Ice and Shadow

by Andre Norton

  CHAPTER 18

  THE ROOM WAS WARM in spite of its size, almost too warm; But the light from the two lamps on the table and the on the hearth did not reach the corners, where shadows crouched. Roane looked about her with an interest fatigue did not quite dull. This was the first time she been in any house on Clio save a forester’s and the border keeps, with their rough frontier interiors, and the magnificent mansion in Gastenhow.

  This was an upper private room of the Inn of Three Wayfarers, within a half day’s ride of Urkermark. Their steaming cloaks lay across a bench pulled close to the fire, for outside came the steady beat of rain. And it was under that cover they had ridden so far into the land.

  Three days—Roane counted them off. The first been much of a blur for her. They had spent that night in the forester’s cabin. And there the first reports had come.

  Reveny was in a state of chaos. And the dislocation had been the greater in the upper reaches of authority. The yoeman farmers, the “little” men and women, made better recoveries from the initial state of bewilderment. But in turn they had been alarmed by the erratic actions of their leaders.

  Some appeared to go insane, either sinking into a state of idiocy to give no coherent orders at all, or mouthing such irresponsible ones that their own servants and followers refused to obey. Fighting had broken out, stopped as the men engaged suddenly asked themselves what they were fighting for. There were bands of raiders taking advantage of the misfortunes of others.

  The closer their own party came to Urkermark—and now they traveled openly, having little to fear during this confusion—the wilder became the stories of what chanced there. Imfry grew bleak of expression, curt of tongue, with every succeeding report from his scouts. That there was dire trouble was certain. Three times they had met parties of refugees spurring away from the city. And each time those riders, men guarding women, some of whom had children in their arms, had refused any contact, twice shooting to warn off Imfry’s men. There had been wounded among them. And seeing those bandaged bodies, Roane was deeply unhappy. Chance or not, she felt that each of those hurts had come from her hand.

  Imfry’s company had grown. The scouts who had spread to gain news brought, or directed, back to him more and more guardsmen, foresters, even stragglers from the private guards of stead nobles. He interviewed each newcomer himself, trying to sift from their stories a clearer picture. He was doing so now, sitting at the table, listening to the rambling story of a man in uniform.

  There were few officers among these so far, and the one or two who did appear were all of lower rank, though some of them still held together a nucleus of their former commands.

  “. . . the incall came,” the newcomer was saying. “And Major Emmick talked to this other officer in the guardroom. We heard a shot. When we broke down the door the Major was dead—took it right through the head. This strange Colonel—he started to say that the Major was a traitor, which we did not believe, then he grabbed at his head and ran straight at the wall and smashed against it, knocked himself right out. Well, we did not know what to do. The Captain, he was still dazed like, lay on his bed and just laughed when the Sergeant asked for orders. So Sergeant Quantil, he said up with the gates and not to let anyone else in, not until we got some news that made sense. And he sent three of us out—Mangron, he was to ride to the Westergate, Afran up to Balsay, and me, I was to try to reach our own Colonel in Urkermark. Only the gates were up there, too. They will not let anyone in. And I think there is a fight going on inside—there are fires blazing, anyway. Then I met up with your man, sir, and what he told me made a lot more sense than anything I heard since Major Emmick was killed, so I came here.”

  “And this man who brought the incall, this Colonel—you did not know him?”

  “Never saw him before, sir. He had a new royal badge, too—a black forfal head, with the mouth open and a forked tongue out, nasty-looking thing. The Sergeant searched him for papers afterward. Nothing but the warrant on the table. It was all written up like a real one but it did not have the Queen’s name. It just said ‘in the King’s name’—and King Niklas has been dead for days now! It was just some more craziness!”

  “ ‘In the King’s name,’ ” repeated Imfry. And then he shot another question. “What king?”

  The man stared at Imfry and then hurriedly pushed away from the table, glancing from side to side as if seeking some escape. Roane guessed his suspicions. He must think that Imfry was mad now.

