by Andre Norton
Near his head, on the top of a convenient box, there were set out a squad of bottles and one or two jars, most of them now open. For the woman who knelt on one side of the man was busy dressing what Mahart could only guess, from the little she could see, to be a wound. However, the woman had aid in her work, for it was Vazul himself who was lifting and turning the man’s body in answer to her instructions.
Having made fast the last tag of bandage, the healer sat back on her heels so that Mahart could see her clearly for the first time—Halwice, the Herbmistress! And Vazul, whom she was supposed to be tending, was in fact the tender of this other at her direction.
“Finished pulling me to shreds, mistress? And what is your verdict— When shall the Bat fly free again?”
“You have the sense enough to answer that for yourself, young man,” she told her patient. “Getting you hither undid some of the work of healing. You will go about your business when the Star affords you a stout body again.”
The dark head on the pallet turned. Mahart was certain that she had never before seen that face, half masked as it was now by a dark stubble of beard. Yet here he lay in the very heart of the castle, with not only the Herbmistress but Vazul himself concerned enough to tend him. He was young, she thought, and not too ill-looking for all his neglect of person. Of course she had no knowledge of all her father’s servitors—only those who had come under her eyes—and he could even have been one of the courtiers she had not noticed before.
Only why was he concealed here—in the top room of the tower which had always been the quarters of the Duke’s daughters? She could not believe that even Vazul could have brought him here secretly without her father’s permission.
It was Halwice whose head turned now—until she faced the wall of the peephole through which Mahart spied. And there was knowledge in her face which the girl quickly recognized for that of discovery. Before she could move from her own cramped position, the Herbmistress was on her feet and, in two swift strides, reached the other wall.
There came a sharp click and the panel against which Mahart had been steadying herself moved, making her lose her balance and tumble forward as the woman seized upon her.
“Ssssaaa.” Vazul’s creature raised her head from the covers on the pallet, gem-point eyes surveying her.
“Your Grace—” It was the Chancellor who found words first. “How—” he began and then hesitated. As during her sessions with him when he had so covertly drawn her attention to the pitfalls of the court, he was watching her with that level, measuring stare.
Halwice dropped her hold on Mahart’s shoulder, and the girl drew herself up. She might have stumbled on a secret, but certainly she had done no wrong and she did not intend to be treated like some skulker of the night.
“I found the way—” she made a vague gesture behind her toward the open panel “—because I heard sounds in the walls.”
A moment later she was startled by the effect those words had on the two confronting her. She might as well have said she had been directed by a specter.
“Sounds in the wall?” Vazul broke the short silence first. “What kinds of sounds, Your Grace?”
“Like a brush of something against a wall, and tonight there was also a ring, such as steel makes when it meets stone.”
“You say tonight,” Halwice broke in. “Then you have heard such before? Enough to awaken you—?” Her surprise was quickly hidden but not before Mahart had seen it.
“And metal against stone—” That was the Chancellor. Now that she could see him clearly, Mahart was well aware that in his belt sheath there was only the customary hand knife, and he would have had to contort his body to bring that in contact with the stones.
“When is a secret not a secret?” The man they had been tending had raised himself a little sidewise, keen gray eyes sharp upon her. “Do we now scuttle for another hole?”
“Mistress"—Vazul looked to Halwice—"what can your skill tell us?”
“Not as much as we could wish. I have talent to be sure, but not such as a true nose can summon.”
“Do what you can.” Vazul’s voice did not have the ring of a real order but rather as if he spoke to an equal engaged in a shared purpose.
Halwice pushed past Mahart and ducked through the panel door. From the sounds, for all those within the room were very still, it seemed that she descended a step or so and then climbed those two steps farther up, which must somehow give upon the roof.
“Ssssaaa!” Vazul’s creature scuttled past Mahart also and stood just within the opening. Her long neck lifted, her narrow head raised at what seemed an impossible angle.
Then Halwice was back and the creature moved to one side.
“Well?” Vazul demanded.
“Yes, there have been others, at least two,” she said with obvious reluctance. “But I have not the power to sniff them out. Only—” She paused and then proceeded, her voice now lacking any tone. “Only Willadene might be able to pick up such. As I have told you, Chancellor, one with her gift is born perhaps once in a century. There are many who can identify separate odors at a sniff but, as you know, she can also sense the smell of evil abroad.”
“She has a mighty hand with a pepper mill too.” The wounded man gave a small shaky laugh. “But what would you have her do? Line up the full court, nobles and servants alike, and sniff them out? I have heard the old tales of witch-hunting which went so, but those are centuries past.”
“No—” Halwice said slowly. “But tonight’s happenings must be our guide. Your Grace"—now she addressed Mahart directly—"you have sent to me many orders in the past. Now before us lies a time of fêtes and perhaps much gaiety. Suppose you ask of His Highness that my establishment be applied to for those lures which are available. Then Willadene can be sent to you with such a consignment and perhaps be attached to your household as an expert in such adornments—at least for a space.
“Knowing the High Lady Saylana, she will be first to notice such an addition to your retinue, and also she will be avid to learn what new goods there might be to be offered.
