Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  Again she was answered by a single blink, but she continued: “Is there that I can do to aid you, mistress?”

  The eyes blinked their yes. And Willadene studied the moving gaze with care. There was a drawer in the tall cupboard which, it seemed to her, Halwice had centered on. Her hand moved down those drawers, until an effective blink stopped her search.

  This contained rarities, she knew, many from lands so far few had heard of them. The girl drew open that drawer. There were three small packets within, each wrapped in preservative oiled skin. She held up each until the blink signified the proper one.

  Now the eyes were moving again—this time to the array of bottled oils and fragrance flasks on the shelf. Once more she went through the process of touching each until a signal came.

  She waited for her next search but then became aware that Halwice was staring at a brazier on a lower shelf. Willadene lifted that up and placed it on the counter. No, the eyes went from where it stood to mark another spot directly before the motionless woman. Willadene moved it.

  Once more she reached for the small bottle and that packet. Blink—yes! She undid the packet. The scent which arose from it— She was startled. This was something like that whiff of fragrance which that morning she had met as she walked with the Begging Sisters. The very opposite of the evil stench, fading now (or else she was more used to it) which she had met in this room earlier.

  That all such must be used with discretion she well knew. She set a spark to the waiting fire tablets at the bottom of the brazier, and then she held up the opened paper in full sight of the Herbmistress. One pinch of the rough powder within she took up. The blink answered yes, and to a second also, but the eyes refused a third. Willadene tossed what she held in the palm of her hand from her and quickly caught up the flask.

  It was one of those Halwice had made particularly for her uses from which only one drop at a time would issue. Now the eyes ordered three drops over what had already begun to smoke in the brazier.

  The smoke thickened. It seemed to take the form of a cord which grew ever denser. When it had reached near Willadene's own height it began to spiral, and that spiral moved—to surround Halwice, hiding her totally from sight.

  Willadene stumbled back against the counter. The scent was full fragrance of the richest kind, almost enough to smother one. And she was not even within its hold.

  For a moment, which seemed to last past an hour, it curtained Halwice from sight. Then, as one might snap fingers, it was gone. Halwice was moving, raising her hands from her lap, turning her head from side to side, as if she was testing the disappearance of her bondage.

  Then she spoke, “Star sent you here this day. But this coil is not yet untwined.” She tried to stand but collapsed once more onto the chair. “Time, I need time, and I think there is very little of that left. Child, clear away all this—'’ she nodded at the brazier, the flask, and the packet “—to their proper places. We can at least hope that the one who set the dark spell does not learn—or at least soon—that there is the means of breaking it under this roof.

  “You came for spices.” Her voice grew ever brisker as she spoke. “Will you be missed?”

  Willadene's flight seemed very long ago, wiped out by her labors here.

  “I was not sent, mistress, I—I ran,” she confessed.

  “From what?”

  “Jacoba. She would sell me for a good bride price to Wyche— I think that is why she has kept me.” Willadene twisted her hands in the rags of her apron. “And, mistress, she has such a right, the Reeve will say so.”

  “So. Wyche—” Halwice repeated the name as if it stood for some offal. “Jacoba is no member of the council to say that the Reeve will allow her to dispose of you so. It is not quite as easy as she believes. I have not gone against her for these past few years—for reasons which are quite removed—but now, now I will take a hand!” She said that with the authority of one well used to giving orders and having them straightway obeyed.

  “However—first there will be a game we must play.” She made another effort to rise from the chair; however, it was very apparent that some weakness defeated her and her usually emotionless face showed an increasing frown.

  “What about him—the dead man?” Willadene pointed to the curtain of the inner room.

  Halwice, with great determination, had managed to get on her feet, and Willadene hurried to offer her support, her question unanswered. It was not until Halwice, leaning heavily on her, reached the counter to which she swiftly transferred her hold that the Herbmistress spoke.

  “He is not dead—and can be dealt with later. But for now—- Can you manage the shutters?'’ She nodded toward the still-closed front of the shop. “Try to attract as little attention as possible. It must seem to any watcher to be as always—ready for business.” However, there was a look of strain on her face now, and the girl could see that her hold on the edge of the counter was tight.

  That tenseness was shared by Willadene. She could make no possible guess at what had happened, or was going to happen, but she was very willing to follow any orders in order to please the gaunt-faced woman struggling in her own battle.

  Outside in the street she tried not to fumble too much in the unfamiliar task set her. There were three other nearby shops, but luckily their proprietors were out of sight within and there seemed to be only a few passersby—none of them, she assured herself by a quick glance now and then, paying any attention to her.

  When the last of those night barriers swung back, ready to be secured within, she slipped around the narrow crack she had left for her return and speedily snapped the shutter bolts into place. Before her, making her stretch some distance to finish her task, was the display shelf to show off the most enticing wares, and those were in place—small bottles, boxes with gem-set lids, pomanders ready to swing from neck or girdle—all treasures to be filled with Halwice's products, eye-catching enough to attract customers to the shop.

  There was light enough here now, and Halwice had blown out the lamp, pushing it back to its stand. She was frowning at the chair which had been her prison.

