Baron Endbrook wondered if some policy maker in King Tedric's court had put out the word that the singers should make clear that the princess was no longer under her mother's control. That was possible, but it was equally probable that the minstrels simply knew a good story when they heard it.
Fear of the magical arts and of those who used them to control their vassals were a long-standing tradition—and was why Waln himself was being so careful to hide from any but his accomplice the real reason for his journey.
Dragging the saddlebags under the table where he could prison them between his knees, Waln accepted the mug of cider a pigeon-chested serving woman brought to him.
"Your sister," the woman added, "ordered soup and joint, bread and cheese, and a savory to follow. Do you wish to add anything?"
"What's the soup?" he asked.
"Bean and bacon," she said, "and thick enough for a meal itself."
"Sounds wonderful," Waln said. He didn't bother to ask about his room, knowing that Melina, in her role as his sister, would have arranged for it. "Just a mug of ale with the meal then."
The serving woman nodded. "This year's brewing won at the local harvest-fest. You'll be pleased."
She swept off with such self-importance that Waln promoted her from servant to owner. Citrine was staring at him with such wide eyes that he felt uncomfortable and turned his attention to her placidly knitting mother.
"Gloves?" he asked.
"That's right," Lady Melina replied with a brief smile. "I expect to be grateful for extra pairs before this winter is ended."
"True enough," he said.
"Uncle?" Citrine interrupted with a sudden burst of familiarity. "Let me come with you!"
Waln shook his head, but he felt an unexpected lump in his throat. Citrine wasn't far apart in age from his own girls and denying her reminded him of their tears when his last homecoming had been cut short almost before it had begun.
"I'm sorry, sweet," he said, "but this isn't traveling weather for a little thing like you. You'll like where you're staying."
Citrine pouted slightly, but she didn't complain further. The rapid glance she cast in her mother's direction held enough apprehension that Waln realized that this had been the last feint in an ongoing battle and that Citrine had risked punishment to defy her mother's wishes.
Their conversation over dinner was casual, mostly about the various journeys to this point. After dinner, they retired early in anticipation of the morning's departure.
Shortly after dawn, fortified by an astonishingly substantial oat porridge, they took to the road. Waln was pleased with the quality of the horses he had purchased, and the wagon moved as smoothly as could be hoped.
Lady Melina had decided against bringing any servants for either herself or her daughter, so Fox Driver was their only attendant. He drove with the reins lightly in his hands, half-dozing once the horses worked off their early energy. Citrine sat in a padded nest among the crates, well protected from the cold, and played some game with her dolls.
After leaving the post-house, they traveled north for a ways, then bore east. This route forced them to retrace some distance and to leave the best roads, but was necessary in order to go toward the swamps rather than into Port Haven.
The post-house that had served as their rendezvous point the evening before had been chosen since it was about a day from their eventual destination. No mishaps delayed them, and by late afternoon Waln imagined that a certain dampness in the air proclaimed their proximity to the swamps. By evening they had come to a house Waln had visited but the day before.
It stood back from the road atop a hill that the tired horses labored to climb. Nor was it the most inviting of destinations. Although built after the fashion of many a farmhouse—peaked roof, wooden siding, and square windows—it looked ominous in the twilight.
The paint was peeling, and dried leaves swirled in gusts of wind beneath bare poplars. Summer's flowers stood stark and twisted where the frost had killed them, and the hedges bordering the reaped fields were untrimmed; the shoots of summer growth rattled in the wind. Shutters were sealed so tightly over the windows that not one glimmer of light shone out. Only the sluggish smoke from the chimney testified that anyone was in residence—the word "home" could never be applied to such a dwelling.
As Waln's party slowed, a pack of brown-and-white hounds loped toward them, seemingly out of nowhere baying a fierce mixture of defiance and warning. Coming as it seemed from out of the gathering dusk, the hounds seemed supernatural rather than the rather ordinary dogs they were.
Citrine squealed in shock and fear. Normally laconic Fox Driver hastily drew his feet back onto the running board. Even the horses, tired as they were from a long day's haul, stamped their hooves.
Lady Melina remained as calm as could be, circling her giddy mare away from the hounds with a firm hand on the rein.
Waln, having the advantage of the rest, and knowing that they were watched from within, forced his own mount to the door of the house. Leaning from the saddle, he rapped on it with the base of his riding crop.
"Rain riders," he called, speaking the prearranged phrase loudly, "seeking shelter for the night."
"Tonight is wet," replied a muffled voice from within.
The words were incongruous, for though the gathering night was cold, the sky was clear as could be. Waln heard a bolt being shot back, though the door did not yet open.
"Wet indeed," Waln agreed, offering the countersign, "though I can see the stars."
The door opened promptly then and several hooded figures hurried out. Two took charge of the wagon and of Driver, another of Citrine. A fourth helped Lady Melina from her saddle, then stood by while Baron Endbrook removed his saddlebags.
"I have all I need in these,". Waln told to the shadowy face beneath the hood. "You'll find the ladies' overnight bag at the back of the wagon."
