by Andre Norton
“Yur lady, she won’t get no more cold wind through this.” The older of the two men slapped another dollop over the wood. “Takes a lotta doin’, it does, to keep up this here old pile of stones. Watch what yur a-doin’, lump, the young wench don’t want none o’ that stuff spottin’ her skirts, now do you, missy?”
Willadene had carefully avoided the somewhat wide swing of the laborer’s assistant. He had been distracted, she saw, by their own entrance and flushed a dull red when Willadene looked in his direction, leaning quickly over the pot for another load on his trowel.
Julta sniffed. “What a muck you be makin’ here, Jonas. Will take us half a seven night to be clearin’ it. Mistress"—she spoke directly to Willadene—"now you just set that there bag of yourn in this wardrobe. Ain’t no clumsy-footed man a goin’ to kick it over when in there.”
Willadene obeyed instructions. Certainly in this hubbub there could be no unpacking of her wares at present. Then—she took time to straighten from putting her bag into the dark cupboard Julta had indicated.
Evil! At first she thought that trace came from the interior of the wardrobe. But no, the source was somewhere behind her. She turned to shut the door on her possessions and used that action to give a quick glance about the room.
The room—no, it came from— She made herself look inquiringly at Julta as if waiting further instructions. But she was sure. Just as the evil had touched and clung to Figis from the inn so did it lie here under the sweat and body odor of the red-faced boy. Yet there was nothing about him to suggest the same sly waywardness Figis had always shown.
13
This was not so strong and sickening as had been the assault upon her senses when she had been in that other tower room. And Willadene found it very hard to believe that this Jonas could have anything to do with that hand which had loosed blackness upon them. His hand was not that of a woman nor could she conceive of his being akin to what small sight she had caught of their menace then. Yet she could not be mistaken.
“Lay it on smooth, boy—” The master workman had drawn aside a little when he saw that they still lingered to watch the ongoing labor.
Knowing that a too-quick or unthinking move might reveal her, Willadene somehow produced a look of slight interest.
“Are all the walls to be served so?” she asked. “It is well away now from the Great Cold, which ought to give you time—”
The man laughed, showing stubs of blackened teeth. “All these walls, young miss? ’Twould take a full army of us to do that. No, we put a patch here an’ a patch there as we-uns have done, an’ our dads a-fore us, an’ it serves for a while.”
She had managed to take a step or two closer to the bucket of plaster. The odors which arose from that—she would take oath that, unpleasant as they might be, none were what she sought. No, her faint warning came from the young man. But what could she do—denounce him here and now? With what proof? It would avail her nothing except to uncover the very secrets she had been sworn to keep.
Before she could make any decision the matter was taken out of her control when the master sent his assistant off for more supplies. As he passed her Jonas did not glance in her direction but slouched out, seemingly intent only on the near empty bucket in his large hands.
‘‘Faugh.’’ Julta spat out what might have been a mouthful of the all-pervading dust. “Stay here, girl, and this stuff will give you a powdering far from any your mistress would contrive.”
So Willadene followed on the maid’s heels again from the disarrayed room. Halwice had provided her with one way of communication. By the resounding boom of the city bell she could make use of that now and she would, even if she had only a wisp of evidence to offer.
Julta did not seem surprised when she asked the way to the Lord Chancellor’s suite where her mistress was supposed to be in attendance. Since the High Lady had dismissed her, Willadene was entitled to at least the freedom of the tower and the chamber she would seek beyond that.
Listening carefully to complicated directions concerning this corridor and that door, Willadene hoped she was memorizing Julta’s words correctly.
“It is near noon time,” the maid ended. “If you would eat, do so now. You can seek out your mistress after, for Her Grace has not definitely summoned you back.”
Willadene’s empty middle (she had not been able to finish her bowl of porridge that morning with such an ordeal before her) urged her to follow the maid’s advice, and Julta’s spare figure, down two flights of stairs, along a corridor, and at last into a room where there was a great deal of noise and confusion.
All the servants of the castle did not eat together, Willadene gathered. Those of the upper class, who dealt directly with the Duke or either of the ladies, had their own trestle table set up at one end of the room, and it was to that Julta beckoned her, making her known, in a perfunctory fashion, to the Duke’s head footman and a herald who moved down the long bench enough to let them be seated.
The babble of talk was loud enough to make regular conversation impossible without shouting, thought Willadene, used as she was to the quiet of the herb shop. It rivaled that clamor which hurt the ears of all who served wayfarers in the inn when one of the big merchant trains had just arrived in time for a meal.
After the first few words she had been able to sort out, Willadene gathered that the subject engaging those about her was a single one—the arrival of Prince Lorien and his guardsmen. And her present table companions were certainly loud in their agreement concerning the effect of such a visit on Kronengred.
She broke the crust of a meat tart with the edge of her spoon and sniffed with pleasure. Here was not any too-old meat or second-day vegetables. The food was good and the portions hearty, though a single sip of the ale in the tankard at her place warned her it was far too strong and bitter for her liking.
“They say he brought down the Wolf with his own hand!” declared the footman. “I heard as Sergeant Henicus has said he is like his grandfather—old King Wansal— no hanging around the court, playing the pretty for the maids for him!”
