Knight Or Knave

by Andre Norton

  "If anybody asks about the Sea-Rover, you are to say that he tried to take undue liberties with you," he said. Then he turned to the ones still pummeling Rohan.

  "Blindfold him and tie him up. I'll give you your instructions then."

  Rohan thought he recognized Piaul's voice. But then someone gave him a sharp rap on the head. Dazed, he was only dimly aware of his arms and legs being bound and him being shoved into some kind of bag, such as farmers use to bring vegetables to market. He could smell the earthy scents, and also the pungent odor of the sprigs of herbs and grasses in his helm. They must have dropped it into the bag with him.

  Leaving no clues behind, he thought dimly. Then he was picked up, to be carried somewhere, and consciousness faded for a while.

  He roused a little at the sound of lapping water. That plus the movement of the hard surface under him, told him that he was on a boat of some kind—probably a small one, or perhaps even a raft though the motion was different. Dimly, he could hear voices.

  "When we get just a little closer, then's when we knife him, understand?"

  "I still don't understand why we have to do him in. Just taking him off to where a Boggins will get him should be enough."

  "The lord what's paying us says 'knife him/ so knife him we will. Do it right, and there'll be no hint of who really done it 'cause they'll think it was

  Bog-men."

  The man to whom this one was speaking sniggered. "That'll take Their High and

  Mightinesses' minds off things, now won't it? Keep 'em right busy. Leave the rest of us alone."

  Rohan forced himself to think. These were no gentlemen, though the one who had shoved Anamara through the door and instructed her to say Rohan had tried to take liberties had undoubtedly been Piaul. Therefore Piaul must be the one paying for the current situation in which Rohan found himself. But why?

  The why of it could wait, he thought wryly, trying to ignore the thumping pain in his head, in favor of the which. He had better extricate himself from this, and fast, or he'd surely be taking the Long Boat out on the journey from which no man had ever yet returned.

  They had mentioned a "Boggins" and feeding him to it. That meant they must be headed down the River Rendel toward the Bog. How long had he been unconscious?

  It felt like a long time, judging from how stiff he was. Well, he found one consolation in his plight. They most likely wouldn't be trying to stab him until they had reached their destination, so that gave him time to concentrate.

  Zazar. Grandam Zaz, he mouthed silently. Come and save your wayward grandson] Or dose enough to grandson. I need your help. Please.

  Nothing. He tried again, and yet again, to no avail while the boat journeyed on.

  He could hear the creak of oars. Then the boat stopped abruptly, going to ground against the mud of a shore—there was no mistaking the syrupy sound of it—and he sensed someone fumbling at the sack in which he was trussed. Any hope that it had all been an elaborate joke faded when the man untied the top and began shucking it off Rohan. The three men facing him had put back the hoods on their mantles, and he could see their faces clearly. Nobody would do that in these circumstances, unless they expected to leave no witnesses.

  "Here, turn 'im over," one of the men said. "It has to be done just right. Lucky

  I have one of their shell knives. Nobody will ever know the difference."

  Grandam Zazar! Rohan pleaded silently. Mighty Wysen-wyf of the Bog! If ever you thought well of me, help me now!

  Something large and terrifying erupted from the river, soaking everyone in the boat and throwing them into confusion.

  "It is a Bogginsi" one of the men cried. "A Boggins! Push off from shore! Push off from shore!"

  Rohan had a jumbled impression of something huge and snaky, with water glistening off its scales, and perhaps vestigial wings as well. It roared, its mighty voice making the leaves of nearby trees shiver. And it bore a human—or nearly human—face.

  I have gone mad, Rohan thought. Utterly mad. That is not Grandam Zaz's face. It is not—

  The monster bowed its long, serpentlike neck, opened a mouth full of sharp fangs, and plucked Rohan, sack and all, from the boat. It reared even higher while Rohan's captors fumbled with poles and freed their boat from the mud that had held it fast. Then they used the poles as fast as they could to propel the boat and get away from the horror behind them.

  "We've done our job!" one of the men shouted. "A Boggins got 'im instead of

  Bog-men, but it's all the same. Now, pole and row for your lives, boys!"

  Rohan discovered that he was curiously calm, considering that he was most likely to be devoured in the next few minutes. But the way the monster was gripping him in fangs that, inexplicably, had not come even close to piercing his flesh, did not inspire in him the same stark, unreasoning fear that it had in his former captors.

  "They're out of sight now," said a familiar voice, a little muffled as if the speaker had its mouth full.

  To Rohan's surprise, the monster set him down gently on firm ground and then began shrinking, its wings becoming arms, and its tail disappearing entirely.

  The scaly skin softened and paled. Then Zazar stood before him, looking remarkably annoyed.

  "Don't call on me to do that sort of thing again anytime soon," the Wysen-wyf said irritably, as she rearranged her clothing and loosened her limbs. "It's confining in a shape like that, and hard on old bones."

