The cave was not as dark as it appeared from the outside. She pushed her arms against her sides and bobbed up, seeking its roof. Her head broke water, and salty, wet, but perfectly breathable air filled her mouth and nostrils. She was in a grotto, pillared with crystal, dappled with wavery light. A beach of sharp quartz and clear white sand surrounded the pool. She scrambled up onto it, scratching herself on the sand. Beyond the pillars the grotto opened into narrow rooms, and she pressed back toward one of them.
Having seen nothing but temple, shrines, and castle, Carole had no idea where she was in relation to other areas of Gorequartz. When she heard the mumble of voices and the ring of metal on stone coming from somewhere above and in front of her, she was relieved to know she was near something that presumably had a landward exit. The only question was how would she get past the people behind the voices to reach it. Her wet clothing and the direction from which she came would, at the very least, present her with a somewhat unconventional appearance. The only way to avoid answering awkward questions would be to avoid the people who might ask them, so she was cautious as she felt her way upward, keeping to the wall and listening, trying to place where the voices were.
What she heard did not ultimately help as much as what fell on her. When a shower of sharp and shining sand spattered down on her scalp and shoulders, she realized that the voices, and the feet responsible for loosening the sand, were directly above her. The floor of the tunnel soon confirmed this when it took a goat-challenging slant upwards. She hoped the noise the workers were making would disguise the rattling of sand and the rasp of her breathing as she climbed. She had to sling the shield across her back to free her hands. The crystal pushed through the earth here, cool but cutting, and the sand stuck miserably to her wet skin. She slipped repeatedly, coating herself in grit. When her hands found a spot that no longer sloped away from her, she dragged the rest of herself up and stared blindly into the space before her while her breath evened and her pulse slowed. The pinpoints of light in the gloom ahead of her failed at first to register as anything but part of the random pattern of stars dancing inside her own eyes.
By the time her eyes had adjusted so that she was aware that the lights were moving, the men behind them had spotted her.
“See there! See there!” an excited voice hissed. A finger pointed past the light, eerily disembodied and importantly accusing. “I told you! Ears like a pachyderms I’ve got and I told you there was someone back here but—”
“Hush. You’ll bring the hill down on our ears. You there, come out here.” He crunched towards her and she saw his white and shining face, lit from below, great holes around his eyes, which looked both frightened and belligerent about being frightened.
“Oh, Riz, it ain’t a person,” the other voice breathed.
Riz looked back into the darkness, then at Carole again. “It is so. What else would it be?”
“Her. The old one from before. Maybe a statue of her, put back here. What would an ordinary lady be doing in these caves?”
“No good, I say. And statues don’t move.”
“No one saw any woman before. And this section was blocked off till this morning. Mark me. This is their doings, them from before.”
“You’re daft, Archer. That’s superstition. Don’t let the priests hear you.”
Unable to impersonate a statue any longer, Carole very slowly raised a spectrally white arm and glided forward, as much as one could glide on sand.
One of the lights jumped backwards. “Oh, I told you, I told you. We’ll be paying now for taking the crystal. The ghosts of them old ones is back. Them colored things that got the evening shift… ghosts, I tell you, and this is—”
“That’s heresy, man. Do you fancy gagging the giant your own self?”
“Hey there!” a voice hailed from the back. “Riz! Archer! What’s going on back there?”
“Archer’s seen a ghost.”
“What? Another one? What color?”
“White and shiny, like us.”
“Ghosts ain’t white and shiny they’re—” A third light joined the first two. “My-dear-old-mother-in-law-gone-to-give-the-god-the-bellyache, who the thunder is she?”
More lights confronted Carole, casting a sinister pattern of light and shadow on the staring faces. Carole had rather fancied having her turn at playing goddess, but couldn’t wait for them to talk each other out of or into the notion. She started to whistle them a jig to dance them from her path.
“Who ever heard of a whistling ghost?” Riz asked. “Take her!”
She was still struggling for the strap that bound the rowan shield to her back when they seized her and dragged her out of the mine.