"We'll bring it in," a male voice replied, "once the mounts are under cover."
Transfer of horses and wagon was accomplished in so little time that Waln had no doubt this routine—or some form of it—was a familiar drill. He did not delay his own steps, but walked through the front door into the seeming farmhouse.
"We've brought the girl," he said once the door was firmly closed behind him, "and plan to leave in the early morning."
Citrine, thinking that this was where she was to winter, burst into sudden panicked tears. Waln felt the purest hypocrite as he patted her head.
Poor little thing, he thought. I wonder how she'll feel when she sees Smuggler's Light?
The man Waln had addressed had shoved his hood back as soon as they were inside. He was a tall, lank figure whose clothing hung loosely from his bony frame. His features were simply but efficiently concealed behind a kerchief tied over the bridge of his nose and hanging over his lower face.
Catching sight of him, Citrine's tears turned to howls of terror.
The wind howled in return, shaking the wooden farmhouse and banging at the fastened shutters as if trying to get inside.
"How nice," Lady Melina said politely to their host, "to be inside out of the rain."
BOOK TWO
Chapter XVIII
By the night of the twenty-sixth of boar moon, Baron Endbrook and Lady Melina were a half-day's ride from Plum Orchard, the town on the White Water River from which they planned to cross over into New Kelvin.
Their route had been fairly direct once they left the rendezvous with the smugglers. They had joined up with a road that led between Plum Orchard and the royal post-road. Since Plum Orchard was the major crossing point between the nations—the others, farther west, were less convenient to Port Haven—the road was well maintained, and despite the wagon's slower pace they made reasonable time.
The weather was flowing in that mysterious and subtle transition which carries autumn into winter. Most of the trees were leafless and those that still bore foliage sported rags of greyish brown rather than the flamboyant scarlets, yellows, and
oranges that represent the vegetable world's last desperate declaration of life. The days that were not overcast hosted a sharp, biting wind beneath a clear blue sky that made Waln wish for the dull grey days—even with their threat of rain.
Now that their party was reduced to three, Baron Endbrook became more intimately acquainted with Lady Melina. Although she maintained all of her ladylike airs with Fox, she softened toward Warn. Several times a day she mounted the serviceable dapple grey Waln had purchased for her and rode alongside him. At these times she would chat lightly and pleasantly, telling tales of her childhood or the court. Despite the subject matter, Waln felt she was talking with him as equal to equal. A time or two he even thought she might be flirting with him.
When she did not ride, Lady Melina retired to the back of the wagon, where, seated on a heap of bedding that did something to absorb the jolts of the road, she buried her attention in several books she had packed along from Eagle's Nest.
When she took up these studies she was so absorbed in her own world that she noticed nothing else. Several times Fox Driver had needed to warn her to get into cover when rain began to fall—a thing he never failed to do after she had viciously scolded him when a few raindrops plopped onto the printed pages.
Before too many days had passed, Waln learned that Lady Melina's books—which at first he had superstitiously shied away from as potential treatises on magic—were nothing so exotic. They were merely writings on New Kelvinese language and culture.
New Kelvin had not been colonized by the same Old Country that had founded Gildcrest—the original colony of which Bright Bay and Hawk Haven were halves and the Isles a sprig. Waln supposed, given their destination's name, that the founding nation must have been named Kelvin.
Whatever the truth of that matter, the language spoken by the New Kelvinese was quite peculiar. Waln had learned enough to respond to common greetings, to offer thanks, and to ask very simple directions, but even this sparse knowledge had been enough to convince him that he did not care to invest more of his time in that direction.
New Kelvinese was full of round sounds ending in "a" or "o," of drippingly liquid polysyllables, and sharply accented phrases. It was—so he had been told—a language that turned even the simplest request into poetry, a language filled with idiom and allusion, not a language that was inviting to a plain-spoken merchant sailor like himself.
Lady Melina, however, seemed obsessed with it. When she wasn't poring over her texts, memorizing rules of grammar and form, she was laboring over volumes of poetry or drama. Even on horseback she did not abandon her studies. Several times when Waln had ridden up alongside her, he had heard her chanting rhythmic phrases. When questioned, Lady Melina had explained that these were parts of poems.
A few she had recited for him in all their musical fullness, but when he had asked her to translate she had refused with a giggle that was definitely coquettish.
Apparently, Lady Melina told him, a common entertainment among the better classes of New Kelvinese was poetry recitation. Another was a game that involved one person reciting a line from a poem or play—and not necessarily from the opening—and then challenging the rest of the group to continue the piece from that point.
For Baron Endbrook, whose idea of a pleasant social occasion involved dancing or perhaps drinking and telling sea stories, this sounded impossibly dull. Lady Melina, however, seemed to be looking forward to joining in on at least some of these socials.
He wondered—after a particularly long recitation after which she colored and glanced up at him through her lashes—if she was contemplating other entertainments as well. He found himself restlessly anticipating the day when they would have some privacy from Fox. He had married Oralia after he had given up a sailor's life, and his mother's profession had made him feel nothing but revulsion for those women who sold themselves.