  "Grandam Zaz!" Rohan exclaimed. "I owe you my life! Oh, a thousand thanks! I thought—"

  "I know what you thought." Zazar stared at him with a critical gaze for a long moment, and then slapped him soundly across the face.

  "What was that for?" Rohan said, gingerly feeling his stinging cheek.

  "For your total stupidity. You are so lacking in wits it should be against the law. My guess is there's a pretty face—and an empty head other than your own—behind this."

  "Anamara had nothing to do with it. She wasn't bait, if that's what you're thinking. These men jumped me, and I don't know why."

  "Then tell me what went on before."

  Obediently Rohan recounted the story of the encounter with Piaul and his toadies, including the passage in the book that had impressed him, and then the way he had been captured. "And I still don't know why they did it."

  Zazar snorted derisively. "As I said, you are stupid. Daring and risk without intelligence is worth exactly nothing. Piaul stood high in the late King

  Florian's favor, didn't he?"

  "I suppose so."

  "And by killing you, he and his companions might get some small revenge for the late King's death, wouldn't they?"

  "But why me? I had nothing to do with it."

  "That wouldn't matter, not if there was trouble and dissension to be spread."

  Rohan digested this in silence. "But why did the Dowager set me up with the Lady

  Anamara?"

  Zazar stared at him with renewed disgust, and he was afraid she was going to slap him again. "To keep you occupied, is my guess, so she could keep her finger on where you were, and what you were up to, and, as a result, what Ashen was doing."

  "But she hates Ashen." Rohan frowned, struggling to follow Za-zar's explanation.

  "Just so. Don't you know anything?"

  "I was just trying—"

  "Never mind that. There is work to be done."

  "Yes, Grandam." Rohan's meekness was not a sham. He knew that Zazar's irritation with him was justified. "I will follow your direction, I promise. Just tell me what to do."

  "Go back to Rendelsham. There is where the real danger lies. But this time use your head, if you can find it."

  "I have no idea how to get back. I was in a bag most of the time." He rummaged in the bag, found his helm, and put it on, hoping that Zazar would notice that he had followed her instructions and put the sprigs of herbs and grasses in it.

  The Wysen-wyf looked him up and down, her expression sour. "Well, you can't get back across the river un
aided. Come with me."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Back to my village, or close to it."

  "Why?"

  "To get a boat that will carry your weight."

  "A boat? But—but how did you get here?"

  Zazar turned and Rohan could swear that she almost smiled. "You don't need to know the details. Just say that I swam."

  With Zazar as guide, it took only a little time to get through the Bog to a place, just in sight of the village, where her boat was moored. Then, with both of them poling, they took to the waterways heading due north.

  "This isn't the route we came," Rohan said. "We're going against what current there is."

  "No. They took you downstream quite a distance. That is why I was late in getting there. I'm taking you back another way, so you can get to the city in a short time. You'll be there almost before the ones who bagged you."

  "That ought to surprise a few folks."

  "You need all the bolstering-up you can get, after the way you've behaved.

  Sometimes I swear your head must be solid bone. And you should remember that I will not always be there to save your worthless hide."

  "Yes, Grandam," Rohan said. "I promise to do better."

  Zazar subsided into muttering under her breath, which, for Rohan, wasn't an enormous improvement as he could well imagine what she was saying.

  Nevertheless, the Wysen-wyf was as good as her word. She took the boat into smaller and smaller streams that fed into the River Rendel, stopping when they could go no farther. The low mountains encircling Rendelsham were nearby.

  "Go now, and do not dare so much without thinking first," Zazar said.

  "Thank you again for my life," Rohan said. He bent and kissed the Wysen-wyf on the forehead. Then he turned and scrambled out of the boat and up onto the shore before she could do worse to him than slap him for his—he had to smile—his daring.

  Sixteen

  Squaring his shoulders, Rohan marched through the gate of Castle Rendelsham.

  True to Cebastian's prediction, all of the young nobles presumably leading their parts of the Dowager's Levy had had their living quarters moved to the castle.

  It would be a nuisance, Rohan thought, making dawn muster at Cragden Keep, but it certainly would keep the men under Ysa's close observation.

  Almost—the thought came unbidden—like a prison, albeit with better and more luxurious accommodations than most prisons afforded.

  Well, this was something he could think about later. Now Rohan wanted nothing more than a change of clothing, a chance to clean and polish what little armor he had been wearing when he had been taken, and a long, steaming bath. A servant, face carefully blank at Rohan's disheveled appearance, indicated the door to the room he had been assigned. It swung open easily when he pushed it and instantly he went alert: The door had not been latched.

  A startled exclamation—which was not a greeting—stopped him short. Two people looked up, caught going through Rohan's belongings, and, equally startled, Rohan recognized one of them.

  The Magician!