The herald grunted and then swallowed so he could speak more clearly. “They say as how there are them at the court that could do with less soldiering. The High Prince Ranald takes only to the field for the spring maneuvers—”
“And those,” cut in the footman, “are largely play, as I have heard tell from one just returned with the last caravan. They have no outlaws to hunt.”
“Would we could say the same. Now in Duke Wubric’s day it was different.”
“Yes,” cut in another voice from across the board. Willadene, after a quick glance to identify the speaker, dropped her eyes modestly to her plate while she listened as best she could under the fogging of clamor.
“Yes,” the speaker repeated. “Our late gracious lord was a mighty one with sword and spear in his time. Are there any wreckers who dare now to ply their traffic along Southcoast?”
He was a younger man than the other two, slender and dark of hair, and he moved with an odd deliberation, Willadene learned in cautious quick glances. Then he looked directly at her and she near choked on the bite of sweet bread into which she had just set her teeth.
Though he was dressed in the sober rust-brown clothing of a scribe and there was even a spot of ink on the hand holding his spoon, this was—but how could it be?—Nicolas!
Halwice’s skills were great, to be sure, but to return a badly wounded man to this apparent unhurt outward seeming was more than Willadene could accept. However, she noted the stiffness of his upper body, that he was eating slowly, as if to raise a loaded spoon or a chunk of bread to his lips was something of an effort.
There was no recognition in his glance at her, and she took that as a warning. However, apparently his comment on their past ruler was not altogether accepted by the other two opposite him.
“You speak free of one of Lord Vazul’s household,” the herald commented, and the girl could see he was watching Nicolas almost warily.
“Now that is a remark which is interesting.” Nicolas shifted a little on his bench perch as if hunting some ease which he could not find. “Certainly the wreckers were of no benefit to Kronen—any more than the Red Wolf of whom Prince Lorien has so prudently deprived us.”
“The coast watch has had half its force withdrawn. What do they now? patrol the harbor streets seeking— what—rats out of ships decaying at their moorings? There are reports from the south that lure lights have been seen again,” the herald said sourly.
Nicolas grinned. “Oh, but our Lord Duke may have the answer already on his way to us. After a spot of outlaw harrying the Prince might indeed welcome a change of scene and opponents.”
The footman was frowning and the herald flushed. “We shed our protection now until we have to depend upon outsiders for aid. And why? What danger stalks within the walls of Kronengred which the Duke fears so much he must draw all our troops homeward? There is talk in the town—Lord Vazul should know—is he not of a merchant clan? We live on our trade and our Lord Duke—”
He hesitated and Nicolas, still smiling but in a way Willadene could not like, asked: “And our Lord Duke does what is best for the city—even as he swore at his crowning. You speak of rats in ships, my friends. There are such to be found elsewhere also. Who knows what lure lights have been set and where?”
He was deliberately baiting the man now, the girl knew, and she could not guess his purpose. Nicolas was certainly Vazul’s man and so the Duke’s—but his comments now could be taken for covert criticism of them both. Was he trying to get disloyal answers?
He was getting to his feet, in a manner which might have suggested taking leisurely leave of the company. Only she could read signs enough to guess that only his will kept his body under control. Every healer’s instinct made her want to go to him—to make sure that the insanity of his being here now had not again opened his wound. But once more her own need for cover kept her where she was, though her hunger disappeared as she watched him walk away.
“Provocateur.” The herald watched him with narrowed eyes. “I say that there are too many talking behind their hands and striving to entangle honest men in nets these days. At least we know that the Prince has no stake in games played here.”
He arose in turn, but Willadene did not miss the smirk on the footman’s fleshy face as he watched his late companion depart. Instinctively she called upon the higher sense. She did not know what really lay among the words she had just overheard, but that they might have second meanings she could guess.
Now the footman turned to Julta as if the maid had just seated herself. He had been peeling an apple neatly, and now he quartered it and extended one portion to her on the tip of his knife with a courtly flourish.
“Your lady prepares to welcome the hero?” he asked in a playful tone.
Julta did not appear to notice the offering he would make her; instead she arose abruptly and Willadene was only too ready to follow her.
“As does yours also.” The maid laughed with no humor and swept away. As Willadene caught up with her, she said grudgingly, as if she did not wish to share the information but believed she must, “He is of the High Lady Saylana’s following—recently come to her from the household of Lord Brutain.” Now she smiled one-sidedly. “The High Lady has a liking for lusty men in her livery.”
If Julta had thought to rid herself of the footman she failed. Apple and knife discarded he caught step beside the maid so closely that Willadene, now flanking her guide, was able to catch every word he said.
“Hoity-toity are we, mistress? There are them as ruled here before your lady gave her first birth squall. Best watch your manners—”
“And you, yours, lackey!” snapped Julta.
He was still grinning. “Cat claws.” He laughed.
“You’d be a handsome piece like as not if you’d give over frowning. Try it some time.”
Julta took a long step ahead and reached out as she went to draw Willadene with her. “Now that is the way—”
Ignoring the footman she nodded toward another door than the one by which they had entered.
