Westmark

by Lloyd Alexander

  Dr. Torrens had word of it within the hour. He burst into the royal apartments unsummoned, unannounced. The king, pale and shaking, slumped in his chair. Cabbarus sprang to defend the patient against his doctor.

  "You have no business here," declared Cabbarus, holding off the angry Torrens. "His Majesty is suffering." Torrens addressed himself bluntly to Augustine.

  "Sire, I have warned you against the consequences of dealing with these charlatans. As your physician, I insist-"

  "You shall insist upon nothing," broke in Cabbarus. "The tender emotions of a bereaved father, indeed of a royal father, do not fall within your competence."

  "Grief is not only the privilege of kings," said Torrens, disregarding the chief minister. "We all have a right to it. But enough is enough. Your Majesty has made progress. I will not see my work destroyed by quackery."

  "If your work can be destroyed so easily," said Cabbarus, "then your methods, Doctor, are ineffective to begin with. His Majesty has been disappointed, for one simple reason. The inducements have not been sufficient to attract those of highest ability. We have agreed-is that not correct, Your Highness? to offer a more substantial sum. The individual who enables His Majesty to communicate with the late princess will receive the highest reward."

  "Call it bait," replied Torrens. "Every knave in the kingdom will try for it. The greater the sum, the greater the knave. As you, Chief Minister, appreciate better than anyone. Sire, have you agreed to this?"

  King Augustine's lips moved, but the words were too faint to be heard. "His Majesty says he fully agrees," declared Cabbarus. "He desires to speak with you no further."

  Dr. Torrens was not famous in the Juliana for sparing anyone the rough side of his tongue, but he said with unusual gentleness, "Majesty, none of us knows what lies beyond the tomb. I can only tell you this: Death is not unfamiliar to me. I have seen more of it than I wish. Disease, accident-the forms are different, the end is the same. What befalls us afterward is a mystery. Death is a fact. Forgive me, Sire, if I wound you, but the princess is dead. Unless you accept that simple fact, you will be prey to every false hope."

  Augustine's face twisted in anguish. "No! She will return!"

  "Majesty, I must forbid any further exertion in these useless-"

  "You will forbid nothing!" cried Cabbarus. "Do you dare stand between a father and his daughter?"

  "Yes!" flung back Torrens. "Yes! By heaven, Cabbarus, I shall do all in my power to end this folly."

  "Your Highness, do you hear the fellow?" Cabbarus recoiled in shock and indignation. "The truth at last! He admits it. He works against you. A loyal subject would seek only to reunite you and the princess, how ever briefly. What, then, are we to think of one who desires the opposite?"

  Cabbarus stretched out an accusing finger at the court physician. "You have gone too far. You are dismissed from His Majesty's service. Banished from the kingdom. Return at your peril, under pain of death. Be grateful your punishment is so light."

  "These are your words, not the king's. You have done your best to make a puppet of him, and have done all too well." The court physician was a vigorous man with the arms and shoulders of a peasant. He pushed Cabbarus aside and dropped to one knee be fore Augustine.

  "I beg you, Sire, listen to me. You risk your life and sanity for no purpose. This villain puts words in your mouth. Speak for yourself." Augustine's lips trembled, but the words were clear.

  "We banish you. Set foot again in our kingdom and your life is forfeit. Such is our Royal Will." Torrens drew back as if the king had struck him. Cabbarus folded his arms. "I would say, Dr. Torrens, you have been answered."

  There was, as the chief minister had long observed, a noose to fit every neck. The court physician had found his with very little guidance. It had been easier than Cabbarus expected.

  In his apartments, Dr. Torrens finished packing a few surgical instruments and personal belongings he would carry with him. He turned at the sound of his door opening. It was Queen Caroline.

  If the court physician was surprised to see her in his quarters, he was more concerned to see her so distraught. It was not the queen's custom to give way to visible emotion, but all her will could not keep her hands from trembling. Dr. Torrens bowed and gave a wry smile of apology for the disordered chamber.