  The man with him, a castle guard wearing the Dowager's livery, started toward

  Rohan, drawing his sword. At a gesture from the Magician, the man halted in his tracks. Curious but unfrightened, Rohan approached the guard, studying him as he drew nearer. The guard stood there unblinking, expression blank, poised for another step, but frozen in place. What kind of control was this? Magic? Rohan had not seen any sign of the use of a paralytic gas or a drug. Therefore it must be a spell such as he had never witnessed before. He wondered if he could duplicate such a spell, if he needed to.

  With a laugh, the Magician stepped forward. By the time he shrugged off his long cloak the person who faced Rohan had once more transformed into the beautiful woman he had seen at the inn where he had witnessed her—or his—skilled performance.

  "Not the least bit surprised, are you, young lord?" she said. Her voice was deep and rich. "That speaks well. I marked you when first I saw you, and that candle trick of yours. That you were able to free yourself from a rather nasty predicament—oh, yes, I know about how the late King's followers set you up for an assassination— speaks well of your talents also." She stared at Rohan in such a way as made him nervous. "Yes, I do believe that you are the partner I have been awaiting. Or at least you shall be, with just a little help. And all that without having to be bribed."

  "Your meaning, Madame?" Rohan said. He tried to maintain a cool and unruffled attitude. Best to learn what he could than to make an instant rejection.

  With a swirl of her garments, the woman seated herself. She flicked one finger, and a flagon of wine and two goblets appeared on a table near her reach. "Come, sit. Let me explain. But first, I will ask you a question. How would you like to have your small and untrained talents magnified? Shall we say, ten times over."

  "Certainly, anyone would say yes," Rohan returned cautiously. He accepted the goblet she filled, but did not drink. "What payment would such a bargain entail, my lady?"

  To that she made no answer but continued as if he had not posed a question in return. "I could increase your talents a hun-dredfold. The only thing you would have to do is to join me."

  Now she favored him with a look more than half veiled by thick eyelashes. The skin on the back of Rohan's neck began to tingle— not, he was convinced, because he desired this Sorceress; he had to admit to himself, he did. Rather, he sensed danger in her. He decided to present himself as being just a little stupid and had to stifle a smile at the thought that more than one thought this already.

  "I think not, my lady." He replaced the untasted goblet on the table. Not at all astounded, he saw it wink out as the Sorceress's sultry expression became one of sullen disappointment.

  "You are making a big mistake, you know," she said.

  "Lady, I know nothing of you, not even the name you pass by. Do I now guess, to amuse you? Perhaps you are in league with the Dowager. There are stories—"

  "Whom I may be in league with is not your concern, young Rohan."

  He changed the subject quickly. "Why did you find it necessary to explore my possessions?"

  "That also is none of your concern."

  "In that they are my personal belongings, such an action concerns me very much."

  The Sorceress's eyes glittered, as bright as gems. "Do not try to match me in talent," she said, "or even to dare question what I might or might not do."

  "Oh, I would never dream of such a thing. However, I can call the guard in the hallway and have you and your servant here removed from my quarters." Rohan was proud that he managed to smile. "I'm sure that in his present condition he will make a useful perch for the pigeons."

  The Sorceress frowned. "You certainly will not prosper, young sir. Obviously you prefer green fruit to ripe, and folly to wisdom. That little chit you seem enamored of is of no consequence. If only you knew about her. But no matter. It will not be long before you regret your decision, mark me well." She snapped her fingers. The frozen guard came to life abruptly. He took a step, and then another before he realized that the one he had been moving to attack was now in conversation with the Magician—for the one who commanded his service was again a man.

  "I believe now we have entered by misdirection the wrong quarters," the Magician said. "I apologize, young sir. Doubtless we shall meet again, under more pleasant circumstances."

  Rohan nodded. "Indeed, I look forward to that happy occasion. And so I wish you good day."

  The two were quickly gone with formal courtesy. Rohan rang for a servant to bring hot water for his bath. While he luxuriated in the steam and scrubbed the muck of the Bog from his skin, he tried to puzzle out just what had happened—and why. That had been too quick, and the Magician had been "vanquished" too easily.

  And what about that remark concerning Anamara? Many things he could not understand were left to puzzle him.

  Cebastian rapped on his door just as he was dressing for dinner. "Where have you been?
" he asked, a little sharply, when Rohan had let him in.

  "I have been in the middle of a strange story," Rohan said. As he pulled on his boots, he told his friend of the abduction and his near-murder, and how Grandam

  Zazar had brought him back by boat close enough that he could easily walk the rest of the way.

  "A strange story indeed," Cebastian agreed when Rohan had finished. "You are lucky to be able to call on the Wysen-wyf of the Bog in need."

  "I will introduce you, and others of our friends as well. She is inclined to be gruff, but I think she likes having members of younger generations around her now and then."