Their overseer didn’t seem to be under any delusions about her mortality or lack of it, but was nonetheless delighted to see her for reasons of his own. With the shield strapped to her, she could whistle and hum all day to no particular effect, so she stood quietly while the man inspected her.
“Anyone know who she is?”
“Archer’n Riz say a spook.”
“She will be soon if she ain’t already. I reckon the warder at the dungeon will be agreeable to taking her for the ceremony instead of my ma. That damned pious brother-in-law of mine thought he’d get rid of her, but the priests’ll take a substitute. You three bring her along and keep her quiet. I want no husband or father come looking for her before she’s locked away safe and ready to be decked with pretty posies.
They loaded her in an ore cart with a freshly mended side and wheel.
“Ooo, didn’t they do a lovely job?” Riz asked. “I saw this last night, after the oxen wrecked it, and I never thought to see it roll again.”
Though not so influential with priests as his brother-in-law, the overseer was a man of no mean influence himself, and the gold pieces he slipped the warder readily persuaded the official to bring forth the missing mother and take Carole in her stead. All of this was done with the nonchalance of an everyday business transaction. Carole could see where it might be.
The edicts and rites of officialdom often needed to be modified by ordinary people and the bureaucrats responsible for carrying out the attendant procedures. One man’s detested and expendable mother-in-law was another’s beloved mother, after all. The position of warder must be a coveted one. The man was plump and affluent looking with a magnificent silver beard and a number of gold and crystal rings augmenting his spotless black uniform.
“Well now,” he said when the miners and the overseer’s mother had left. “You’ll need a bath. Can’t have you going dirty like that to the god, now can we? Makes a poor appearance. Spoils the ceremony and musses the flowers. You’re in luck, my girl. We have plenty of water around here and one of your fellow delegates is a real ladies’ maid formerly in the employ of the Princess herself. Boys, take this woman to the holding tank for the delegates, will you?” Meaty hands clamped on her arms and led her firmly away before she could extricate herself from the shields restraining influence. If only they had been efficient at their jobs instead of so lazy and corrupt they would have had the sense to take a shield from her at least long enough to see if she had a weapon. They did not, however, and when she was able to take it off, she saw that it was so crusted with crystal sand they probably had simply failed to notice that it wasn’t part of her clothing.
The holding tank was not a dingy cell but a room with a view of the moat—through iron bars—a southern exposure, and comfortable low couches. The floor was of scrubbed wood. The walls were painted with inspirational pictures of the temple and the godhead. Three other people occupied the room.
“That water’s coming right up, miss, and a spot of lunch as well,” the guard said, sounding more like an innkeeper. “Two of the ladies ate before they arrived but the King’s chef sent down some very tasty victuals for the other young lady on non-volunteer status.” He indicated a woman huddled in a cloak that looked smothering, then shoved Carole almost gently down beside her, saying, “I heard the c
onversation out there and I just want you to know that we custodians of the delegates here at the dungeon don’t think less of you for being an exchange. Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated by us, I can say for me and all the others, and I don’t want you to be concerned about being pleasing to the god. I’m sure you’ll wash up fine.”
She stared after him for a moment.
“Don’t look so stunned, my dear,” said the comfortable-looking matron sitting across from her. “Naturally he’s grateful. Those of us making the ultimate sacrifice enrich our land and loved ones by doing so.”
“Not to mention that if we go, he doesn’t have to, nor any of his relatives,” a thin, dark man added, smiling wolfishly.
Carole shook her head back and forth once and began skinning out of the rowan shield. The strap caught on her elbow. She cursed and turned her back to the cloaked figure next to her. “D’you mind?” she asked. Trembling fingers complied. Divested of the object, Carole turned to thank the woman, and the nurse Jushia’s face looked miserably up at her.
“What are you doing here?” Carole asked. “Where’s Rupert?”
“I beg your pardon?” the girl said, dusting off the sand Carole shed with every movement.
“Rupert. Where is he? Did he meet you?”