  “Push that into the far corner,” she ordered. “It must be seen as part of what is rightfully here when they come.”

  Willadene, struggling with the heavy chair, wanted to ask who “they” might be, but she had a feeling that Halwice was in full command now and she was best off doing as the Herbmistress bade with no more questions.

  When she had maneuvered the chair into the shadowed back corner Halwice had suggested, her attention was caught by a spark of color on the floor near where she had struggled with the inert body to be hidden within.

  Stooping, she picked up what at first she thought was a coin, for it was round and about the size of a one noble piece. However, when she turned it over she could see the small hook on the edge; clearly it had been meant to hang from a chain as an ornament. Nor was it the coin she thought it; rather, on both surfaces front and back, it bore a symbol—widespread wings centered by a shield on which was engraved a sword and a staff crossed. That was a badge she had seen several times—it belonged to the Chancellor.

  “Give that here!” Halwice's voice did not rise any louder, but it was clear that she was even more disturbed. As Willadene quickly handed over her find she saw Halwice loose one of her handholds on the counter to tuck it quickly between the lacings of her bodice into hiding.

  “This is not to be spoken of—”

  Willadene nodded. Perhaps it was the property of that body (she still found it hard to believe Halwice's assurance he was not dead) loosened when she had dragged him behind the curtain.

  “Now, listen with care, girl, and prove you have that within you which is needed. The watch will come—they should be here very soon now. What you found here was a trap—for me—for that one inside. So I can well believe that the district Reeve's own guard will visit us. You have come to get spices for Jacoba as always. Measure out the proper ones in the usual amounts—”

/>   The woman gripped the counter with both hands again as the girl drew a small square of discarded paper from a shelf under that counter, smoothed it out on the surface above, and took down a box close at hand. Carefully she used the small scoop within and shook what looked like the usual amount of condiments onto the paper.

  She had just time enough to slide that box back into place when she heard, from the street outside, the tramp of heavy boots drilled into unison of step. Halwice had been right! That was surely the Reeve's guard. Willadene rounded the counter to face the Herbmistress. She felt a growing need to hold on to the polished wood for support even as Halwice was doing.

  If Jacoba had reported her already as a runaway she would speedily be taken. Her only hope was that the inn lay in another section of the town and that the Reeve who had jurisdiction in that quarter would not have been able to already pass the news to his peers.

  There was a man in the doorway but Halwice did not look to him; instead she was scowling at Willadene.

  “Tell Jacoba that there is no herb on earth which will make her slop worth the eating. Her account is already high—when does she plan to pay?”

  Willadene, so conscious of the man who was now nearly at her shoulder, fought to control her voice.

  “Mistress, I be but the cook maid. The inn mistress does not tell me anything save go and get spice for the meat. Please, mistress"—she hunched herself together as if she already feared the smack of Jacoba's cane across her bony shoulders—"let me have what she has asked for—she is already angered.”

  “Who are you!” The voice in her ear was harsh, the hand which fell on her shoulder to pull her around was heavy enough to bruise.

  Willadene did not have to call on any power of acting; she was already frightened enough. The man who jammed her back against the counter was of the guard right enough. His mail shirt, his helm shadowing the upper part of his broad face on which a mustache bristled fiercely, were more than warning—rather perhaps dire disaster.

  “She is the cook maid for the Wanderers Inn"—Halwice's voice was as calm as if they were exchanging some pleasantries concerning a fine day—"she was sent here for spices—”

  Willadene dared not stir. The man glanced only briefly at the Herbmistress; his eyes were sweeping swiftly about the shop, while two of his fellows crowded in behind him.

  Again Halwice spoke. “I am known well to the Reeve; also I have a seat on the Guild Council. Why do you come into my shop in this fashion? Do I not supply His Highness himself and all others of noted families—?” Her voice was growing heated, as might that of any honest shopkeeper so used. “My taxes are paid—given into the hands of the Reeve himself. I have offended no one and abide by the guild laws—”

  The leader of the guard looked to her again. He indicated with a thumb the curtained doorway to the inner room.

  “What lies there, mistress?” His voice was not quite as aggressive as it had been.

  “My living quarters and beyond that the garden where I grow some of my stock. Look for yourself. But what do you hunt? I am indeed an honest woman and as such am not to be used in this manner. Be sure I shall report to the Reeve—”

  The leader continued to stare at her.

  “There has been information laid against this shop— against you,” he repeated stolidly. “It was given to us on good authority that a rogue we seek would be found here dead—killed, mistress"—now his mustache seemed to rise straight out from the roots like the bristles of a boar— “by an evil potion.”

  Halwice drew herself up, her features set. “What kind of a talemonger's fashion is this? Do you see a dead man? Look you—look well!”

  Willadene's heart was beating so she was sure it would soon shake her body, for Halwice was actually pointing to the curtain of the second room.

  “But listen well, Sergeant. Do you, or any of these clumsy followers of yours, do any damage to my wares I shall not take it only in complaint to the Reeve but to His Highness himself. Look you there—” She pointed to where a glass bottle fashioned only large enough to fit perhaps into the palm of Willadene's hand and in the form of a rose, rested under a glass dome. “That is Breath of Roses for the High Lady Mahart. Know you the cost of that? It is worth more than half your year's pay with the lady's displeasure into the bargain?”

