Mr. Jagst considered very carefully before he answered. "No, Lord Krogan, I am under the impression that I would not.
"But if not captain of the sloop Fancy's Fool—then who is this man, and how does he occupy himself when not lurking in the dark, championing nameless young women, and making horrid threats? His lordship, you said?"
Lord Krogan adjusted his wig. "Thought I told you his name before: 'twas Francis Love Skelbrooke, the Imbrian poet."
Two nights later, according to their agreement, "Captain Melville" returned to the Jewelbox to make the final arrangements. But when the servant ushered him into the attic room, he found Mr. Jagst awaiting him with a brace of pistols in his hands, and two rough-looking seamen flanking the door.
Hardly had the visitor expressed his surprise at this irregular reception, when one of the sailors pulled his arms behind him and bound them with a short length of rope.
"Good evening, Lord Skelbrooke," said Mr. Jagst. "It is so very kind of you to visit me, for it spared me the trouble of having you brought."
"Guess you've made some sort of a mistake," said the prisoner. "Don't reckon I know who you've taken me for, but—"
"Spare me these protests," said Mr. Jagst, "I am informed that the face you are wearing is in fact not your own. Having some experience in these matters, I am aware these spells can seldom be maintained when the magician is subjected to great pain or distress."
Though the evening was sultry, a small fire was smoking on the hearth. Mr. Jagst picked up a poker and thrust it into the heart of the flames. "Call it morbid curiosity if you will, but I have conceived a strong desire to see what you actually look like." He spoke curtly to the two sailors. "Remove his shoes and his stockings."
This, however, was only accomplished after a long and furious struggle. Yet eventually it was done, and Jagst's seagoing minions bound the still resisting prisoner to the chair, then tipped it back and held it in place.
By that time, the tip of the iron was glowing red. "I must say, you are very good at this. The mere prospect would be sufficient to make most men lose their concentration." Mr. Jagst moved in closer, poker in hand. "Almost . . . you have me convinced.''
The room filled with the stench of sizzling flesh, and the prisoner clenched his teeth against the pain. A cry of agony ripped out of him, and the spell slipped, revealing his own face, pale and anguished.
"Pointless heroics," said Mr. Jagst, as he removed the poker, and motioned the sailor to tip the chair forward, allowing his lordship to assume a more dignified position. "Did you really think your concentration would not fail you?"
"I thought I would try it," Francis Skelbrooke replied, as steadily as he could.
Mr. Jagst regarded him briefly. "You were obviously sent here in order to spy on me. But who sent you? Will it be necessary for me to apply the poker again, or will you tell me who you are working for?"
"It won't be necessary at all," said Skelbrooke. Beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. "I work for no one and nobody sent me. I am an adventurer and an inveterate meddler." He managed a weak smile. "I do these things to obtain a thrill. But I feel that I have had quite enough excitement for one evening, and I would be obliged if you would allow me to depart."
"Though you are a trifle eager to provide this information, nevertheless I am inclined to believe you. It is in line," said Jagst, "with what I have already learned about you. But of course I cannot possibly allow you to go, at least, not in the way that I suppose you mean."
He paused, as if waiting for Skelbrooke to ask for further enlightenment, but his lordship was silent, not giving him the satisfaction.
Mr. Jagst smiled broadly and told him, anyway. "I am informed, Lord Skelbrooke, that you are something of a poet. For that reason, I have an idea that you will appreciate the poetic irony of your fate. There is a ship sailing for Ynde with the morning tide. You will be on that ship, part of the consignment I have promised to traders in the East.
"You are a very pretty fellow," Mr. Jagst added, shaking his head. "And a few years past, would have certainly found favor with our eastern clients, but you are just a bit old now, to serve as a catamite. No, it seems more likely you will end up as a eunuch in a harem . . . a turn of events which our friend Lord Krogan would surely appreciate."
Skelbrooke awoke with an aching head and his left foot still agonizingly on fire. He lay in a dim, rolling place, on a bed of straw, the only light a few pale beams that came in through an over-head grating about a dozen yards away.
