by Andre Norton
“Mistress, no one can track well a night flyer.” He laughed, almost the joyous laugh of one about to engage in mischief. “If this one succeeds you will soon hear strange news—”
With no more farewell he was gone. Halwice sat down slowly on the chair they had dragged back from the shop, the former seat of her imprisonment. She was shaking her head, not at Willadene but at something perhaps only she could see.
“May the Star light him through! One can take such risks against fate but not forever.” She sighed and then spoke directly to Willadene. “Bring me the book which stands at the far end of the knowledge shelf and take care; it is so old that someday it may turn to dust in one’s hands.”
Willadene obeyed quickly. There was an odd smell to what she held—the decay of ancient leather and parchment, and beyond that a medley of scents she did not have time to identify before Halwice had it from her, laid on the table between two lighted lamps so that the full glow was turned on the pages she so carefully turned.
“One can only try,” she muttered as she searched. “Oh, get you to bed, Willadene. I may be half the night about this business.”
And again, though questions nearly choked her, the girl obeyed.
6
“Were she younger I would have my cane across her back.” Duke Uttobric snarled. “Making a show of herself before the whole of Kronengred, and I can well believe that most of the city was there to gape at her doing it!”
Vazul pursed his lips as he faced his master, and his black-furred companion made the faintest of chittering sounds from where she hung in one of her favorite positions around the man’s neck. Sometimes—mentally Vazul hoped for patience and firmly banked down his impatience—Uttobric tried a man near to the far limits.
“Highness"—he picked his words now with care as he answered—"instead of Her Grace proving a barrier to your wishes, she has, on the contrary, played her part as well as if she had been trained to it from youth. With her own hands she has fed the hungry, standing with those pious Sisters of the Star. Not a task, I will grant you, that many of her blood have ever done in the past, but one which made all who watched it believe that she has the good of Kronen in her heart.”
The Duke scowled, that dark twitch of skin and eyebrows fading slowly. “What say the court?” he then demanded. “Do they mutter behind their hands that one of the Old Blood so forgets her place as to mingle with beggars?”
Within himself Vazul sighed, but his tone was conciliating as he replied. “Highness, have we not been gathering rumors for more than a year now that those who oppose you are secretly building their own net to bring you down? And where is any army they can summon? Who can raise enough coin to import even one company of mercenaries? And, as all know, those are apt to turn upon their employers if their pay is not forthcoming as promised. Therefore any support your enemies could hope to gather would be from the dissatisfied, the unruly, the night flitters, of Kronengred itself. In every city there are those who will rise at the thought of loot.
“So far we have sifted very carefully all strangers coming into the city. The majority are honest merchants. Those, we wish to encourage, for our very life depends upon trade. But—” he leaned forward a little and drew from his belt a roll of paper he proceeded to pull taut enough to be read “—we also know that there are others who find their way through and out again our gates, that there are ties rooted within this city itself which lead to the outlaws. In the past year five small caravans have disappeared entirely as if the earth swallowed them, and attacks on two well-guarded larger ones were beaten off only with loss of life, and, what is more, of merchants’ confidence that we are strong enough to protect them.
“We must hold the city. Just as you have graciously made concessions to the most powerful among the merchants, accepted—at least outwardly—suggestions from the Reeves, so must the people themselves believe that their welfare is a matter of heart interest for you. Thus—Her Grace’s act at the Abbey—news of which, I assure you, has already spread through the city and even grown in the telling—is such which will serve you now as well as a full corps marching down from the castle. I repeat, Highness, Her Grace Mahart is one of your best weapons at present and must be well used. Twenty days hence is her birthday—to make such a holiday this year, Her Grace appearing perhaps to give thanks for the generous recognition of your pleasure in it—”
The Duke’s gaze had gone from the narrow face of his Chancellor to the wall where a particularly drab stretch of tapestry celebrated a victory won long before his own birth.
“Very well—a feasting—alms—all the usual, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “Her Grace and I will proceed to the Abbey to give thanks—Do you realize what a hole this will leave in my purse?” he ended snappishly.
“But it shall be done with all propriety—” promised Vazul. If he was going to add to that promise, he was stopped by his furred companion, whose chittering now reached the point it could be well heard by the Duke also.
The animal had slewed around on Vazul’s shoulder and her whiskered snout was now pointing to the wall. With a speed which was out of place in him usually, the Chancellor was on his feet and at that wall, his hand outstretched so that the fingers pressed there in a certain pattern.
With no sound—the latch was too well oiled for that—a panel slid back and presented an opening through which a full-sized man could come only if he were bent double as the newcomer was.
He straightened to his full height, which was more than the Duke’s and a little less than Vazul’s. His cloak swept back a little as his hand came free to sketch what might be a salute of sorts, but he showed no other formal deference to the company in which he now found himself.
“Prince Lorien,” he reported, “has reached the lodge. Two nights ago a shepherd was slain just within the borders there. His flock was all killed, an act which will arouse the country people—on both sides of the border. It seemed that the Red Wolf held high feast for a comrade.”