By that time enough sand had fallen from her face that the girl blinked with recognition and gasped slightly. “Milady, your pardon. I didn’t realize it was you. As to the god, I know not. I left him searching to halls for the Princess.” She explained about the Princess’s disappearance and her subsequent meeting with Rupert and added sadly, “He didn’t even materialize to vent his wrath on those who persecuted me. Do you suppose I proved unworthy?”
“I doubt it,” Carole said, brushing the worst of the sand from her, liberally sprinkling the floor and the nurse in the process. She wished she could stay for the bath the warder had promised her, but she needed to pounce with an appropriate song the minute the iron-bound door opened again. “I could use your help,” she told Jushia.
“Anything, milady. Though as handmaiden to the god you—”
“Do forget that for now, won’t you? It’s a misunderstanding. Rupert—the god—isn’t free to do as he chooses.”
“He explained all that,” the girl said. “About how he was reincarnated without the powers befitting his station. And how his evil advisors seek to take advantage of him.”
“Good. Then you’ll help?”
The girl nodded, although she looked almost as frightened of Carole as she was of imminent death.
“It’s very easy. All you have to do is hold onto this shield and follow me carrying it. You will find it quite serviceable in case matters should become complicated, and, in addition, it will protect you from spells.”
Though their conversation was carried on in murmurs, the other occupants of the room watched them closely. The matron pursed her lips and whuffed with disapproval. The thin, dark man uncurled himself, stretched, and sauntered over to them.
“You breaking out of here, are you?” he asked Carole. “I am better help than she is.”
Jushia hugged the “god’s” shield and stared balkily up at him.
“You’re free to come along if you like,” Carole said. “But don’t get in the way.”
“Who, me? Get in the way? Lady, had I not been fingered by jealous rivals I would still be the slickest thief in Gore-quartz. I disappear like a shadow in the night, you mark me. Just get the door open.”
That was done for them in short order by the sympathetic guard, who found himself engaged in the acrobatic chore of doing a series of high-speed pirouettes away from the door while twirling the water basin above his head. Carole whistled until the others, safely lined up behind the rowan shield, filed out behind her. Only the matron remained.
“Fancy not wanting to do your part,” the woman said. “It’ll go hard on you for your selfishness.” What could be harder than being sacrificed to a crystal idol she didn’t get a chance to explain, for they quickly left her alone with her good opinion of herself.
The warder soon joined his men in the dance. Carole stopped whistling when the escapees reached the courtyard. The others scattered while she and Jushia followed the thief. Carole was rather hoping that in this backward part of the world they might not have heard of a portcullis yet, but her hopes were in vain. The thief ran straight up to the portcullis and stopped, looking momentarily puzzled before snapping his fingers, dodging across the portcullis to dash up the steps leading to the castle wall, and plunging himself into the moat. The nurse hesitated only a moment before diving in after him and Carole followed.
By the time the pair of guards stationed on either side of the drawbridge ran to investigate all the splashing, the thief had led the other two in back of the crystal shrines, into a warren of houses and small tributary ditches leading to the central canal. He slunk like an eel along the pathways and alleys, leading them at last to a street where people sat earnestly weaving flowers into garlands and swags, across a tributary that smelled like a sewer, and through a crack in the far wall, to a rickety ladder that dropped into a dark hole smelling of urine, mold, and stale smoke.
A torch flared as they descended. A grizzled face examined them, and questioned the thief sharply. The thief’s reply must have been satisfactory. Other torches flared up and revealed a group of raggedy people lounging beside racks of dusty bottles. All but three of the group were men. From the corner a child cried. Jushia sprang down the last rung, dropped the shield, and leaped forward, to be hauled back by the laughing thief.
From the shadows behind a rack of bottles stepped a familiar figure, smoking a thin roll of weeds stuck in the side of his mouth, while with a certain competent grace that was not at all un-masculine he bounced a red-haired baby over one shoulder. Pulling the roll from his lips with his free hand, he nodded approval to the thief. “Excellent, my friend, excellent.”
The thief took a flourishing bow then broke into a wide, foolish grin. “We pulled it off, Timoteo! We did well, eh?” The thief said this with such joy that it was evident his ventures did not always go so smoothly.