With an effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting position. Though his head spun after the crack it had received before leaving the Jewelbox, he knew that was not the cause of the rolling motion or the vibration. He was in the hold of a ship. He heard the slap of waves against the hull and guessed that the vibration came from a mast overhead. Jagst had made good on the first part of his threat, and Lord Skelbrooke was on his way to Ynde.
The straw that made up his bed was damp, and the hold reeked of bilge and other, less immediately identifiable, odors. He wrinkled his nose distastefully. Somewhere, not very far off, he could hear chickens clucking and pigs grunting.
"Had a lovely sleep, did you?" said a voice in the darkness. A shadowy figure near the grating moved his way, and his lordship could just make out the features of one of the sailors from the brothel. "Must of been a good one—you was out all last night and most of today. Was a time there, we thought you was a dead 'un."
"Thank you," said Skelbrooke, between his teeth. "I believe I am tolerably well rested. But it seems that no one has bandaged my foot, or returned my stockings or my boots. I wonder: is there a chirurgeon on board this ship?"
The sailor hooted derisively. "You're a high and mighty one, demanding to see a doctor."
"I assume . . ." said Skelbrooke, with a great effort, "that as I am still alive, I am accounted of some value. That value will be substantially diminished if this wound goes bad and I lose the foot."
The sailor shrugged. "That may be. You're a sharp one you are. But we ain't got no doctor. I could send the quartermaster down. He usually sees to them things, but I warn you: his hand's inclined to be a bit shaky when he's using the knife."
At the word "knife" Skelbrooke flinched. "Never mind, then, I thank you."
There were manacles on his wrists, joined together by a stout chain, which was joined to a longer chain and fastened to a beam by an iron ring. He leaned against the beam for support. "I have some training as a physician, and would prefer to treat myself. Could you possibly provide me with a length of clean cloth, and whatever salves and medicaments the quartermaster is accustomed to use?"
The sailor thought that over, then he shrugged again. "That’s for the First Mate to say. Right now, I brung your breakfast." He deposited a mug, a bowl, and a piece of biscuit down on the damp straw.
Skelbrooke shook his head wearily. The motion of the ship did not much bother him, but the pain in his head, and especially the throbbing torment of his foot, made his stomach feel weak. He closed his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts. His situation could hardly be worse. He was on his way to a fate which did not bear thinking about, and he had no idea how to save himself.
"You don't eat it now, the rats'll get it," said the sailor. He moved back through the shadows in the direction of the light. "You might want to keep them weak and feeble-like. They get too big, they might eat you alive."
On consideration, his lordship decided he might try the food. He opened his eyes and examined what the sailor offered him. The mug was half full of water—fortunately fresh—the bowl contained the burned scrapings from the bottom of a stewpot. The biscuit smelled so vile and tasted so unwholesome, he immediately spat out the first mouthful.
Yet if he was going to find a way to win his freedom and avoid castration, he would require all his resources of mind and body. With a grim resolution, he ate the stew and swallowed the water. Neither sat well on his stomach.
CHAPTER 31
Contain
ing a great deal of Conversation.
The gardens at the Wichtelberg boasted few flowers, for they had been originally designed by dwarves. Follies, pavilions, and gazebos there were in plenty,; fountains, reflecting pools, and tiny meandering streams. There was an occasional expanse of green lawn checkered with stone pathways, and a number of sculptured hedges; such flowers as there were had been rooted in marble urns. These were gardens of water and stone, not gardens devoted to growing things.
To explore the grounds of the Wichtelberg took Sera and Elsie several days. The gardens, alone, were as full of surprises as they were of stone. To one side of the mansion, opposite the lake, there was an enormous iron cage, dome-shaped and arising about two stories, which served as an aviary, where Sebastian the indigo ape was allowed to run free. Beyond that there was brief expanse of manicured turf, and then a sort of orchard, with statues of onyx and green bronze serving in place of fruit trees.