  "As you gather, Madam, I have been obliged to deal with the inconveniences of a hasty departure. The chief minister has already prepared a warrant for my execution. He has the satisfaction of seeing me exiled. I prefer not to give him the pleasure of seeing me hanged."

  "I feared you had left the palace," Queen Caroline said. "This is despicable. Even a common criminal is granted more time to set his affairs in order."

  Torrens laughed. "To Cabbarus I am a most uncommon criminal. I spoke the truth to His Majesty. In any case, I would not have gone without taking leave of you and explaining my side of it. Cabbarus will no doubt spread his own version."

  "He has done so, and of course I did not believe it. I went immediately to the king. He refused to see me. I was unable to help you. Thus His Majesty loses his strongest friend."

  "Not altogether."

  "How not? Most of the ministers do as Cabbarus orders, the rest hold their tongues. When you go, the king's one strength goes with you. Cabbarus has played his hand cleverly."

  "A scoundrel is no more clever than an honest man; he only works harder at it. He has not won all the stakes."

  The queen gave him a questioning look. Dr. Torrens went on. "My baggage will soon be taken to the port. I have ordered inquiries made of vessels ready to sail; the more remote their destination, the better."

  "Must you go so far? There are closer kingdoms where you would be safe."

  "I spoke of my baggage, not myself. I do not intend leaving Westmark. I shall try to send you word as often as I can. It may not always be possible. If you hear nothing from me, assume the best. Or the worst. In either case, do not lose heart. You and His Majesty have yet another strength. I will seek it out and do all I can to nourish it. In time, it may prove the strongest. I speak, Madam, of the people of Westmark."

  "Our subjects? But how, then-"

  "I said 'people,' Madam.. They are your subjects through affection and loyalty. They are people in their own right. I believe most understand that Cabbarus, not the monarchy, is to blame for the injustices, the punishments, indeed the whole sorry state of the kingdom. I hope to find those who will rally to your side against him."

  "You expect much from commoners," said the queen. "I do," said Torrens. He smiled. "Being one of them myself."

  It was close to midnight when Dr. Torrens finished his preparations and the hired wagon arrived to carry his baggage to the port. He traveled ahead in an open coach with all lamps lit, loudly declaring that he wished to be driven to the waterfront. He kept only the small bag with him. He had resigned himself to sacrificing his other belongings.

  At the quayside, he entered a seafarer's inn where his inquiries had been received. There he met the master of an outward-bound merchantman and struck a bargain with him to be taken on as a passenger. He paid openly in gold and requested the captain to have his luggage immediately stowed on board. He asked about the tides, the hour the vessel would sail, and the length of the voyage. He demanded assurance that his cabin would be comfortable. He did not say he had no intention of occupying it.

  This business concluded within earshot of all the company, Dr. Torrens settled himself at a table and called for a bottle of wine. He drank hardly a glass before telling his host that he would return momentarily and to keep an eye on the bottle, which he would attend to when he came back.

  He left the inn and strode briskly along the docks. By now he had singled out the spy he knew Cabbarus would send: a seaman in canvas slops and a grimy jacket. The man was dressed as roughly as any common sailor; he was, however, the only one in the room without dirt or tar under his fingernails.

  The doctor's plan was not to avoid the eyes of the chief minister'
s agent but, on the contrary, to make sure the man saw him. The fellow, of course, would keep him under scrutiny until Torrens was aboard. Just before setting foot on the gangplank, Torrens would make a show of having forgotten his bottle at the inn. He would turn, go back, then suddenly lose himself in one of the alleyways. With luck, he would have a few moments head start before his observer realized he had vanished. Torrens calculated in advance the most suitable unlit alley.

  The sailor was following too closely. The man was incompetent if he thought to go unnoticed. It was all Torrens could do to pretend not to see him. The man was at his heels. Torrens halted, reckoning no other course but to confront him. The man held a knife. Torrens, too late, realized he had done what he had never done in his medical practice. He had overlooked the obvious. He expected a spy. He had not counted on an assassin.

  10

  They reached Felden by midafternoon. Las Bombas judged the town would suit them perfectly.

