Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  Ishbi—the name continued to haunt her— From her reading in the past— Ishbi—

  Only there was something more important now—the journey which apparently still lay ahead of her. That there would be any reason or hope for appealing to her captors she quickly put aside. She must school herself to patience and watch for any act or chance that might work in her favor.

  Luckily they lingered for some time over their meal. Unfortunately, they did not appear to be too talkative a lot and she could not hope for answers to the questions which she tried to push to one side.

  However, when they were ready to move on Yellow Beard ordered a pack frame to be left and a blanket placed instead on the back of a head-hanging horse, the lead rope of which he took into his own charge, drawing her up beside his own mount, the others behind them.

  Mahart held her cloak as closely as she could about her, not only for protection against the wandering breezes but also because she realized that it was now nearly the only garment she possessed.

  They went at a steady pace but not a swift one, and twice they halted while one or other of the party detoured to one side to inspect the trunk of a tree, as if they so followed some mark, for it was very apparent they were not on any used trail.

  At last the countryside about them began to change. There were fewer of the tall trees and more brush, the thicker patches of which they had to avoid. But there were also outcroppings of rocks. These bore no resemblance to the stones of Kronengred, for those were dull gray while these had a greenish cast and were also veined with wider stripes of the same color but of a darker shade.

  Some arose like miniature cliffs walling them in at times, and there was life here—lizardlike creatures who clung head downward to the stones and seemed to watch them intently with beady eyes, as if they were fully aware their territory was under invasion. There were birds that wheeled and soared overhead also, sometimes swooping so close to the earth as if to alight on a rock outcrop—though they never did.

  Mahart’s body ached from head to foot. They had stiff leather bottles of water hung from their saddles, and from time to time Yellow Beard offered her a drink from his.

  She judged by the light that sunset was close, and yet they made no move toward setting up camp. How long had it been since she had lain herself down on her own bed in Kronengred? She had no way of knowing.

  At last the passage ahead began to narrow, those standing crags drawing in closer together until they seemed to form two walls between which their party rode. However, here there was a change in those rocks. The deeper-colored veins did not ran smoothly but bore deep incisions here and there, almost as if they were meant for inscriptions.

  Then came one space where the dark-green vein was near as wide as the rock which bore it and that had surely been worked upon by some intelligence, for Mahart found herself staring at a face.

  It was of natural size and that of a woman, though there was no indication of any hair framing it. The features were clear-cut. It was beautiful in its perfection—but the perfection itself— Mahart shivered. She had heard them say that the Herbmistress’s apprentice could actually smell evil—well, now she was sure she saw it!

  There was movement from beyond that face. A mail-clad form, wearing a very strange helm which completely hid all features, stood in the way before them.

  Yellow Beard twitched the lead rein of Mahart’s horse, drawing aside so the animal could pass his own mount.

  “This is the one,” he said.

  That helm-masked figure reached forward and took the lead rein. There was no answer, merely that jerk on the rein which brought the horse on. But neither Yellow Beard nor any of the others accompanied her. Ishbi—had they at last reached their goal? She had passed that face; had she been any taller she might have brushed against it. And her flesh tingled at that thought. No, it was not Saylana who brooded over the way which led ahead—but someone greater and far more powerful.

  Willadene kept her grip on Nicolas, straining to hear any sound emerge from the opposite reach of this cavern where the stairs to the upper floor lay. The fact that there was a lantern set on top of a barrel by the foot of those was warning that someone either was here or intended to shortly return.

  Nicolas edged a little to the right where he could get a better sight of those stairs. Save for a distant drip-drip of water there was no sound to be heard.

  Suddenly Willadene caught that—the thread of scent which had drawn her along. With all the care at separating one odor from another she could summon, she drew in two deep breaths.

  Yes, it was certainly stronger here, as if Mahart had been some time in this place. Either that or—Willadene swung a little away from the stairs. Her fingers were claw sharp in Nicolas’s flesh now. He did not try to shake her off but followed as she went—not toward the steps and the light, but back into the gloom of the huge cellars she had never explored in those days when it had often been her task to hunt some dust-ridged bottle from one of the tottering shelves.

  Around two of those shelf towers she pushed a way. Then the beam of their own lantern caught on something and she grabbed up a tatter of cloth, still white enough to be easily spied in this gloom.

  The stuff was silk, soft between her fingers, and she did not really need to raise it to her nostrils to know that it was a piece of Mahart’s body linen—her night shift doubtless—which had entrapped her scent so deeply.

  The rag had protruded from what looked like solid wall. She could hardly even see the crack from which she had freed it. Nicolas deliberately shifted the shades of the lantern, using the light as he might a sword blade to draw some pattern.

  “Ssssaaa—” He uttered a hissing noise not unlike that which Vazul’s creature might sound. “Hold—so—” He thrust the lantern into Willadene’s hands, and she watched his gray-dusted hands run fingertips back and forth across the wall—first up and then down from the place where she had found the rag.

  “Here!” She concentrated in answer to his urgency, holding the lantern beam on the end of one block of stone which seemed to her eyes to be no different from its fellow. Nicolas had knife in hand now and he seemed able to insert the slender point into a pattern of invisible slits.