“But if you agree, Your Grace, there is also a warning. Already some of my wares have been tampered with and only due to Willadene has mischief been defeated. Herb craft is a very old learning, and it has its dark side as well—it can kill as well as cure. Therefore I would advise you, should this plan be agreed upon, not to have dealings with any such mixtures as Willadene herself has not passed upon as being free of any meddling.”
Vazul nodded. Ssssaaa had climbed back to his collar again, and there was a very purposeful look on the Chancellor’s face.
“It would seem that what you suggest, mistress, is our best answer. Your Grace?”
“Yes, I agree. But also—I do not like hallways and steps within walls, ones through which my own rooms may be easily reached.” If Halwice recommended this girl she could believe in her and the powers the Herbmistress credited her with. However, she felt exposed to something she could not put name to when she thought about that panel she had so impulsively opened and the fact that there were secrets beyond secrets in the very walls which had once seemed so safe.
Vazul was nodding. “That can be remedied, Your Grace. The secret inner fastenings of these doors are known to us. You need have no fear of any trouble thereby. It is near morning. After your maid comes to awaken you there will be a message that while you are at breakfast with His Highness there will be workmen in your room. Their purpose will be to install a special new cabinet since your wardrobe will of necessity be continually added to. This will completely barricade the panel so that it will need a squad of workmen to ever force it open again. But first they will plaster the wall.
“Now.” He looked down at the young man lying at his feet. “We must also see you safe. Since the wallway seems to be known beyond our own circle we shall place you where you will not be discovered inadvertently—in my own suite. In fact in my own bed. For I shall continue to ail for a day or so until you are on your f
eet again. Your Grace, if you will return to your own chamber—’’
Mahart prickled inside. This was as if he were giving some child instructions for proper conduct. However, it would seem that she was not to have any further hand in this particular part of any game Vazul was playing, and she remembered with a start that she must do something to hide the traces of her own activities below. Nodding in agreement she squeezed once more through the secret panel and found her way back to her chamber, where she busied herself hastily with what had to be done.
Willadene awoke, but somehow the fragrance of her dream seemed to last past her duties of the morning— even after she opened the store. Halwice had left on the order slate some instructions for simple remedies which might be exhausted and these she put together even before the Second Bell boomed out over the town. But she longed for the return of the Herbmistress. She herself knew so little and customers would begin to question if she were the only one seen in the shop. She was sure that a number would not trust her judgment—certainly the doctors would not.
But it was none of the doctors who was to begin this day with wreckage. She had cleared away most of the orders as well as prepared three simple remedies herself when there was a stir outside the door of the shop, and a moment later a young man in noble’s street finery came in, accompanied by two others of his kind, though not so brightly dressed.
They stared about them contemptuously. One of them pulled down a braided cord of dried stalks, sniffed at it, made a face, and tossed it onto the floor, where one of his companions trod upon it. The leader of the trio leaned across the counter and, before Willadene could dodge, thrust two fingers under her chin and jerked her head up, his thick lips sneering as he looked at her.
“Where’s the old witch, slut?” His speech was slurred and, early as it was in the day, she could smell the heaviness of wine—as well as a faint trace of that other thing— the darkness which frightened her.
“The Herbmistress Halwice"—she had pulled away from his hold on her chin—"has been summoned to the castle. How can I serve you?”
He grinned, and that was echoed by his companions.
“Were you not a dirty little serving wench you might just give us a jog or two,” he drawled.
“That’s telling her, Lord Barbric,” commented one of the others. “But it’s not getting you anything—”
“So,” Barbric said (she had never seen him, but she had heard enough of his roustering, his spite, and his mishandling of commoners to understand who she now dealt with to her inner despair), ‘‘look me out, wench, that scent as will make every woman’s eye turn toward me willingly. They say your mistress knows it well—Heart-Hold.”
Willadene summoned all her courage. “Lord, that is but an old tale. No dealer in herbs has ever seen or heard of it these three hundred years or more.”
His hand lifted and before she could dodge he slapped her so viciously that she fell back against the cupboard-studded wall behind her, her cheek feeling fiery with pain.
“You tell your witch mistress, what I want I get and she had better remember that. To give her a little proof—” He gave a sudden nod and the two with him swept from the fore shelf display in the shop the fine bottles, each one one of its kind, to smash on the floor. The fragrances they had held were thick enough to make one dizzy. Over the wreckage Barbric and his friends crunched their way into the outer air.
12
Sickened, Willadene surveyed the costly wreckage upon the floor. There was no use, she knew, as she nursed one hand against her smarting cheek, in calling the Reeve’s guard. They would no more lay the hands of justice on that trio than they would sprout wings and fly. The son of the High Lady Saylana was indeed above any complaint a merchant might make. There had been cases before when young drunken lords had preyed upon shopkeepers, but any justice was served quietly thereafter by some responsible member of their House settling outside the Reeve’s court with the plaintiff. And somehow she was sure that for this destruction there would be no such recompense.