  "It's big enough," he said as they halted in the market square, "to have gentry with money in their pockets, and small enough so they won't be too critical. An excellent place for the Oracle Priestess to learn the business. Then, on to greater fame and fortune."

  Las Bombas had pinned a number of royal honors and medals to his uniform, unidentifiable but unmistakably noble. Thus decked out, he strode into the largest lodging house and demanded the best suite of furnished apartments. The landlord, too dazzled and flattered to dare bring up the question of advance payment, hurried to show the count the most elegant he could offer. The rooms, on the second floor, had been occupied by a dancing master. The main salon, spacious and high-ceilinged, attracted Las Bombas immediately. He hired the apartments then and there.

  Seeing Friska comfortably stabled, the count and Musket went off to survey the town and post the signboard where it would best catch the public eye. Theo, having unpacked the count's gear, was left to his own devices. He had never set foot in such luxurious quarters; nor, he was sure, had Mickle. But the girl only glanced at the ornaments, remarking that Hanno would have found little worth stealing.

  As if that settled the matter, she lost interest in exploring and flung herself onto the sofa, her legs outstretched, feet on an end table. Before entering Felden, Theo had persuaded her to make at least a token effort at washing at a stream side. Las Bombas had given her the Trebizonian costume, which suited her scarcely better than it had suited Theo.

  The girl had barely spoken to him since leaving Born. Why he found this both painful and aggravating, he did not know. To pass the time, he rummaged in the count's oddments and found clean paper and a charcoal stick. He went to the casement, thinking to sketch the marketplace for his own amusement. His attention wandered. His eyes returned continually to Mickle. He began what he expected to be a quick portrait of her. Though he had learned to draw as easily as he lettered, the closer he studied Mickle the more difficult she became. He tore up the paper and started again.

  Mickle spoiled his new attempt by jumping up. Whatever had caused her to ignore him, her curiosity got the better of her.

  "Is that supposed to be me?" She peered over his shoulder and made a face.

  "Supposed to be. But it isn't." Theo felt he was blushing, but there was nothing he could do about it. "I can't make you pretty-"

  Mickle tossed her head. "Didn't ask you to."

  "No, I mean it's more than that. One minute, you look like a scared little bird, and the next as if you could stand up to Cabbarus himself. You say you didn't cry when your friend got hanged, but you cry in your sleep and don't remember it. Sometimes you look as though butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, then you swear like a dragoon, smoke like a chimney. The count called you a genius, and you can't read or write. I can't catch all that on paper. I don't know what you are."

  "That's all right." Mickle grinned at last. "I don't know what you are, either. The count's a rascal, that's plain as a pikestaff. Thumbling's a good fellow. But I don't see how you came to take up with them."

  Theo hesitated. He felt a sudden urge to tell the girl what had happened to him and an equal unwillingness to admit anything at all. Before he could decide which to follow, the provisioner's errand boy hauled in a huge basket of food; in another moment, the wine merchant entered with an armload of bottles; and finally Las Bambas himself leading a brigade of tailors, barbers, dressmakers, and carpenters.

  Before he understood what was happening, Theo had bolts of cloth draped over his shoulders, and he was being measured, chalked, pinned, and fitted for waistcoats, jackets, and breeches. Mickle had vanished in clouds of lace and billows of satin. Of Musket he saw nothing; only the dwarf's bellowing rose above the din, ordering the carpenters about their work.

  "How did you manage all this?" the astonished Theo asked Las Bombas who was in the hands of two barbers trying to shave and powder him. "How did you pay?"

  "By a miracle, my boy." The count beamed. "The miracle of credit. The more we manage to owe these fellows, the better they'll look after us."

  By nightfall, when the carpenters had left after nailing up a platform and wooden frame at the end of the salon, the landlord and his wife arrived to serve an enormous supper. Las Bombas interrupted each course to drink a toast to their good fortune, present and future. Theo, overstuffed and exhausted, was glad at last to find his way to the luxury of his own bed in his own chamber. Mickle stayed at the table, making certain nothing remained on the plates.