  Noiselessly a narrow door opened, showing another dark way into which the lantern’s beam seemed swallowed up. Nicolas turned to her.

  “This way?” She did not need that rag, though she stuffed it in her jerkin to preserve the faint person-scent. Now she nodded in answer to his question.

  He was muttering to himself, and from one or two words she caught she knew he was cursing—but who or what was the object of that anger she had no idea. At least the way was straight, and oddly enough the thick dust they had found in the other passages did not seem to lie here. Their lantern beam flitted across a pile of tree-knot torches, as if this was a much-used path.

  It continued straight, though twice there were other openings, but the clue she followed lay in neither direction. However, they were in sight of a third when they saw dim light ahead and a rumble of voices distorted by the passage.

  Nicolas whirled her into that side passage. He pushed shut the slide on the lantern, and they huddled shoulder to shoulder waiting.

  “Got the city hummin’,” commented one voice. “Tell you it weren’t no good that that head-chopping Prince of theirs weren’t taken. That demon-birthed Vazul will somehow git him into it and not like was planned, neither.”

  There was a rough laugh in answer and now the light was plain enough that Willadene could see the two of them. That fat lump of spoiled lard. She might not know Nicolas’s more colorful estimate of their situation, but she had her own words for what she found nauseous.

  That was Wyche bellowing along. “Let ’em turn the city top to bottom.” He spat loudly at the near wall. “They ain’t goin’ to find th’ wench—an’ without a-knowin’ who has hands on her they ain’t goin’ to push too hard. The High Lady now, she has an eye for the Prince—like as not she’ll make a
full meal o’ him afore he knows which side is up.”

  Willadene could feel Nicolas’s breath on her cheek and the heat of his anger. “Wyche I know too well,” he gritted out.

  “This Ishbi place now—” Wyche’s companion was beginning when the other lost all signs of joviality. “Shut your mouth, slime toad.” And because he spoke without any tone of anger somehow that made it more threatening. “You ain’t never heard o’ that—understand?”

  They were well past the entrance to the side way now, leaving the two in thickening darkness. Willadene had felt Nicolas’s body tense at the mention of that queer name.

  “Ishbi?” She made a query of that as they came again to the main corridor.

  “If they think to take her there—!” He had quickened his pace until he was almost running, and Willadene had to scurry on as best she could at his heels though the weight of her bag seemed to be heavier with every step she took. Would they ever be out of this place of dark and able to rest for a moment?

  There were no more breaks in the wall, but they kept listening for a sound which might mean other wayfarers. Nicolas seemed possessed by the need for speed, and the girl began to lag in spite of all her efforts to keep up.

  Suddenly he dropped back a stride and put his arm about her waist, lending his strength to hers. It was not soon after that that the passage did turn to the right, and ahead there were patches of light which were the honest ones of day and not from torch or lantern.

  They came out through a mass of brush which Nicolas held aside for their passage. Willadene breathed air fresh enough to renew her energy a little. She looked around and saw that they were in the vine and shrub overgrown ruins of a small building.

  Nicolas had released his hold on her. In spite of all her will to continue, she crumpled to the ground, only her bag keeping her from total collapse. Her companion stood, hands on hips, looking around. Suddenly he gave a sharp nod.

  “So—this is their long-sought passageway! Now listen, mistress"—he stared down at her with those compelling sword-bright eyes of his—"answer me truly—did the High Lady indeed come this way?”

  For the first time Willadene was at a loss. The scents crowding in around her were so many, a number entirely new, and she must sort through them. Rather forlornly she pulled that rag from her jerkin, sniffed at it, and then sat head up and eyes closed for a long moment.

  Slowly her head turned, though she did not open her eyes. “I think they laid her there. But there were horses—”

  “As might have been seen!” he snarled. “Now listen, I must carry what we have learned to the Lord Chancellor. Also we must have supplies, mounts. You must keep yourself out of sight here until I return. Can you do so?”

  She nodded. As far as she was concerned at that moment she could not have crawled a step farther. Her throat felt parched but she had a small supply of cordial which would allay her thirst for a while.

  He urged and partly dragged her back into where two ruined walls met and then shook the brush into place before her. That done he was gone with a hawk’s speed and she was left alone.

  The Duke was huddled in his great seat, an untouched goblet of wine to his hand along with a platter of crumbled but untasted biscuits. A map of Kronengred was spread before him, but he stared not at the recently chalked marks there but rather at the wall where messenger squires stood to attention, ready to dart off upon command.

  “Prince.” He did not turn his head toward the man he addressed but continued to stare ahead. “There was a plot—in half it failed, for you were not taken. Mahart is in their hands, but there is hope that they will—”

  He hesitated. The younger man spoke.

  “They will attempt to use her as a bargaining piece?”

  “There are a hundred—a thousand places in this city,” the Duke continued tonelessly, “where they can keep her so no searchers of ours can find her—”

  “She is no longer in the city.” Both men turned heads.