By starting at the lake and moving upstream along the brook which fed it, the girls arrived at the entrance of a cave, which led them to a vast, torch-lit grotto under the house, and a complex of underground waterways. From the grotto, a long flight of damp stone steps led back up to the interior of the mansion.
There was also the wood begging to be explored (it yielded a little ruined chapel), and farther on an open meadow. The girls took long morning walks, then spent the hot afternoons with the Duchess and her gentlemen guests in the cool marble salons of the mansion, or picnicking in the gardens in the shade of the house.
Elsie was flourishing, so full of energy and good spirits, Sera could hardly believe she was the same girl who had been a pale and nervous invalid only weeks before. Whether it was the country air, or the Jarl's magnetic treatments, or merely this respite from the ministrations of her other physicians, remained to be seen, but however it came about, Elsie grew in strength and vigor with every passing day.
As for Sera: her attitude more nearly approached resignation. Though pleased by Elsie's progress, she was not certain she trusted these changes. Besides, Jarl Skogsrå was always so much in evidence, up at the house and in the gardens, tending to monopolize Elsie's time and attention. It pained Sera to see the attachment growing between her cousin and the Jarl, but she had long since voiced all her objections and now found herself without anything new to say.
About ten days after their arrival, deciding that her houseguests were growing a little stale of each other's company, the Duchess arranged a more elaborate al fresco luncheon in the gardens, and invited the country gentry.
It was a fine day, and the Duke's neighbors arrived in great numbers, to feast on crab cakes and lobster patties; lark's tongues and boiled snails; whole roasted peacock and swans; cold soup flavored with fennel; pastries, cakes, chantillies, and fruit ices; along with an assortment of the candied flowers which the Duchess served on every occasion.
It apparently served the Duchess's whim to bring Sera into fashion; accordingly, she kept Sera by her and took pains to introduce her "dear Miss Vorder" to each of her afternoon guests.
Distracted by these attentions, Sera failed to keep a close eye on Elsie, with the result that the two girls did not speak together until late in the afternoon, when Sera was horrified to discover her cousin drinking a second (or was it a third?) glass of sweet wine.
"My dear, what are you doing? Your head will ache and you will be miserable all evening."
"I never have headaches anymore!" said Elsie, with a defiant toss of her head. "I wish you wouldn't fuss so, Sera. You've grown quite as bad as Mama!" And she strolled off on Jarl Skogsrå's arm, taking the wine-glass with her.
Sera was speechless. She had always regarded herself as Elsie's champion, the one who encouraged her to lead as normal a life as possible. To be told that she fussed—worse, to be compared with Clothilde Vorder and her odious smothering attentions—that was a new and unpleasant experience.
"Miss Vorder, you look uncommonly warm. May I bring you a glass of lemonade?" said a voice behind her. Turning, Sera found Hermes Budge watching her with a sympathetic look in his calm brown eyes.
"Mr. Budge," she asked bluntly, "do you think me overprotective of my cousin Elsie?"
"I do not," said Mr. Budge. "But surely my opinion is of little account, and it is what Miss Elsie herself thinks that ought to concern you."
Sera bit her lip. "You advise me, then, to hold my tongue and allow my cousin to make her own mistakes?"
Mr. Budge permitted himself a faint smile. "Madam, acquit me! I would never say anything so rude. But if I cannot convince you to drink some lemonade, perhaps you will consent to walk with me as far as the aviary."'
"Perhaps I will," said Sera, accepting his offer of an arm to lean on. There was something reassuring about the tutor, so solemn, so sensible, so wholesome. Though he was years older and immeasurably better educated, he reminded her strongly of Jedidiah.
"Mr. Budge," said Sera, "you are an educated man and—I believe—well traveled." The tutor bowed an acknowledgement. "I wonder if you might answer a question which has been puzzling me of late?"
Mr. Budge bowed again. "It has recently been brought to my attention—I believe that I knew it once, but had somehow forgotten," said Sera, "that the system of inheritance in foreign countries is not the same as it is here in Waldermark. For instance, Lord Vodni informs me that it is the custom in Ruska for all the sons of a nobleman to inherit his title, though only the eldest inherits his estate. Would you—would you happen to know if a similar custom pertains in Nordmark?"