  “No, guardsman, I am not crazy. But there is good reason to believe that there is one near the Queen who might try to seize power in a time of trouble. If he has done so—”

  The man swallowed. “Oh,” he said eagerly, “that could explain—I cannot remember any name signed. There was the thumb seal on the warrant proper enough—but no name! Maybe that was what made Sergeant Quantil think it so queer. It was a warrant telling the Major to hand over command, but no proper name signed. But, sir, where—where is the Queen?”

  “In Urkermark, or should be!” Imfry said with the emphasis of one taking an oath. “You say the city is closed?”

  “Every gate sealed up as tight, sir, as it was the time the Nimps got down within siege distance in the old days. It would take the biggest siege guns to force those.”

  “The outer gates, yes, but there are other ways. Guardsman, how long will it take you to get a message back to your post?”

  “If I have a fresh mount, I can make it by midnight, sir.”

  “Well enough. You know what you have seen. Report it to your Sergeant. And take him this message from me.” Imfry drew toward him a writing sheet, the small ink holder, and the pen. As he had before at the conclusion of such interviews, he wrote a few lines, dipped his finger tip in ink to impress beneath his signature.

  “Mattine!” he called and as the forester appeared in the doorway, “a fresh mount for this guardsman.”

  “To be sure, m’lord.”

  When the man was gone, Imfry stared into the fire. Roane stirred, unable any longer to bear the silence in the room, the circling of her own thoughts.

  “You say there is a way into Urkermark besides the gates?”

  “It was meant to be a bolt hole out. Our history has never been without its wars and alarms, dynastic struggles. The games in which we were the pieces have often been bloody ones. I wonder who took satisfaction from that? The machines could not. But were the results somehow known to those devils who fostered them upon us?” He looked at her as if he wanted an answer.

  “At first they must have been. There would be no other reason for experimenting. But the Psychocrats have been dead a long time.”

  “The machines have only been dead for days and look what is upon us now. I wish I knew why it seems to affect some more than others. At any rate, the Queen is our first concern. It could well be that Reddick has set himself up as king. Which leaves two possible fates for Ludorica—either she died with the destruction of the crown, or else she is held captive to back Reddick’s intrigues. In either case he must not be allowed to—” Imfry fell silent again, his face repelling Roane. That there was a strong bond between him and the Queen, Roane had known from the first. And if the Queen was dead—

  She gave a sigh, wondering if she herself would ever be free of her burden of guilt. It seemed that as soft as that sound was, it was enough to arouse him from his dire thoughts, and when he turned to her there was a faint relaxation about his mouth.

  “Rest, m’lady, while you can.” He nodded at a door to an inner chamber. “We may have precious little time in which to do so.”

  Yet it was morning when the inn maid drew aside the curtains to let in a pale sunshine.

  “M’lady.” She curtsied when she saw Roane watching her sleepily. “The Colonel says you must be on your way soon. But there is hot water for washing, and these also.” She pointed to folded clothing on a chair. “They are not what a fine lady wears, being of my own seaming, but the Colonel says they will do.”

  �
�But I cannot take your clothes,” Roane objected, even though she shrank from drawing on again the stained and sweated garments in which she had lived for days.

  “Oh, m’lady, the Colonel has given me that which will buy me twice what he selected from those I showed him. And much finer! But these are new, and there is a rain cloak to wear.”

  Roane bathed, thankful for the water and the soap, which smelled of sweet herbs. She put on one of the divided riding skirts and the tight bodice jacket, both of green-blue, but lacking the bright braid and embroidery she had seen before. There was a gray cloak, lined in green-blue, with an attached hood. Roane tried to order her hair. It had grown from the close crop and had now reached a length difficult to keep in order, straying about her face. She was still tugging at it as she went out into the other room, where the maid was putting a platter of food on the table.

  “Please, m’lady, the Colonel asks that you make what speed you can.”