  Vazul, his creature hissing loudly in his ear, came to the other side of the table and looked down at the map. His always gaunt face had now the look of skin stretched tightly over bone. “The Bat’s network is to be depended upon.”

  “And the Bat?” demanded the Duke.

  “Nothing as yet. But there is something else— Your Highness, the High Lady Saylana has also disappeared— and with her not only some of her ladies but also the Lady Zuta. If they left the city it was by no normal means. And the Herbmistress would speak with you—”

  “I grasp at any straw—meanwhile deal as you can with the affairs of the flight of these women. Let the Herbmistress come.”

  Just as age had seemed to ensnare the Lord Chancellor overnight so did Halwice’s features appear the sharper.

  “Your Highness"—she did not wait to be addressed but swept into speech at once—"and you, Prince Lorien. We have come to fight more than one woman’s desire for power. There were hints of this long ago when the House of Gard was brought down here in Kronen and your own people fought a battle with mountain raiders— Remember you Ishbi, Prince?”

  He was leaning forward, one clenched fist on the table before him.

  “Demon spawned that was, mistress. But in the end we prevailed.”

  “Did we?” she said slowly. “Or perhaps the enemy only withdrew for a space to rearm and strengthen. Prince Lorien, my craft puts those who follow it on a very narrow path between Light and Dark. Within these past few days I have learned that we face powers far stronger than any steel forged, any learned knowledge. I speak of Nona—’’

  “A legend—” But the Duke’s hand flailed out and upset his wine across the map.

  “Ishbi!” Now Prince Lorien’s fist slipped across the map making the wine river there run the faster. “I am of the blood who was there and others may forget—we shall not as long as we breed sons. It is the cursed—”

  “Or are we?” Halwice’s voice cut through his rising one. “By what once was ruler of spirit there?”

  The Prince was on his feet. “If somehow that evil beyond evil is a part of this, then, Lord Duke, your quarrel is also mine.” He hesitated and then added in a lower voice from which the hot wrath had died a little, “May the Star Rays be about your daughter, Duke, if she is captive to such.”

  The Duke put his head in his hands and those hands were trembling. Mahart—she had been just a name to him not long ago, a small irritation to be endured, but of no great value. What was she now? He could not have truthfully said, save all his sly connivings and schemes were like tattered webs torn apart and of no value.

  There was a stir as through the door came one of the squire messengers, but what he had to add he took to the Lord Chancellor not the distraught Duke.

  Vazul unrolled a small strip of paper but he did not hold it up to his own eyes—rather to those of Ssssaaa, and within a second or two the creature’s hissing became so loud it drew all their attention, even the Duke’s.

  “They have taken her out of the city.” Vazul had all the appearance of one translating his creature’s hisses.

  “The Bat says, mistress"—he inclined his head a fraction toward Halwice—"that your maid insists the trail leads on. He gathers supplies and mounts to follow. There has been talk of Ishbi.”

  And that final word echoed through the chamber as if it was as strong as the clamor of one of the city bells.

  19

  The heavy fragrance about Mahart enclosed her like a score of blankets wadded one on top of another. Even the air here seemed to hold a green shimmer as the horse plodded after that metal-encased figure who led it. The rock-walled trail they followed suddenly widened out onto what she first thought was a ledge and then saw dreamily was the first of a series of very wide steps, easy enough for the mount who carried her to descend, leading down into thick greenery.

  Each step was deeply incised with a symbol and her guard-guide led the horse so that the animal walked directly over the heart of each as they went. Mahart could
see now that all that greenery below was no normal trees and scrubs, rather a rank growth of ferns taller than her head even as she rode toward them.

  There was no wind here, nor any sound of bird or insect. As they reached the last of those wide steps he who had brought her stepped aside. When her mount drew level with him he looped back the lead rope over the saddle horn. Nor did he even raise that helmed masked face to look at her. Instead he halted. The horse continued to plod at the same pace straight ahead.

  So like a dream was all of this that Mahart felt she could demand no explanation, offer no protest. Still, she knew inwardly that she was headed now toward some peril she could not begin to imagine.

  At first the wall of ferns seemed to be just that, a barrier to warn any intruder away, but as the horse approached at its slow amble those fronds, without the urging of any breeze, split apart and opened a way for them. There were, she began to notice, strange breaks among them here and there—a scrap of wall, a sharp comer. While there was no sound, the thud of her mount’s shod hooves sounded on stone, even though underfoot seemed only a green carpet of moss.

  Mahart cried out. A frond to her right had appeared to bow away, and she looked for only an instant of pure horror into a face. Not one of beauty such as had been engraved on the wall, but rather one which might have been rudely hacked from the bark-scaled side of a dead tree. Then it was gone, as suddenly as she had seen it.

  However, the further they advanced the more and more obvious became those signs of handiwork, the remains of very ancient structures, while the growth of ferns began to thin out.

  At last they were through the final fringe of green plumes and into the open. What was spread before her was a calm-surfaced lake crowded round with ruins of the green-veined stone. The ferns had dwindled to a moss which resembled in part a vine as its tendrils crept outward over the stone yet sparingly as if that plant found little liking for the support it was forced to accept.