by Andre Norton
With the lamp still in hands which quivered, the girl swung around to face that silent presence in the chair. Eyes stared back at her, demanding eyes. No, Halwice lived but something held her in thrall and helpless. There were herbs which could do that in forbidden mixture, but Halwice never dealt with such.
Those eyes— Willadene somehow found a voice which was only a whisper.
“What—?” she began.
The eyes were urgent as if sight could write a message on the very air between them. They moved—from the girl to the half-open door and then back with an urgency Willadene knew she must answer. But how— Did Halwice want her to summon help?
“Can you"—she was reaching now for the only solution she could think of—"answer? Close your eyes once—'’
Instantly the lids dropped and then rose again. Willadene drew a deep breath, almost of relief. By so much, then, she knew they could still communicate.
“Do I go for Doctor Reymonda?” He was the nearest of the medical practitioners who depended upon Halwice for their drugs.
The eyelids snapped down, arose, and fell again.
“No?” Willadene tried to hold the lamp steady. She had near forgotten the body on the floor.
She stared so intensely as if she could force the answer she needed out of the Herbmistress. Now she noted that the other's gaze had swept beyond her and was on the floor. Once more the silent woman blinked twice with almost the authority of an order. Willadene made a guess.
“Close the door?” That quick, single affirmative blink was her answer. She carefully edged about the body to do just that. Halwice did not want help from outside—but what evil had happened here? And was the silent form on the floor responsible for the Herbmistress's present plight?
With the door shut some instinct made the girl also, one-handedly as she held the lamp high, slide the bolt bar across it, turning again to find Halwice's gaze fierce and intent on her. The Herbmistress blinked. Yes, she had been right—Halwice wanted no one else here.
Then that gaze turned floorward, as far as nature would let the eyes move, to fasten on the body. Willadene carefully set the lamp down beside the inert stranger and then knelt.
It was a man lying facedown. His clothing was traveler's leather and wool as if he were just in from some traders’ caravan. Halwice dealt often with traders, spices, and strange roots; even crushed clays of one sort or another arrived regularly here. But what had happened—?
Willadene's years of shifting iron pots and pans and dealing with Jacoba's oversize aids to cooking had made her stronger than her small, thin body looked. She was able to roll the stranger over.
Under her hand his flesh was cool, and she could see no wound or hurt. It was as if he had been struck down instantly by one of those weird powers which were a part of stories told to children.
He was young with dark hair which curled thickly over his head as she gingerly touched, seeking an injury which might be hid by the thick locks. His face was well featured but gaunt with the shadow of beard beginning to show. Altogether, there was nothing to differ him from any minor merchant she might serve in the inn. Willadene drew back her hand and wiped it on her ragged apron. That he was dead she was almost certain, but she was no healer. Questioningly she looked up at Halwice.
Again those wide eyes held hers. And, as if the Herbmistress so made sure that she had the girl's full attention, the eyes turned downward to the body on the floor. Once more the gaze was raised to Willadene and this time, very slowly, as if the Herbmistress was using every bit of the will she could summon, the eyes shifted away from Willadene and the body to that curtain which cloaked the entrance to the back room.
Three times Halwice went through that sequence. Again Willadene had to guess.
“Him—back there—that's what you want?” She pointed toward the inner room.
The blink which answered her was like a snap. Yes, that was what the woman wanted. He was to be hidden from anyone coming to the shop unwittingly as she had done.
She set the lamp back on the counter and then worked her way between the body and the angle of Halwice's chair. Stooping, she hooked hands in the armpits of that inert corpse—though every nerve in her shrank from what she was doing.
It was hard, but she managed to drag him into the second room, pausing now and then but always beginning doggedly again. The back room was large, for one end of it was a bedchamber and the other a cooking place, far cleaner and better smelling than that Jacoba ruled.
Willadene stood staring down at the body. The thought grew in her that it was foolish to leave him so, in plain sight. The bed was a cupboard one and so no hiding place there. She stared about until she noted the settle at one side of the fireplace.
It was a massive piece of furniture and the seat was deep. If the area below was as wide— Luckily the back windows had been thrown open; scents from the wide herb garden hidden behind the shop mingled and she felt refreshed, almost as if her mind had so been cleared and she could again think purposefully. The settle it would be.
However, getting her burden in place there was no easy task, and once it was done and she had made sure he could not be sighted by anyone casually glancing into the room, the girl was breathing as heavily as if she had been racing like a noble's trained mare.
She had to keep one hand against the side of the doorway as she looped up the curtain in order to steady herself as she returned to Halwice. Coining to stand directly before the Herbmistress she made her report.
“He is under the settle—there was no better hiding place.’’
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 Guil
d 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?”