  “Surely.” Roane found that for the first time in days she was really hungry. Though she ate as fast as she could, she left a well-cleaned plate behind her.

  The maid ushered Roane down the stairs. There were many men in the common room, most of them eating in a hurried fashion, calling for refills of tankards. Most of their faces were strange but Mattine waved to her from the doorway and they quickly made room for her to pass.

  Imfry stood by a duocorn, critically surveying a second mount. As Roane came up he gave her a quick greeting and then indicated that animal.

  “She is warranted sound and steady-going, and we shall not have to use her for long, but she is a sorry-looking beast.”

  The mare was, Roane had to admit, a scrawny being, with a very ragged, rough mane at the root of her stubbed horns and only a wisp of a tail. Also she bawled a protest as the Colonel swung Roane into the saddle on her bony back, where she held on with a grim determination to last out the trip.

  They rode out at the head of a troop which had been even further augmented during the night hours.

  “We make for Urkermark?” Roane asked.

  “Yes, but by the hidden way.”

  So they turned aside from the highway onto the second lane feeding into it. And a little farther on they leaped their mounts over the way hedges, and crossed open fields, where hoofs cut into crop planting, trampling half-ripened grain. It seemed that Imfry was taking the straightest line possible to his goal.

  They veered to the west, seeming to Roane’s mind to be heading directly away from their goal. But that brought them at about noon to the bank of a river and along that they angled back east, following the course of the flow as a guide. Not far along they came to one of those bridges with a small triangular tower as a part of its structure.

  There they dismounted. Imfry and the Sergeant, plus two guardsmen, went to the tower. The men produced iron bars and set to work pounding in and breaking loose the blocks below the offering slit.

  A block of masonry crumbled only too readily under that assault and they dragged the stones out of the way. With the same bars they swept the floor within. Coins spun into the air, fell into the grass, but the workers paid no attention.

  Now the sun shone on the dusty floor, making plain a groove in the stone. Sergeant Wuldon worked the tip of a lever into the depression, under a small bar of stone set across it. He put his full strength on the lever, the men and the Colonel joining in his effort. There was a harsh grating, and the stone moved complainingly. Once it was up the two blocks on either side were released and drawn out in turn.

  A short time later Roane found herself descending a steep ladder of stone, lit by the glow of lanterns held by those who went before. Then she faced a long passage walled and buttressed with stone slabs.

  The way was dark and there was an unpleasant smell of damp. But also there was now and then a very welcome whiff of fresher air, as if a ventilating system existed. There was only room for two to walk abreast, so their company was strung out, Imfry and Mattine at the head, Roane with the Sergeant, and the remainder of the troop behind.

  For the most part their path was level and Roane thought that the making of such a way had been a formidable task. She was beginning to wonder if it did run for leagues clear to Urkermark when they were faced by a new series of steep steps, down which they went to a yet deeper level. Here there were no signs of man’s building, but rather a series of cuts and caves, opening one into another, some large beyond the reach of lantern light.

  Imfry went boldly on as if he knew the way well, though by all indications it must have been a long time since any had passed on this hidden road. He paused at last to consult his direction disk.

  “Turn right here—” He signaled with the lantern. They were in one of the wider caves and the men were bunching up behind them.

  Imfry went more slowly now, he and Mattine holding higher the lanterns they carried. And at length these revealed another stair, down which moisture dripped from where it gathered in great beads on the stone.

  Roane climbed warily, fearing the slipperiness of the stone and the steepness of the steps. They ended in a stone passage fronting a fourth flight of stairs. The steps were enclosed on one side with wooden paneling, hung with thick spider webs heavy with the dust of years. Up and up, though Imfry went slowly, and apparently counting as he went, as if some tally of the steps was a key he needed.

  He signaled by hand wave and the Sergeant edged around Roane, touching her shoulder lightly as he went.

  “Pass that back, m’lady.”

  She did, the signal halting the line of men.