Slowly she went into the back room for broom and basket and came back to work. The larger pieces she picked up, here running fingers over the back and part of one wing of a headless swan, there sickened by the sight of cracked petals. It took some time to clear the floor. At least no customers intruded. That made her happy at first and then she realized that those in the neighboring houses and shops might well have recognized the vandals and wanted nothing to do with their victim. It was safer to look the other way when one from the Great Houses made trouble for a commoner.
Willadene had swept the floor for the third time, trying to work loose the smallest slivers of broken glass, when someone did at last darken the doorway, and she looked up quickly.
Halwice, her sturdy faring-forth cloak about her, the bulging bag of her supplies in hand, stood there. It was plain she had already noted the half-full basket of broken china and glass, the empty shelves in the street window.
Willadene felt guilty, even though she knew that there had been no way she could have protected those precious possessions.
“Bring a wet cloth.” Halwice spoke calmly as if this was a catastrophe she was well used to dealing with. “Lay it across the boards and press lightly. That will bring up some of the splinters, but be careful of your hands. And to whom do we owe this attack—and why?”
She had shrugged off her cloak and set down her bag on the counter while Willadene hurried to the inner room for the cloth she dipped into the water bucket and wrung out. It was not until she returned that the girl answered that question.
“My Lord Barbric, mistress. He was well gone in liquor and there were two with him—nobles also, I think.”
“Come here, child.” Halwice held out her hand, and now her fingers tightened around Willadene’s chin as she turned the girl’s face to the full light.
“This mark he left on you also?” she asked. “What was he in search of?”
“Mistress, he spoke of Heart-Hold. And when I said that was naught but a tale he—”
“He seeks that?” Halwice was frowning but, Willadene knew, not at her. “He—or she who sent him, grows bolder—out of strength they have gathered, or because time presses in upon them now?”
Willadene could give no answer to questions she did not understand. Still keeping hold on her the Herbmistress reached for a pot on a nearby shelf and used her teeth to loose its lid. Then, dipping a finger deeply into the thick jelly inside, she swept that across Willadene’s cheek. Though the girl flinched at the pain of the touch, light as it was, Halwice held her head steady until she had finished.
“It is well you will be out of here!” she said forcefully when she had done. “Put down that cloth of splinters and come—’’
Willadene quickly obeyed, swift to follow Halwice behind the curtain to the inner chamber.
“Sit—and listen well,” the Herbmistress ordered. “There is that which only you can do.”
She herself knelt by the long chest, pulling out folds of bedding and garments of a brighter hue than Willadene had ever seen her wear—almost as if some lady’s wardrobe had been stored so. As she worked she talked, and Willadene unconsciously moved her stool the closer to listen.
“Your talent is needed, my girl, and it may be of great importance. There is certainly trouble to be sniffed out— trouble such as you have already met by scent among those towers above us. The Duke has his secrets—one you have seen in person—that one who has served him well— nearly to the death.”
“Nicolas?” Willadene said the name as the Herbmistress paused.
“Nicolas,” confirmed Halwice, “and we should thank the Star that he was found in time. But this is another matter. The Duke seeks a new kind of protection for the High Lady Mahart. She may be in very grave danger indeed, one which only such a talent as yours can sniff out. It is His Highness’s will that you for a time join Her Grace’s household. To all who question it will be told that you are bringing her some new preparations an
d there is need in instructing her waiting maids in their use as well as matching certain fragrances and the like to gowns being prepared for the visit of Prince Lorien, the great victory ball and other festivities.
“This you are fully trained to do. If it is possible, gain the High Lady’s confidence even in a little. But this is the most important: you must be ever ready with your talent to make sure that no evil draws near her—not only because she is her father’s daughter and High Lady but also because she is one who truly follows the Star Path and will, I believe, in the future bring good to this land and its people.”
Willadene, remembering that serpent of green light, felt for her amulet, and it was as if Halwice read her mind.
“You will be given what protections are possible, not only for yourself but for her. Above all—learn her personal scent—not just the fragrances she favors—so that you know her in our own fashion as granted by the talent. Now—”
She had pulled a last flat bag from the depths of the chest. Lifting it onto the cupboard bed she unfastened the end and began to pull out a folded length of cloth, all in shades of green varying from that of plants to the leaves of trees. And her stirring of this released the scent of lavender and, what Willadene had come to know as a foreign import of high value, sandlewood.
Unfolded to its farthest extent the cloth was revealed as clothing. The palest green, soft in folds, made up two chemises. There were then two petticoats of a slightly darker shade, and, last of all, two gowns, plain of any embellishment until Halwice lifted the nearest and there was a gleam of deep purple and silver somewhat tarnished by time— High on the left side of the laced bodice this revealed itself fully as a circlet of violets picked out with silver leaves.
Such were no garments for one of Halwice’s height nor would those skirts meet around her. She shook out each piece and surveyed it critically as if in search of some flaw and then said: “In earlier days those of our guild (there were more of us then) had our own robes for meetings and feast days. Now"—she shrugged—"I am known. Why should I wear livery for myself alone? But these were my journeymaid dresses and you shall do us proud at the castle so that none can sneer at your outward seeming.”