The man Carole had known as a merchant did not indulge in such a crude display of pleasure but allowed himself instead a small, restrained smile, its effect spoiled only slightly when he chucked the baby under the chin before turning her to face Carole. Despite the chucking, the royal chin trembled with impending howls.
Carole felt a rush of absolutely maternal affection for this small relative. Despite all the trouble she had been through on behalf of the little scamp, she had been thinking of her as more of a goal than a person. The sight of the largish human infant with the chubby wet fingers and dissatisfied pout, lying absolutely trustingly, if not happily, in the arms of the disreputable Timoteo, made the witch feel that even if she had not been bored out of her mind at Wormroost she would willingly undertake the quest again. Between the Miragenians, the Gorequartz throne, the priests, and now Timoteo, the child was being tossed around as if she was a ball.
“Priestess, I believe your side of the family delegated you to christen this child. Please do so now. Our side of the family will stand witness. It is too bad Prince Rupert cannot be with us on this occasion, since I am sure he believes this whole snatch to be of his devising. Still, he will have the satisfaction, should he survive the devotion of his worshippers, of knowing he has created a most excellent diversion.”
“Master Timoteo, excuse me if I seem a little puzzled. Are you claiming kinship with this child? There is no Miragenian blood in her lineage of which I am aware.”
The merchant smiled sweetly at her. “Cute,” he said and to the motley group behind him, “Isn’t she cute? I never knew witches were so cute. I always thought they were serious, dour women. You mean to say you did not realize by this time, seeing us all together here, that we are gypsies, the family of Xenobia and Prince Jack? Kinswoman-much-removed, you wound me. I am Timoteo, also grandson of Xenobia, she who is twice a Queen. She re
grets that she cannot be here herself, that my grandfather, my Uncle Davey, and my cousin Jack could not personally attend this important event, but that would appear too outwardly a breach of the famous deal, would it not? That so stupid deal made by my cousin, who can hardly call himself a gypsy now, without the consent of his Queen, the great-grandmother of this child. Unfortunately, she is not only Queen of the Gypsies but also Queen of Wasimarkan, so matters had to be handled delicately. But I assure you, never once from the time this baby was taken by those dogs of merchants, did we intend to tolerate it. No one, but no one, steals a child from the gypsies. It is always and has always been quite the other way around. A matter of honor, you see?”
Carole couldn’t decide whether to dance or faint. What with talking to long-dead giant gods, fretting over the absence of princes who weren’t gods, being captured and imprisoned for sacrifice and just as precipitously escaping, she had had rather a lot to take in that day. To find the baby safe with the paternal side of the family, the quest all but over, was a bit more than she could assimilate. So, as the representative of the maternal side of the family, she merely nodded. Actually, she only caught snatches of what Timoteo was saying. The baby had not been considerate enough to wait until her rescuer finished his speech but had commenced howling in the middle of it. Carole jerked a thumb in the direction of the nurse and covered an ear with her free hand. The gypsy took the hint and unceremoniously deposited the child in her nurse’s arms. The nurse repaired to the corner occupied by two of the gypsy women.
Carole sighed with relief at the reduction in the noise level and at the fortuitous turn of events. She smiled at Timoteo with deliberately open admiration. “I must say your disguise was worthy of the famous Wizard Raspberry. I never guessed you were other than a real Miragenian merchant and I could have sworn all along there was no band of gypsies accompanying you.”
“Oh, as to that: I was always alone but wore the disguise so that I would not be so obvious as your very large cousin, the Prince. One can be more useful that way. In fact, I found it possible to be of aid to you before I met you in Miragenia— there on the riverbank in Frostingdung, where I frightened away the Miragenian who set his mist upon you. These people here had nothing to do with that. They are relatives of a tribe allied to us by marriage and other little favors, and they have traveled all through these lands and worked the Gorequartz area extensively, though very carefully. We gypsies are widely connected. They were honor bound to help us, for it is not possible for any gypsy to tolerate the insult of outsiders stealing a gypsy child.”
The Christening Quest Page 19