by Andre Norton
He need give her no warnings concerning the High Lady Saylana (and had not, except a dry comment or so). Since Mahart had been a small child she had been well aware of the chasm between that one and her father. She made a face now. Yes, she had led the first dance at the ball with Barbric. He did not quite have two left feet but sometimes, in one of the stately figures they had walked through so pompously, he had given the impression that that misfortune was his. And his hand—she now wiped hers swiftly back and forth across a fold of the sheet—its disgusting warmth and softness was not what one would accept joyfully. She did recall seeing Vazul once watching her as she turned and minced the small trotting steps of the figure. She wished at first that the Chancellor would be more open with her—and then decided it was better that he kept his own counsel. At least now.
But the second figure which she remembered so clearly—the woman among the town council, as stately as any noble lady of the court—the Herbmistress. Mahart had not quite summoned up the courage to invite her to the castle to learn more of her and her wares—though she believed that it might indeed be practical to do so. Yet—
Mahart sat up, pushed away the covering, and set her hand to that crack between the bed curtains through which the sun was coming. She had no idea as yet just how much power she might hold—whom she could send on an errand or demand service from. But that she would meet Halwice sooner or later she was sure.
The sight of her fingers on the edge of the curtain must have been a signal, as it was pulled quickly back and she looked out upon what seemed to her an unwonted crowd of people, all facing her, as if it was now her will to set them in motion for the day.
Julia still stood holding the curtain she had drawn back but at the same time managing a curtsey of sorts. And there was Zuta, a bright note in this time-dark room in her favorite yellow. Beyond her were those two noble misfits who had attended her on that first court appearance. She was completely bored by their company and only Vazul’s suggestion that their presence among her retinue might have some purpose led her to continue to greet them each morning with the smiling mask she assumed at the drawing of the bed curtains.
“A fair day, and may the Star favor you.” She repeated the formal greeting, thus giving permission to all of them to be about their assigned duties, such as they were.
The Ladies Famina and Geuverir made a bustling business of escorting her to the screens about the bath, accepting the night robe she tossed to them. Julta, however, gave no play of any new awesome service as she stood ready with the big towel and waited for Mahart to draw on drawers and underchemise.
There was a war of scents in the room now: that remaining incense which had burned out during the night, the herbs steeped in the bath, and those less strident odors from the clean linen in which she clothed herself.
She could hear the whispering of Famina and Geuverir, but noted that, as always, Zuta kept apart from those two. What they were whispering about she could guess. Though they had not been friends when first assigned to her service they had bonded quickly, mainly because of a common interest—men. And she knew that both, having been betrothed properly from childhood, were eager to become mistresses of their own establishments, peevishly eager at times. Mahart had asked Zuta why these bridal festivities had not rid her of the two. Zuta had shrugged and declared that in the case of the Lady Famina, it was a matter of dowry—that the father of her lord-to-be was avid for a certain strip of territory to add to his own holdings with the bride’s arrival. And there were still negotiations for the Lady Geuverir in progress.
However, this morning it was not men that the ladies were discussing. It was ghosts!
Catching a word or two, Mahart was intrigued enough to summon them closer as Julta brushed and braided her hair.
Of course there were parts of the castle, as Mahart herself well knew, within which the air seemed to enfold one in an ominous, smothering way. And there were innumerable tales of this or that past dignitary (usually one who had lost his or her head through crossing ducal authority) who had been seen pacing some corridor during the hours of darkness.
However, the new manifestations apparently had to do with lights, and, though she was hearing the tale about thirdhand, there were two separate tales, yet similarities in both. The ball had lasted until dawn, and she herself had been so sleepy by its ending that she wanted no more than to find her bed and tumble into it. However, others had more nighthawk blood than she—or else were engaged in such dalliance as they must seek less open ways. And so the reports—
“ ’Tis the Black Tower, Your Grace.” There was a quiver in Lady Geuverir’s voice. “They have always said that it has been cursed ever since the mad Duke Rotonbric hung himself there with a curtain rope.”
“Yes,” chimed in Lady Famina. “The Lady Horsetha—with her own eyes she saw this thing all in white moving along. Guardsman Kylow, he challenged, and the thing disappeared straight into the wall.”
Mahart raised a small smile. “The Lady Horsetha, she is, I believe, married—but not to a guardsman.”
Lady Famina flushed, and she was not one on whom any form of a blush was an attraction.
“They were heated, Your Grace—and went into the open passage for a breath of air. But it is true— Lady Horestha came back shaking so Guardsman Kylow had to support her on her feet. And she swooned again later when Lord Margrave told what he had seen.”
“Which was?” Mahart accepted the mirror Julta held ready so that she could inspect her back hair before the maid pinned on the shoulder-length veil which was now another hampering bit of her life.
“Well—” Lady Famina tittered, and it was Lady Geuverir’s turn to redden as her more talkative companion continued. “There was much drinking, you understand, Your Grace—”
“And he sought a garderobe,” returned Mahart impatiently. “But why in that direction—?” And it was her turn to blush. Gentlemen—men—were not always so particular in such matters. “Well, and what did he see?”