“That comrade being?” the Duke demanded. “Noble or baseborn?”
“He did not appear openly but kept to the Wolfs own quarters, and none ventures there except under orders. The Wolf rules with the lash and the stake.”
“Yet he rules,” Vazul said quietly. “With such as he commands, it takes a man of unusual personality to hold so close rein. There was no way of finding out the identity of the visitor?” He spoke now to the newcomer.
“Chancellor, for that I ride—tonight. The network is well in place as usual.”
For the first time the Duke’s lips formed one of his sour smiles. “Good speed” was his farewell.
When the panel had closed behind their visitor, the Duke looked to Vazul. “You put great trust in this Bat of yours—has it not always been your plaint to me that to trust entirely weakens one?”
Vazul was smoothing the fur of his creature. “Your Highness, the Bat has good reason to hate as we hate—and is there not truth in the saying he who has the same enemy is in some manner a comrade? Yes, I trust this night journeyer of mine because he not only carries a burning hate within him, but one he has learned to control, that he may accomplish best what is asked of him.”
The Duke was now eyeing him thoughtfully. “I have you, Vazul, because we both well know whatever fate the future holds will serve us equally. However—now that you have made clear the worth of my daughter to our plans—does she have any confidante who might be seduced into betrayal if such a moment of need arose?”
“Highness, the principal lady—in fact the only lady for the past four years—who serves Her Grace, is Zuta of Lakley.”
“Lakley? But that—She is kin to Darmond?”
“She is a victim of Lord Darmond’s greed,” Vazul returned calmly. “By rights she should be lady there—with the coming of the plague he moved upon his grandfather’s hold with force enough to hold it. It was given out that all those of the true bloodline died from the sickness. Sickness—and steel—as has been whispered.
She could not have inherited the title and ruled there—being female. But she was entitled to daughter’s share, and that was worth a little bloodletting—her father having been very lucky in several ventures overseas. It was her nurse who saw her safely into the hands of Lady Janis of Ille. When the plague brought down that guardian my sources appraised me—” He continued to stroke his pet, and the Duke uttered one of his snickering laughs.
“Always you see the future worth of any deal, Vazul. You administer her birth funds, of course.”
But the Chancellor shook his head. “Unluckily no—Darmond being what he is and having false witnesses to say she is not the true heir. However, as all of us, she can hope for a less burdensome future. She has funds to draw upon, from her mother’s line though they may not be her own, and she is very clever. Her Grace has been safe these past few years because they were so closely united.”
“Another of your eyes and ears, Vazul? If so, she is acceptable—you will nourish a traitor no more quickly than I would.”
“No. She knows nothing of our shadow servants, Highness. But she is my source of information concerning Her Grace and all which pertains to her. Concerning Her Grace, Highness, there is another matter—”
“That being?”
“When she made her pilgrimage to the Abbey she walked it. To have ventured into the heart of the city in a horse litter would not have served the purpose. Now—Her Grace must learn to ride, Highness.”
“Ride!” The Duke blinked rapidly several times. “But there is no need for her to make any journey.”
“Except through the city, Highness. Think now, when the feast day you have planned comes and you ride forth—will it not seem strange to all that your daughter is carried in a litter? The people now know she is no invalid and will wonder why she journeys half hidden from them.”
“Ride!” repeated the Duke with a snort. “How, pray you, can she learn such a feat within less than twenty days? The girl has never been near a horse!”
“Highness, your Master of Horse is counted the best in all Kronen. There is that large court where the guards drill—it can be made private for periods of Her Grace’s instruction.”
“All right. If it must be done to humor the baseborn in the streets, let it be so. You always have such good reasons for your suggestions, Vazul.”
“That is why I am of service to you, Highness,” returned the Chancellor.
So now Mahart, whether she wished or no, became introduced to what might give her in the future another form of freedom. Her lessons were well supervised by an elderly man, who plainly considered these hours of instruction in a way a reflection upon his status. But he knew his job well, and she was eager for any new knowledge. There always remained in the back of her mind that dream she had now dreamed three times over—of being free in flowered meadows under the open sky. Learning to govern this animal, which was presented to her each morning at the same hour, might well be another key to the outer world.
Luckily she proved to be a very apt pupil, graduating from boring rounds on a very placid old mare to at last a younger and less sluggish mount. Though the Master of Horse never expressed any satisfaction at her progress she could guess by the slight changes in his attitude that she was in some ways measuring up to what he considered a credible performance.
If she came to enjoy this new learning she could not say the same for Zuta. The practice place was seldom in full sun and since the year now advanced to harvest it was chill for anyone who merely stood enshawled, watching the action but not taking part in it. Mahart, catching sight of a cold-pinched nose and not missing the accompanying shivers, finally suggested that her companion withdraw into the tack room beyond. Then she became so absorbed in what she must remember to do properly that she completely forgot Zuta. Nor did anyone know that the lady-in-waiting was joined there by one dressed in simple garb but of noble materials—carrying no house shield adornment.
