
A man in the livery coat of a footman had pushed up on the other side of the maid and was talking to her, but the music was an effective cover to conceal his words. Willadene did not recognize his house badge, but that did not mean that he was not indeed an old friend of Julta’s. She saw the maid nod and then turn to her—
“There is a feast in the serving hall. My friend Jacham says that table is worth the visiting. Would you go with us?”
Willadene shook her head. She was very sure that such an answer was one Julta wanted, and when the maid swiftly wriggled through the crowd with her escort she was certain—though the thought of food did have some appeal. She need not force her company on the two already preceding her, but she could follow and lose herself in the company of those others who must be headed there.
She had reached the door of that eating place when a whiff of more than roasting meat and pungent sauces caught her attention. There was a burst of giggling not far away and she saw one of the lower maids, her cap hanging by its string on her plump shoulders and her foolish face flushed with what Willadene guessed was already more than a prudent portion of the strong ale.
She was clinging to the arm of one in the dress of an upper groom, grinning up into his face and now and then digging him in the ribs with her free fist. But—
Figis! What was that disreputable townsman doing here? The last time she had seen him Willadene had noted that he certainly no longer presented the appearance of the ragged kitchen lad she had known. Now he was even more dressed like one who had a rightful place in some noble household.
He tickled his companion under her ample chin and then gave her a smacking kiss which the maid appeared to accept as her just due. Now that Willadene could see her closer she recognized her— Hettel was one of the maids assigned to the High Lady’s apartments to collect the used linen and see that it was laundered. Usually she was a silent shadow, trained with the rigor of all palace servants. Her freedom of conduct tonight came as a small shock to Willadene, especially the person of her companion. But before she could answer her first impulse and shove through the crowd, to come close enough to perhaps hear what they were saying, a wedge of laughing, singing others had come between and they were gone.
Yet Willadene now found it hard to follow her first plan and reach the table. She did not take time to try to find an open place on the benches—those were all occupied. But she did reach around one footman, who had half collapsed and was humming to himself, to catch up a meat tart and an apple.
There was no sight of Julta, and the girl had little liking for the increasing freedom of manners in progress about her. So, with supplies in hand, she went back to her own tower chamber, substituting water from the pitcher there for any of the mind-clogging ale.
She ate slowly as she tried to solve the problem of Hettel and Figis. How had the latter managed somehow to insert himself into the ranks of the palace servants (which in itself was usually impossible—the servants were the sons and daughters or other kin of those who had gone before them, and seldom if ever was a stranger admitted to their closed circle)?
Even more strange that someone such as Figis had achieved such a rise in status. Willadene needed a chance to relay this information, as trivial as it might turn out to be, to either her mistress or the Lord Chancellor.
Halwice, she was sure, must spend some time in the shop once again and perhaps Willadene could go there on the pretext of restoring supplies. It was the best resolve that she could come to at the moment.
Wearily she undressed and drew on her thin night rail. Luckily her bed was well blanketed, as she had discovered earlier the single panel of glass in their own narrow window could not be entirely closed. The vines which were fast covering the wall about the High Lady’s chamber just below had found good holds now on the upper stones as well. She discovered as she looked out into the night that there was indeed a cloudy mass of growth between her and the small balcony of Mahart’s chamber.
Her hand sought her amulet, and the familiar feel of that was soothing enough so her eyes closed and she was asleep.
Willadene awoke to utter darkness. The night lamp which was always set to burn through the night had somehow been snuffed out. There was something else, a warm band across her throat, a soft hissing in her ear. While about her—yes—the stench of evil was strong.
“Julta?” she called and was answered from the other bed by a thick snoring. Steadying Ssssaaa against her with a tight hold, Willadene slipped her feet from under the covers and felt with her toes for her slippers.
Now that her eyes had adjusted, she could see that there was the faint oblong of dim glimmer which marked the window. With that as a guide she moved out into the room.
It was easy enough to feel her way along the wall now to the door, though she had one pain-filled encounter with a stool. But the latch did not lift to all her tugging. At last she had to accept the fact that she was locked in by some means she did not understand.
Now she crossed to Julta’s bed. The woman had not even undressed but lay as Willadene had never seen her, a sodden lump still clothed and with no coverlet over her.
Drunk—or drugged? In any case the maid would be no help. And she had located the source of that aura of evil now—from under her feet as if it arose from below—from the High Lady’s chamber!
Ssssaaa hissed in her ear again, and she realized that the creature was urging her to the window. She shivered in her night rail as she balanced on the stool and looked out.
This was a moonless night, but from the castle below there arose a faint haze as if not all the festive lamps and torches had yet been extinguished. She reached out and caught at what seemed to be the thickest loop of the ivy, pulling at it. It gave for only a small tug and then held. She was so sure now that her only way to reach Mahart’s threatened chamber was down that crude ladder and onto the balcony a floor below.
Perhaps it was just as well she had to depend more on her sense of touch than her sight, for Willadene had never had any easiness with heights. Ssssaaa slipped from her, down her arm and into the mass of ivy. Skirts were not meant for such action. She swept her hands back into the gloom of the room until she found her bed and rooted out from beneath her pillow there her girdle. Having clasped it and its tools for daily use about her waist she used her table knife to rip up the lower part of the night rail until she had two strips she could wind about her legs from the thighs down.
So prepared, she jammed the window open to its furthest extent and somehow forced herself out, clinging desperately to the ivy, fighting for finger- and toeholds. Bits of long-dead leaves and the sharp ends of stems made it far from easy.
&
nbsp; What was worse was her knowledge that some dark danger waited below that was even more terrifying. There was light shining out on the balcony as her bare feet thumped on the icy stone. Nor was the room beyond empty.
She could not catch any words, but she could see at least four dark shadows looming up beside the platform bed. One swung suddenly around so a faint touch of lamplight showed her Halwice’s face. With a cry of relief Willadene staggered into the room.
Suddenly she saw Halwice do something which startled her and halted her mad rush toward the Herbmistress. For Halwice had simply pointed a finger at a candelabra on the dressing table and the wicks of four waiting candles had burst into instant flame, giving much fuller light to the scene.
She saw Ssssaaa’s body humped on Vazul’s shoulder which was barely covered, as his dressing robe had slid under the animal’s squirming ascent to her usual perch. There was no mistaking that most of this company had been hurriedly summoned from rest, though the light glinted from the bared blade of a short sword arming one of the figures clothed, even masked, in tight black garb.
It was the sudden quick movement from Nicolas, for her talent had put name to that black night skulker, which drew her attention to the bed—or rather the wreck of the bed!
Where mattress and covers had lain smooth she now saw a tangle, with a hole in the center into which the furnishings of the bed dangled downward as if they had been sucked from below, while from that hole came the stench of evil.
Halwice moved away from the other three by the bed. Her hands now dropped on Willadene’s shoulders. “You have been much with her these past days—you know her!”
Shivering, trying hard to fight against the sickening stench, Willadene understood very well. Mahart’s personal scent was well set in her mind. Even evil could not erase the traces of it now from the bed.
“So—here is your hound and one which can be well trusted.”
Willadene could see Nicolas’s mouth set tight above his stubborn jaw, and she wondered how much he agreed with her mistress’s serene recommendation. Vazul was smoothing his creature the while, watching the girl with narrowed eyes. She, however, could read no doubt in them. Then the third person who had been standing at the foot of the destroyed bed came into better light.