  “Our information"—but the girl noted he was eyeing that bottle warily and had moved several steps away from its vicinity—"came from a source which does not rumor monger. Since you yourself bid us do so—we look.”

  He brushed by and swept the curtain roughly aside. Willadene stared down at the top of the counter, at that packet of spice she was supposed to be buying, and waited for the sergeant to make his find. Only, he did not but came tramping back to the shop room in just a moment or two. Perhaps Halwice's warning had had its effect.

  “Well,” the Herbmistress demanded, “where is your dead man? Look in the garden if you must—there is no recent delving to be seen there. Make very sure I shall enter on the Reeve's record my answer to this charge and the disturbance of my trade. Why should a dead man be found in my shop? I have taken oath before the altar of the Star and been examined by the High Priestess, who can detect any evil through her powers. She has proclaimed me free of all dealing which can cause ill to anyone. Do you dare to dispute that judgment?

  “If there came one by night to seize my wares—where then could he sell them? And do I not have an alarm bell justified by the city laws to ring if any attempts to do this? Who heard my bell—where is there any intruder— have I made complaint?”

  Her voice became harder and harder as she bombarded him with this string of questions. The man's full cheeks were blazing red and his two followers had retreated to the front door, keeping an eye to either side as if fearful of unwittingly causing some damage. That the sergeant was angry was plain. Willadene could almost feel the heat of his wrath. However, his own eyes told him there was nothing out of the ordinary to see in the shop. And certainly Halwice's free expression of influence both with the Reeve of this section and even the Duke himself sank home. She would not give such warnings unless she could back them up.

  “I shall make my report, mistress.” He was obviously trying to save face by putting a tone of warning into that.

  “Do—and be about your rightful business and let me get about mine,” she replied sharply.

  He did go—several steps behind the members of his squad, who were now in the street. When they could no longer be seen through the small panes of the window Halwice turned to the girl. She had already drawn another square of paper from a pile under the counter and was folding it together.

  “Good, they have gone west. Now, listen well. Take this as if you were indeed on the errand you were supposed to go on. Once you are outside the door, go the opposite way—east. You know where Doctor Dobblier's house is?”

  Willadene nodded.

  “Follow the alley at its back and come down to the fence about my garden. Count to five the boards as you pass them and then press on the next two; they will open for you. Knock three times on the back door.”

  Willadene drew a deep breath. “Then I am to come back?” she half whispered.

  Halwice looked at her measuringly. “Have you not wanted to?”

  “Yes, oh, yes!”

  “Then be quick about it. We have much which is to be done.”

  And Willadene sped through the street door as if she expected to meet some sharp punishment for being late about her errand.

  4

  Mahart’s life, which she had once likened to that of a state prisoner, altered in a hurry. Though she noted that she was still kept from any close contact with the High Lady Saylana’s courtiers, she began to be visited more and more by Vazul, who brought a number of ladies of an earlier generation to be presented and spend some hours of stilted conversation and very formal manners in her private sitting room.

  She knew that she was an object of curiosity to most of them, and, though she squirmed
inside, she made herself become outwardly unperturbed by the stares from behind the shadows of fans—measuring stares.

  Zuta was always present and, at the end of such trials of public life, was only too ready to discuss each visitor—sometimes exceeding the boundaries of what was supposed to be suitable for a young girl to hear. Such revelations were to Mahart like the stories she had read in books but had never before really associated with living persons.

  Her wardrobe doubled and the sewing maids were daily busied. She had to spend tedious hours standing as one or another of them encircled the hem of a shirt, marking it for stitching.

  Though Zuta continued to urge brighter colors and richer materials on her, Mahart kept to those shades in which she felt the most comfortable—paler colors in ranges of greens, rose, and creams. And she discouraged much embroidery or heavy trimmings of fur and metallic thread.

  She was early made aware of the reason for all this glory, being rained unasked upon her, by Vazul, who, upon one early morning visit, was followed by one in the uniform of a bodyguard, who carried a good-sized chest. With the air of a showman about to astound his audience, the Chancellor unlocked it and threw back its lid, to disclose a treasury of jewelry. It seemed to blaze almost as brightly as a lamp, and Mahart stared at it, queerly repelled. There was too much of it—surely it could not be real. However, Vazul quickly assured her that these were the ducal jewels of state, not belonging to any one member of the family but kept as legacies to be worn on occasions of high state.

  One such occasion was about to be proclaimed. For years—since the plague, in fact—there had never been a ducal court held, one in which the daughters and heirs of the noble houses first made their meeting with their overlord. Uttobric considered such affairs a waste of valuable time, since the preparation for such occupied most of the castle inhabitants for several weeks; in addition, he was never sure of such meetings with nobility he did not altogether trust.

  However, it was not Uttobric this time who was to be the center of pomp. He had announced that, since the High Lady Mahart was of suitable age, her initiation into her duties would begin with such an event.