Mr. Budge shook his head. "No, I believe that inheritance in Nordmark descends exactly as it does here, and indeed in my native Imbria as well. A titled Nordic gentleman—let us suppose him a jarl—might well be short of ready cash, but he would almost certainly own a house and land—perhaps some heirloom jewelry—which he had inherited along with the title but was forbidden to sell."
Sera could not repress a sigh of disappointment. Cousin Clothilde was such a snob that even an encumbered estate, when coupled with a title, would undoubtedly be enough to satisfy her. After all, Elsie had no need to marry for money, but a grand house and the rank of Countess might serve to gratify her mother's ambitions.
"You would prefer it otherwise," said Mr. Budge. "I must presume that the gentleman in question is Jarl Skogsrå, whom you wish to think impoverished and a fortune-hunter."
Sera blushed. Were her motives truly that transparent, or was Budge merely uncomfortably clever? "If Elsie were your cousin, would you wish her to marry a man so vain and selfish as Jarl Skogsrå?"
Mr. Budge, who was generally a thoughtful man, answered promptly. "No, I would not. Believe me, Miss Vorder, I am entirely sympathetic. Your cousin appears to blind herself to those faults in the Jarl which to you and me appear so evident. Therefore, you wish to produce something more substantial against him. We both know that a well-born bachelor may maintain himself in fine style, passing himself off as a man of wealth as well as rank, living on credit for a long time before the tradesmen he frequents become too demanding and his poverty becomes evident to all. Indeed, it may well be so with Jarl Skogsrå."
"Yes," said Sera. "But even so . . . a house and land, you said, which he could not have sold or gambled away, no matter how profligate his style of living, because of the entail—"
"Excuse me," said Mr. Budge, "but have you never considered that the title itself, and therefore any accompanying inheritance, might be a sham? Many hundreds of miles lie between Thornburg and Nordmark, and Jarl Skogsrå would not be the first foreigner to maintain an imposture for the space of many seasons."
Sera took a deep breath. No, this had never occurred to her, but it sounded plausible, entirely plausible. "Have you, Mr. Budge, reason to believe that the Jarl is not what he claims to be, but a penniless adventurer instead?"
"No," said the tutor. "I have no just cause to think so. Like yourself, I merely wish to consider Lord Skogsrå an imposter. Nevertheless, some careful inquiries might yield g
ratifying results."
They passed the aviary and moved on in the direction of the statue orchard. "Yes, perhaps," said Sera. "But as you said: Nordmark is such a great distance away, and I know no one, no one who has ever even been there, except for Lord Skogsrå himself. I would not even know where or how to begin to make those discreet inquiries."
"Then allow me to assist you," said Budge. "I do have a friend in Nordmark, a fellow student from my days at the university, now serving as a language professor in Ghyll. And another friend, now that I come to think of it, who spent two years in Katrinsberg, which as you may know lies on the border between Ruska and Nordmark. Were I to write to these old school-fellows of mine, we might learn something to Miss Elsie's advantage."
They walked on in silence for some time after that. "Mr. Budge," Sera said at last, "you are very obliging. I scarcely know how to thank you."
"Not at all," said Budge. "I am happy to assist you. And after all, it is no great thing for me to write to my friends.
"I must confess," he added, "that I do not like the Jarl any better than you do. There is something in his presence—I cannot put a name to it—which invariably causes my skin to crawl."
Sera stopped and stared at him. "My dear sir, do you actually believe in intuition?"
The tutor inclined his head. "I do, Miss Vorder, most emphatically. Do I suffer in your opinion on that account?"
Sera hardly knew what to think. "You are so wise and sensible, sir, and your education so superior, I cannot help but wonder—seeing that we are so totally in disagreement on this one issue—if my own views on the matter might possibly require revision."
They had circled the orchard and were heading back toward the gardens, when Sera chanced to catch sight of Elsie. Pale and trembling, Elsie was obviously in the grip of another attack of panic—her first since leaving Thornburg.
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