Lady Melina was different from these. She was a born noblewoman—not one newly promoted to title, like his wife. Though he despised himself as a snob, Waln realized that Lady Melina's rank drew him almost as much as her personal charms. And he realized with a mixture of guilt and almost painful desire that she could tempt him into infidelity where no other woman could.
Occasionally, Lady Melina put her grammars aside and studied instead a book illustrated with colored woodblock prints of some of the designs the author/artist—a silk merchant from Eagle's Nest—had observed in his travels. The author also offered his conjectures as to the significance of the designs and of the manner (painted or tattooed) that they were applied.
Discovering her fascination with these, Baron Endbrook spent an evening or two looking at the paintings with Lady Melina while she peppered him with questions regarding which designs he himself had seen. Since his hosts had seemed one chaotic swirl of color, Waln was less helpful than she had hoped, but under her persistent questioning he was able to remember enough to satisfy her.
"If the author is correct in his conjectures," Lady Melina said, almost reverently shutting the book after one of these sessions, "and you are correct in your remembering," she added with what he took for affectionate severity, "then it is likely that those who interviewed you were representatives of the same group, but whether that group corresponds more closely to one of our Great Houses or to a Society is uncertain. The author has failed to ascertain even such a basic point."
"How," asked Waln, "do you figure that they are all members of the same group?"
"Several times you have mentioned the use of a tight spiral design," she said, sketching the representative pattern on the back of his hand with the tip of one finger. "This seems to be one of the signature designs. Significant, too, is the predominance of the color orange in the paint near the eyes."
Waln nodded, only partly convinced and very distracted.
"There's an awful lot of color all of them seem to wear," he cautioned.
"And doubtless it seems applied without rhyme or reason to the untutored eye," she replied severely, "but my sources indicate that to the knowledgeable they are as distinct as, say, types of ships would be to a sailor."
Waln didn't care to argue, that not being his job. Nor did he wish to alienate Lady Melina, not when they were growing so comfortable together, not when they were nearing a town where they might stay at an inn with the luxury of private rooms.
No. Most certainly he did not wish to alienate her now.
His parents had named him Grateful Peace—perhaps their wistful ensorcellment that he might be a quiet child. Their previous three, he learned when he grew older, had all been loud, screaming infants who refused to sleep through the night.
Whether or not the ensorcellment had taken, Peace, as he had been more usually called—though his eldest sister tormented him with the name Grey Pee—had indeed been a quiet child. Bookish and solemn, he had roamed through his earliest childhood in a nearsighted haze.
When Peace was five, his father had been promoted to full scribe at the Scriptorium. This new prosperity had meant that he could at last afford a pair of spectacles for his youngest son. These precious ground-glass lenses had revealed miracles to the boy. For the first time he saw mountaintops and the intricate lacework of tree branches. He reveled in the majesty of cloud formations and the mystery of the distant horizon, but even after they had become memory those early years left their mark.
Grateful Peace could never forget what it had been like to dwell within the private island of his myopia. Indeed, each day when he put the spectacles aside for sleep he was reminded afresh. Raindrops or the sudden cold that misted his lenses reduced his sight once more. From an early age he resolved to become wealthy, for to slide back into the near poverty of his childhood would mean that he might also slip again into near blindness.
Ironically, it was his myopia that opened the way to wealth and influence for him. The same weakness in Peace's eyes that made the distance a blur made it possible for him to focus closely without difficulty, nor did he suffer the headaches that plagued others w
hen they worked up close for overlong.
Peace's father was a scribe, his mother an illustrator—perhaps one reason they both believed so strongly in the magic of written things such as words.
Before Peace was seven they trusted him with their brushes and inks. By the time he was ten, his mother let him do his own makeup. By the time he was twelve, she was requesting he touch up his siblings' work—earning their resentment.
At the age when most children of his class were being apprenticed, Peace was already acknowledged a master in the basic crafts of writing and painting. Rumor of his skills came to the ears of the Illuminators—those revered mystics who were trusted with transcribing the treasured records of the past. His apprenticeship into their class promoted him forever beyond his family and guaranteed that he would never want for any basic need.
Grateful Peace missed his parents when he moved from their home into the many-windowed palace of the Illuminators. He did not, however, miss his siblings. They had resented how their parents favored him and had made his life such a misery of small torments that the punishments promised for the afterlife—even the fabled torture of living pictures—seemed less terrible.
When he was twenty-five, Grateful Peace was tattooed as full Illuminator. He was given apprentices of his own, servants, and a suite in the palace. At thirty, he married a pretty young woman who had been his apprentice.
Chutia was not as talented as her husband. Indeed, she had never risen above the ranks of a junior Illuminator. However, she possessed a capacity for joy and a wealth of compassion that made her company a never-ending delight.
She died when Peace was thirty-five, taking their unborn twins with her into the Enchanted Paradise. He vowed never to marry again and tattooed his vow across the bridge of his nose so that none could doubt his resolve.
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