  Now, handing his lantern to Mattine, who held both lights closer to the wall, the Colonel felt across the wooden surface. His shoulders hunched as if he were exerting pressure on some stubborn fastening. Then a portion of the paneling swung open to make a door.

  When it came Roane’s turn to step through she found herself in a room as richly furnished as had been that dining hall of her dream. The same kind of massive, heavily carved furniture stood about; the same colorful, if time-faded, tapestries ringed the walls.

  She stepped to one side as the men following her fanned out. Imfry was at another door of the room, the Sergeant flanking him, both with those guns in their hands. The Colonel edged open that barrier, looked beyond, and then waved them on.

  So they came into the heart of Urkermark High Keep. And it was through its rooms Imfry led them. Twice Roane waited with a beating heart, listening to the sound of shots loud in these echoing rooms. And once she hurried by a body lying face down, from under which runneled a thin red stream.

  But there was no unified resistance to their passage and they went swiftly. Here and there small squads of the company broke off under low-voiced orders. So that when they reached another door, before which the Colonel again paused, there were only ten of them, counting Roane, left.

  Imfry tried the latch carefully before he gave a quick, sharp pull, at the same time moving to face whoever might be within, gun ready.

  “Drop it!”

  There was a queer sound like broken laughter. The Colonel was already inside, the rest crowding behind him, so Roane was the last to enter. She did not find a battle about to begin, but rather a strange scene, as if the actors had been frozen in place by their entrance.

  On a couch lay Ludorica, her eyes closed, her dress disordered, even torn, with draggled trails of black lace hanging from the bodice. Her hair was loose, matted in tangles.

  Beyond her was a chair in which sat Shambry. He held both hands breast-high before him, and on them rested a glowing ball of rippling light. His mouth was slackly open, a thread of spittle drooling from one corner. But as he looked at Imfry his lips wrinkled in a hideous grin.

  “Quiet, sir, the Queen sleeps. She sleeps, she dreams, dreams of us, and if she wakes, why, we shall all cease to be. Because we are her dream creatures. Only I, Shambry, can keep her dreaming so, and us alive!”

  The men moved uneasily, edged a little away. Only Imfry continued to front the
Soothspeaker. Then he went into action before Shambry could dodge, plucked the ball from the other’s hold.

  With a cry of pure terror, Shambry flung himself at Imfry, his crooked fingers reaching for the ball, or perhaps the Colonel’s throat. But Wuldon interposed, hurling the man, now mouthing curses, back into his chair with such force that it went over, spilling Shambry to the floor.

  Roane was already at the Princess’s side. Ludorica’s face was very pale, worn, but it had lost that shadow of evil the crown had laid upon it. Her skin was hot and dry as if she burned with fever, her lips cracked and peeling. But she still lived, and her breathing was the even rise and fall of one who slept.

  Wuldon had his hands hooked in the collar of the Soothspeaker’s black cloak, was pulling the groveling Shambry to his feet. He shook the man, who now hung limply in his grasp, and looked to Imfry.

  “He is really over the edge, sir. You will not get any sense out of him now. What has he done to the Queen?”

  Imfry moved to the couch, took one of Ludorica’s hands between his.

  “She is under mind-globe, I think. If so, there is one drastic remedy for that.” He turned and caught up the ball, which had spun away to the floor. Raising it high, he deliberately smashed it. Shambry gave a wild beast’s cry, fought with such a frenzy that Wuldon could not hold him alone. Two of the men came to his aid.

  Ludorica’s head turned on the pillow. Then her eyes opened. But there was no recognition in them.

  “See to her,” Imfry told Roane. “There is one lacking from this company who must be found.”

  He strode across the chamber to the second door, setting his shoulder to burst it open by force. Beyond, Roane saw part of a pillared hall, most of which swept beyond her range of vision. But what the door framed was undoubtedly a throne on a dais, yet set low enough for her to see that it was occupied. He who sat there wore a crown which was a glitter of icy splendor. And he did not turn his head to view Imfry’s abrupt entrance.