“Two huge black figures, Your Grace. They came out of the night as if they were pulled from some other world, and then went up the passage. There was a greenish light—a death light—” Lady Famina was now enjoying her own fears. “And they went into the wall also!”
“I suppose His Highness’s guard finally arrived?” Mahart commented. “And what did they find?”
“Nothing.” Lady Famina paused as if summoning breath to enhance the force of her report. “Nothing—only that door as was barred and sealed after they brought out the mad Duke’s body.”
Mahart fingered a frosted bottle. She did not believe in specters, she told herself sternly. However, she was sure that she would find good reason not to visit the Black Tower was she ever invited to do so—and had any choice in the matter. No—Breath of Lilies was too exquisite to be wasted on any but a state occasion. She opened a cream-filled jar instead, sniffed at the invigorating scent she had so released, and delicately swept fingertips behind her ears and down the line of her throat. Ghosts in the castle? she wondered. What would Vazul have to say to that now?
Willadene had always been so close quartered in the inn and Halwice had kept her so busy in the shop that she did not know this part of Kronengred. Halwice did not deliver her products—her customers came to her. And although those visitors formed a goodly cross section of the old city the girl had heard names of streets, noble houses, and the like with no idea where such might be.
She kept close to her silent guard, even more so when they ran into merrymakers on their way home, steady or unsteady, the last of the revelers of the day before. Willadene found herself elbowed close to the wall, the guard taking his position between her and any body of townsmen who passed. She had pulled the hood of her cloak down so far she could barely catch glimpses of the outside world from under its edging.
The streets and alleys through which they went their way seemed to go on forever. As the night closed in only the decreed lamps lit above each doorway spread small po
ols of light between dwelling and dwelling. At least the guard matched his swinging stride to her own best pace, and twice his arm with a quick grasp saved her from a stumble—almost as if he had the talent for seeing through the dark.
Above them loomed the castle, and they were drawing ever closer to that. The number of lighted windows in the upper walls marked out most of the outline of the building, and at the foot of the rise on which it stood there was much more light and comings and goings.
However, her guide turned away abruptly from that and brought her into an alley so narrow she wondered if his wide shoulders did not brush the walls on either side. This was worse going, for here and there were refuse bins, primly kept out of sight from the passersby on the main streets. And it was before a large one of these, near the far end of the way, that he came to a stop so sudden she nearly ran into him.
A snap light, shielded by hand, gave her a glimpse of a great tun, so large a one she wondered that any one man might move it. Yet it rolled easily aside when her companion laid a single hand on it.
Willadene could see nothing but stone wall, but he did not look to that at all, rather stamped on the pavement where the tun had rested. Three times his heavy boot rose and fell. Then he crowded back, pushing her with him. There came no warning sound, but a square of the set stones dipped and was gone, leaving a black hole. For the first time he spoke.
“There is a ladder, girl. Get you down quickly.”
However, it would seem that she was not about to chance descent into total darkness, for there was now a faint glow and she saw the ladder. Hampered by the full folds of her cloak and the bag she had slung over her shoulder by its carry cord, she did as he had bidden her.
There was more light below, illuminating a very small section of a passage which assaulted her nose with a musty, earthy odor. Once they were both down the inner stair, the guard picked up the waiting lantern and started briskly on. She heard a soft thud behind her and guessed that that doorway had fallen shut to seal off this way.
There came stairs, long steep series of them. She kept tight hold on a groove in the wall to her right, which must have been intended as a safety measure, though she did not think it really so.
There were three such flights—each ending in a broad landing before the next began. At two such lanterns had been set, but the third staircase was something of a puzzle. In the first place, it was much narrower, ragged of edges, with chips of stone lying on the floor as if it had been only recently cut.
The stair leading upward was far narrower and her shoes stirred dust which arose to make her cough, even as her companion did. They came to a fourth landing, this very small, so that their bodies touched as they both reached it. The guard raised a fist, and the wan lantern light brought a gleam of answering metal shine—he was using the hilt of a belt knife to rap on the wall.
Willadene smelled fresh oil and guessed that some long-shut way must have been so coaxed to open. Then there was a fair burst of light. The guard’s hand on her shoulder propelled her forward into the space beyond while he remained where he was. Before she could glance around she heard a snap of latch.
But her head was up now, for her nose was busy reporting. Above the mustiness and dust of a long-unused room she could smell balms and remedies she was only too familiar with and other odors also, not so pleasant but found in any close-kept chamber where there was illness.
The man who arose from a chair to face her caught her attention first. He gave her no greeting, merely surveyed her from head to foot and back again. And all this time he played and petted with one hand a black-furred creature which curled about his lean throat above the splendid embroidery of his robe as might an extra fur collar.
By the sight of that alone Willadene knew him and somehow forced her legs, trembling a little from that long climb, into a curtsey.
“M’lord Chancellor—”
“Halwice stands hostage for our trust in you.” He spoke abruptly. “She also says that you have talent to obey her orders and to keep a shut mouth.”