However, when Willadene turned in that direction, glad to be away from the sly teasing of the footman, she discovered she was not able to escape so easily. For he abandoned Julta and bore down on her.
“You’re a pretty little piece—Julta should take lessons from you. And where might you be going now? We’ve heard as how the High Lady Mahart is housing you for the while— This is not the way back to her quarters.”
“She is not of the household,” Julta said quickly. “Her mistress is here and she must see her.”
“Yes. Old long-tooth Vazul has a rheum. Doubtless that snake thing of his gave him a bite,” drawled the footman. “Well enough, as it just happens, young miss, your way and mine run together. I’ll just go along with you that you do not become mazed by all the twists and turns in this old pile.”
Willadene was at a loss as to how to refuse such an offer. Julta was really scowling, and it seemed to the girl that that expression was divided between her and the footman. Before she could say anything, Julta, with a swirl of her skirts, turned away and was gone, and Willadene hesitated to attract any attention by trying to follow, especially since she had been informed that her goal was in the opposite direction.
“The Lord Chancellor"—before she could move the footman had taken her by the upper arm and was actually propelling her forward—"now one would have said he was forged of steel—never ailed before that I have heard. Bad enough to have your mistress in, is he?”
“I do not know how he fares,” she returned and somehow freed herself of his grasp.
Again the footman snickered. “There won’t be many long faces hereabouts if he has taken to his bed for a space. Has the tongue of Jemu, he has, and that snaky thing of his makes a man’s skin crawl. They say as how you’ve come to make a beauty of our High Lady.” He changed the subject and the girl had a feeling that now he spoke with some purpose. “ ’Course no man can say that the Lady Saylana does not outshine her—”
It was as if he was trying in some manner to pry into her thoughts. Yet she sniffed no touch of that elusive evil in him.
“I have not seen your High Lady Saylana,” she returned evenly.
“But she would like to see you.”
This time Willadene was on guard, able to evade his grab for her arm. Was he trying to drag her off for some interview with his formidable lady?
“I obey the orders of the Herbmistress Halwice.” She hoped her voice sounded prim enough to make him believe that he dealt with a simple serving girl. “If the High Lady Saylana wishes to see me—which I do not think she would since I am but an apprentice and my mistress would be better equipped to answer any questions—then it must be Mistress Halwice who sends me.”
“You’re an ignorant wench,” he returned. “You might be favored by one far more powerful. Better think on it, girl. No one ever made a fortune by turning a back on opportunity when it offers itself. The High Lady Saylana would be a far better customer for your wares, and even that flat-faced mistress of yours would agree to that.”
The spite in his speech seemed overpuffed, as if he had been defeated where he had expected no trouble at all. Certainly their meeting at the dining table must have been by chance. But then had this newcomer to the Lady Saylana’s household perhaps heard some exaggerated chatter about what Willadene had to offer and decided to please his new mistress by producing her?
“I go where I am sent,” she returned. “And now I go to my mistress.”
“You can go to the Hang Door of Grubber for all of me,” he snapped and turned away, but not swiftly, and she had a strong idea that he would follow to make sure she was going to the Lord Chancellor’s quarters. However, at present she had to concentrate on the directions Julta had supplied.
That she had been right in her surmise she knew, until at last he did disappear down another hallway, though she could not be s
ure he was still not lurking on her trail.
Here other footmen stood guard, and perhaps he had no wish to be seen by them. Willadene counted doors and then said to the tall livery-coated man who stood by the third, “The Herbmistress Halwice is my mistress. She wishes to see me.”
He appeared to continue to stare over her head, but he took one step to the right so that the door was directly behind him and tapped softly upon it three times.
“Name?” he asked, and she gave it promptly, aware there was now a crack of opening showing. A moment later she was ushered in.
Far from being bedbound the Lord Chancellor sat in a chair nearly as stately as a throne, one meant to have judgments uttered from. Facing him on a far less pretentious seat was Nicolas and, to one side, Halwice was delving into her healer’s bag.
She could believe that Nicolas was fighting to keep erect and face his mentor straightly and that that action was drawing deeply on what energy he had left. Halwice came swiftly to him with a small cup in one hand. Paying no attention to Vazul she stood over the young man and ordered: “Drink it—to the last drop!”
By its scent what she had poured for him was a powerful restorative, Willadene recognized. But why in his weakened condition he had gone to the eating hall she had no idea. And it seemed that no explanation was to be made to her, for Halwice’s attention was now on the girl as she demanded: “What have you discovered? Has the High Lady accepted you without question?”
“She has accepted me, yes, mistress, and she is much pleased with what I have brought. As to what I have discovered—” She gathered that she was to speak openly in this company. “I was taken to her chamber with that I had brought. But there were workmen there, busied on the wall, and one of them—his master called him Jonas—had the smell, not strong, but he has dealt in some way with the Dark.”
Nicolas turned his head to stare at her, and Vazul leaned forward in his chair, though Halwice showed no sign of surprise—she could have been expecting some such report. Around the Lord Chancellor’s wrist that wide black bracelet stared, and yellow eyes regarded her.