  Too tired even to enjoy the feather pillows and mattress, Theo sank into them like a stone. He had been asleep, he did not know how long, when a scream ripped apart his slumber.

  He sat up, head spinning. His body answered before he could gather his wits. By the time he realized the sound had come from Mickle's room, he was on his feet and plunging through the connecting door.

  A candle guttered on the night table. Mickle crouched amid a heap of bedclothes. Her face was dead white, streaked with sweat, her eyes wide and staring, empty of everything but terror. He was not sure she even recognized him. He ran to her.

  She threw her arms around him. He rocked her back and forth like a child, smoothing her tangled hair. Her cheeks and forehead were icy. "Nothing, it's nothing," he said. "You had another bad dream. It's gone."

  "I was drowning. Water over my head.. I kept sinking. I couldn't breathe."

  Theo was only now aware that Las Bombas and Musket had been standing behind him. The count, nightcap askew, ordered the dwarf to fetch a glass of wine, then peered anxiously at the girl.

  "You'll be fine in a moment. A nightmare, eh? Too much supper, I shouldn't wonder." He sat down beside her and laughed good-naturedly, though giving Theo a quick glance of concern. "Drowning, you say? In that case, you're perfectly safe. No one, to my knowledge, has ever drowned in bed."

  Mickle sipped the wine Musket brought. She snuffled and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. Some color had come back to her cheeks. She smiled at last. After a few more moments, she was making impudent remarks about the count's nightcap, joking with Musket, and mimicking Theo.

  Even so, when Las Bombas and Musket went back to their chambers, Theo sensed she was still frightened and stayed, waiting until she fell asleep. He sat watchful the rest of the night. Mickle did not stir.

  Next morning, she was quiet and polite, which worried Theo all the more. Musket was busy stringing together the false arms and legs. Las Bombas had gone to hire more chairs for the salon. To distract her and put her in better spirits, Theo started her portrait again.

  This time, he had her sit by the casement and ordered her not to move. He worked rapidly at first, with somewhat better result. Then he found himself looking at her so intently that his, charcoal stayed poised above the paper as if he had forgotten what he was doing.

  Mickle began fidgeting. She complained of a stiff neck and refused to pose longer. She brightened when he offered to go on with her lessons. They sat heads together in a sunny corner while Theo quickly went over the whole alphabet. He planned to
go back and teach her a few letters at a time. But when he started his review, Mickle rattled off all twenty-six in nearly perfect order.

  "That's all there is to it?"

  "I told you it was easy." Theo did not add that he never expected her to do so well so fast. He would gladly have taken credit to himself as schoolmaster. He knew it was not the case. It was not his doing. The girl astonished him. Las Bombas, he thought, had been right. She was a genius. "Next, you'll start making words."

  Mickle had lost interest. She looked out the window, turned back, restless. Finally, she said to him, after much hesitation, "Do you think-about last night, does it mean someday I'm going to drown? The girls in the home used to say that dreams told what was going to happen to you."

  "That's nonsense. You had a bad dream, that's all. It's gone, it won't come back."

  "It-it's never gone," Mickle burst out. "I've always had it. Not the same every time. Sometimes there's a well and I'm trying to get a drink. Or there's a ditch full of water, but the sides are so high I can't climb out. But it always ends the same: I'm drowning and there's nobody to help.

  "Last night, there was a voice, someone saying terrible things. I can't remember what they were. And somebody was laughing. It's the first I ever dreamed that. It was the worst of all."

  Theo frowned. "That's what you always dream about?"

  "No." The girl had taken his hand, gripping it tightly. "There's another dream I have. It doesn't frighten me. It only makes me want to cry. I dream about my mother and father. It's a nice dream at first. We're happy, laughing, playing hide-and-seek the way we used to do. Then it's my turn to hide and they can't find me. They're calling for me but when I answer they can't hear me. They're very sad and so am I Because I know I'll never see them again." She was trembling. After a moment, she pulled away and without another word went to her room. Theo stood, about to follow. Musket was bellowing for him to come and lend a hand. Something in the girl's account puzzled him. He was sure, outside Born, Mickle had told him her parents were long dead, that she had never known them.