Willadene could not think of any answer to that, but she knew a spark of pleasure that the Herbmistress rated her so.
“You have one to tend, and the tending must be of the best.” He turned away, crooking a finger as he did so.
Now she could see the bed, like a huge cavern, draped with curtains resembling the thickest clouds of night. But it was not about that that a row of lamps had been stationed. Rather, resting much closer to the floor and easier to reach, was a trundle bed such as she herself now used. On it was stretched a body. Now and then a hand arose to push impatiently at the covering. But in the face turned toward hers the eyes were closed as if he slept.
Nicolas! What trap had caught him this time? she wondered. He seemed a singularly ill-fated young man.
“There.” The Chancellor again summoned her full attention, pointing to a small side table on which lay several sheets of much finer paper than Halwice usually used. However, they were covered by the even lines of her mistress’s script. “Those are your orders. There remains only this—” He paused and was eye-measuring her again. “Should he regain consciousness and is able to speak"—now he went beyond her to the wall and twitched a bell pull into full sight—"you will use this at once. Do you understand?”
Willadene nodded. For the past few moments there had been an interruption to her full attention. She had become aware of a new scent, thin, hardly to be picked up among the many others here, yet somehow, she knew, of importance. Her eyes dropped from the Chancellor’s to that animated fur collar and another set of eyes met hers—
Here was no evil—the tales in the city about Vazul’s companion creature were belied. But the creature was far more than any pet. And having once picked up that scent she knew it was one that she would never forget.
“Do you understand?!” There was impatience in the man’s voice, she realized, that she had not replied quickly enough.
“Yes, m’lord. If he—” she nodded toward the uneasy sleeper “—wakes, and if he speaks—then I pull that loop.” She sounded as dim-witted as a real scullery maid, but that did not matter. Let him think she was like any servant, and he would consider her no threat to him.
“Here—” Now he moved on to a door. Raising his foot he cracked his boot toe against its lowest panel, and it swung outward under that force. “Water, food, aught else needed, can be delivered so. Leave a note on the tray if there is such need. There is oil for the lamps in the far corner—enough for a goodly time. Now—turn your back—draw your hood down!”
So forceful was that order Willadene followed it at once. Nor was she surprised when she turned around to find herself alone in the chamber with the wounded man, though there was no means of exit she could account for, as she was standing between where he had been and that flap-furnished door.
She shed her cloak and draped it with her bundle on a chair carved like a throne but with the velvet of its seat cushion faded to a dull gray. Her first task was Nicolas, of course, though she was sure that Halwice would have never left him if he were still in danger.
Under her hand his flesh felt overwarm, but with a wound some fever was to be expected. There were three bottles, their dosage spoons fastened to them by wires, standing on the floor. She examined each in turn, recognizing it at once for what it was and how it must be used.
Carefully she turned back the top bed cover to inspect the rolls of bandage which pillowed over his shoulder and well down his chest on the right side. There was no need as yet to interfere with those carefully wound bands. Willadene could smell the soporific Halwice had administered. Which left her two things to do. First, she would read the instructions her mistress had left. They were indeed familiar, having only one or two points of which Willadene had not already aided Halwice in using. There was an hour lamp burning, and when the marking reached the proper point she was to rouse her charge far enough to get another spoonful from one of the bottles into him.
Having made s
ure she understood what she was to do, the girl now was determined to explore this prison. For that she was a prisoner kept here for the duties her mistress had set upon her she well knew.
Taking up one of the smaller lamps Willadene began a circuit of the room, first keeping the four walls as her guide. Two of those walls were curved, and she judged that this chamber was part of a tower. There were long narrow windows, but they had been bricked up and generations of spiders had built webs across them.
The furniture must once have been very fine, equal, she believed, to that which might be found in the Duke’s own chamber. But it was dulled with dust and showed signs of woodworm visitation.
She had made her circuit and returned, certain that any entrance to this room must be fully secret, even as the way she had been brought here.
Still unsatisfied, for the second time she made this circuit, this time feverishly calling upon what Halwice declared to be her special gift, trying to find some scent of evil as had filled the shop at her first meeting with Nicolas or had always hung about Wyche and his close companions. But nothing save the scent of healing herbs answered her.
She was certain that the Herbmistress would never have lent her knowledge to the use of evil, and she also knew from watching Nicolas and Halwice together on the few occasions the young man had appeared at the shop, that there was friendship, or at least a bond of some sort between them.
A tapping brought her to that closed door in time to see the flap at the bottom being pulled back and a tray pushed through. However, before she could stoop to take it up and perhaps catch some glimpse of who had delivered it, the flap fell again, striking the edge of the tray and jarring it farther into the room.
There were several covered dishes—silver dishes such as might have been lifted from any noble’s table—and a pile of folded linen, yellowed by age but clean. Willadene removed this to a footstool not too far from her charge and seated herself cross-legged beside it. Perhaps it was the rich aroma wafted into the varied smells of the room which aroused Nicolas. For his head turned and she saw his eyes, hard as usual, fixed upon her.