Mahart continued to make her solemn rounds. Apparently the fact that she could stay in the saddle, arranging her wide, divided skirt in proper falls; keep a straight back; and have her rein signals obeyed was all that was going to be required of her. The lessoning had become such a routine that she found herself able to occupy at least a fraction of her mind with other things.
Her eighteenth birthday was looming ahead. She could only remember very faintly when that had been a date of note. These past years, the full of a celebration had consisted of the good year wishes of Julta at her rising, similar ones with a small gift from Zuta, and the appearance of a footman sometime during the morning bearing a salver on which rested her father’s remembrance, formal good wishes delivered in a monotone by memory from the bearer.
Now she was going to be, she gathered, the center of festivities of some extent. She would appear in the heaviest of formal court dress with her father on the west balcony, to be shown off properly to any of those in Kronengred who were interested. Then, later, she would practice this new art of hers in public, riding behind her father to the Abbey, to present a birthday gift to the Abbess.
She already knew that she was going to be walled by half the guard, protected carefully from any contact such as she had rebelliously indulged in before. But at least her father could not forbid her meeting with the Abbess, and so perhaps with some others of those who supported the shrine.
Mahart had already discovered that the scented candles of the inner shrine and the incense alight there were the product of the Herbmistress she had heard so much of. And, if protocol would not allow her to visit Halwice’s own shop, there could be a good chance of such an encounter at the shrine—though she knew better now than to try personally to bring that about.
Her hour’s exercise done, she allowed the Master to help her dismount, thanked him civilly as she always did for his efforts on her behalf, and headed for the tack room. There were other entrances to this exercise court, of course, but one could not clear out barracks and interrupt military matters so that no guardsman could get good sight of Her Grace—and the Duke’s decree in this matter had been strictly followed.
She looked for Zuta, but the room was empty and it was a full moment before the lady-in-waiting appeared. She still had a shawl bundled closely around her chin, above which her face was a little flushed.
“It is done for the day,” Mahart said. “Now what have we before us?”
“The Mistress of the Robes, Your Grace. As you remember, at last fitting your train would not lie flat.”
Mahart sniffed. “Might as well clothe me in armor—these state robes are near as heavy. Very well—let us go.”
She was always glad to get away from this guard section. There was a grimness about it which made her uneasy, and twice she raised the pomander which swung on its girdle chain to sniff at the fragrance it held.
“Your Grace?”
Mahart looked inquiringly at her companion. At least Zuta had dropped that fold of shawl so she could see her plainly.
“Yes?” she prompted when the girl did not continue.
“It is nothing—only just talk as usual. Concerning the ball. The High Lady Saylana—she is sometimes in despair of her son—”
Mahart grinned. “As well she might be, lumbering fool!”
To her surprise Zuta glanced swiftly around. “Your Grace"—now her voice was hardly above a whisper. “It is said—and has been proven—that castle walls have ears—and tongues.”
Mahart grasped the pomander more tightly. That was really a bald hint as far as Zuta was concerned. Mahart hesitated before she asked in as low a voice as the other had used: “It is that perhaps the High Lady has some plan?”
Marriage—her father had spoken of marriage! Could it be that he would strive to brace up what he considered to be a shaky ducal throne by uniting her with Barbric? Her jaw set a little. She had been her father’s tool, but there were some things—
“It is to favor the Lord Barbric.” Zuta’s now-whispered words came in a rush. ‘‘When you open the ball,
all know the Duke will not lead you out—as is usual. It has always been known that he disdains such niceties.”
“And I certainly cannot dance alone.” Mahart tried to think of pacing through the stately steps allowed the ducal family and almost laughed at the picture her imagination painted of her father indulging in such a show. No, he would remain firmly on his throne, as uncomfortable there as ever, enduring that he must be present.
“His Highness must signify that you choose your partner,” Zuta was continuing.
“And Barbric will be well ahead of the line,” Mahart snapped.
“He will be the only one protocol will permit you to select,” Zuta said. “Your Grace knows well that His Highness has enemies in plenty. Should you choose without due thought, you might well alienate some family he wishes to bring into his party.”
That was true enough, Mahart had to conclude. So be it—Barbric must be her choice. Luckily in the stately paces of the opening dance one did not have to approach one’s partner past the touching of hands at the end of outstretched arms. It was deadly dull, as she knew from the hours she had been drilled in its turns—deep curtsey to answer deeper bows, and the final delivery of her to her proper dais seat.
She shrugged now. “I shall remember, Zuta. But what will be my father’s answer to this bit of diplomacy?”
“His Highness cannot deny your choice, Your Grace. It will be the only proper one.”
It seemed in the days which passed all too swiftly that there were a great many proper choices to be remembered. She hated the heavy robes which weighed so on her slender body. They had a session in which her hair had to be tamed into a coiffure which would allow a wide tiara to be anchored to it. At least the Master of Horse had at last released her, doubtless having reported to her father that she would not disgrace their name by sliding out of the saddle.
Twice she ordered Zuta to see that she was supplied with that night-burning incense which produced in her soothing and restful dreams, and the last supply sent was one large enough that she could have it burnt for three nights running.