by Andre Norton
Nicolas lifted the small bar and silently set it to one side. He placed his palm against the wood and, knife in hand, exerted just enough pressure to open the door a crack and thus assure them that they were not locked in.
Willadene caught suddenly at his arm, drawing his body closer to hers so that she could whisper in his ear.
“This is the Wanderers Inn—or rather its cellar. Never in my life can I forget that!”
18
Cold, she was so cold—and her mouth felt as if she had had ashes forced down her gullet. Mahart tried to summon up energy enough to raise even a finger. Dark—her face was nearly covered with a nasty-smelling slimed rag.
She was so thirsty she could have croaked aloud for water, but even that was denied her. The cold flowed about her like fingers of wind tearing at her.
Outside—surely she was outside, beyond the maze of ways they had dragged her like a horse pack.
Ishbi—he said it—
Somehow those words had penetrated through the torments of her inert body to reach her mind.
“Sling her over the pack mare an’ let’s get a-goin’, then.”
She had been lifted with no gentleness and then had landed hard, facedown across some kind of a frame. However, that maneuver had in a fraction served her a little. The cover on her head had caught on some projection and been jerked free. Those who had left her ignominiously slung over a pack animal had not seemed to notice.
The daylight had hurt her eyes. And all she could see was one horse leg lifting up and plopping down again as she was carried jokingly forward. But there had been no cobbles under that hoof, and the wind which still ruffled across her body, lashed as it now was like a deer carcass, had carried no city taint. They were certainly out of Kronengred.
She had heard voices, but now the words did not hold in her mind but faded in and out—and she had slipped again into the waiting darkness.
Mahart flinched from a dash of water in her face. She could blurrily see figures moving about her. One knelt and now caught fingers in her matted hair, pulling up her head and bruising her lips by the force with which he pressed a cup against them.
“Grissand damn you fools! She wants her alive—not dead— One cannot bargain with nothing! Get a cloak about her and have some of that stew ready— If she does not make it to Ishbi you’ll soon find out who will answer for it!”
He let her drink and then held the cup away, though she protested weakly. Someone she could not see dropped folds of a traveling cloak about her, and she realized that her night robe was near a tattered net now.
They had propped her up, maybe with the pack saddle at her back, and, as the water revived her, she could see more of this company. He with the water bag filled the cup again and held it for her.
“Sip only, or it will come up as fast as it went down!” he warned her.
Though he wore a mail shirt under a quilted leather jerkin and a bowl-smooth helm he was certainly not of the guards she knew. A bush of yellowish beard sprouted wirily from his chin, and above his thick-lipped mouth his nose was dented as if it had been broken in some long ago encounter. There was certainly no sign of compassion in his eyes, the lid of one drawn crooked by a scar. She might have been some animal he tended under orders.
There were at least three others who passed back and forth about what appeared to be a temporary campsite. Over a fire a pot was heating and she could hear the stamping of horses not too far away.
“Got a fancy for her, Rufus? She ain’t much of an armload. But it ain’t every Tenth as can say he’s had him a High Lady for bedding—”
Suddenly her mouth was dry again, her eyes intent on that face not so far from hers. The man who had come up behind him was much younger, with a sharp set of features as might suit a rat. He wore no armor but rather a travel-stained and smudged set of livery— Blue—silver—
Without a word the man by her side set down the cup and arose with agile ease to backhand the boy, who uttered a loud cry of pain and rage.
“Stow it, trash,” remarked the soldier. “Got that stew ready, Jonas?”
Another young man with a small bowl dipped and brought it half full. Steam filled that air and just as thirst had earlier held her captive now so did hunger arise in her hollow middle.
Mahart discovered that her hands, her arms would now obey her. If she had been roped those bonds had been removed, if something else had held her it had faded.
She held out her shaking hands to cup the bowl.
“It’s hot,” Yellow Beard said. “Take it easy.” Now he turned on the others who had gathered around the fire and were waiting for their own shares. “You listen and you listen good. We has our orders. Want to argue them out with her?”
There was a murmur from the young man he had buffeted. “I be for Wyche—”
Yellow Beard laughed harshly. “Now, I’ll just make believe, ’cause you’re young an’ green, as how I did not hear that. Your Wyche may be a strutful man in town—but only ’cause she wills it so for now. An’ to get on her I wrong side—” He paused. “Now that is something as I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy! We has these orders: to take this wench to Ishbi and turn her over to the guard—no more no less. An’ she had better be alive when we do that turnin’.”
Having so made plain their orders, he came back to Mahart.
“Now, you. She wants you—that’s enough for me. Can you stick on a horse? Riding like a pack won’t do you much good.”
“I can ride.” She could not be sure of that, but if there was any way she could escape the trials just past she would will herself to the greatest effort she could summon. She made her first move by levering her shoulders away from the support, bracing her arms on either side of her body.
The world slung around. Mahart bit her lip until all settled down. Certainly she was far from all she had ever known. There were trees towering around this small glade and a sense that her kind did not belong here. She watched those by the fire. There were five of them, including Yellow Beard who was clearly in command. She had recognized now the livery worn by the youngest man—Saylana’s. This “She” Yellow Beard kept mentioning—the High Lady Saylana?—somehow it was near impossible to think of her as being associated in any way (in spite of all the strangest rumors) with these outcasts.
Ishbi—the name continued to haunt her— From her reading in the past— Ishbi—
Only there was something more important now—the journey which apparently still lay ahead of her. That there would be any reason or hope for appealing to her captors she quickly put aside. She must school herself to patience and watch for any act or chance that might work in her favor.
Luckily they lingered for some time over their meal. Unfortunately, they did not appear to be too talkative a lot and she could not hope for answers to the questions which she tried to push to one side.
However, when they were ready to move on Yellow Beard ordered a pack frame to be left and a blanket placed instead on the back of a head-hanging horse, the lead rope of which he took into his own charge, drawing her up beside his own mount, the others behind them.
Mahart held her cloak as closely as she could about her, not only for protection against the wandering breezes but also because she realized that it was now nearly the only garment she possessed.
They went at a steady pace but not a swift one, and twice they halted while one or other of the party detoured to one side to inspect the trunk of a tree, as if they so followed some mark, for it was very apparent they were not on any used trail.
At last the countryside about them began to change. There were fewer of the tall trees and more brush, the thicker patches of which they had to avoid. But there were also outcroppings of rocks. These bore no resemblance to the stones of Kronengred, for those were dull gray while these had a greenish cast and were also veined with wider stripes of the same color but of a darker shade.
Some arose like miniature cliffs walling them in at times, and there was life here—li
zardlike creatures who clung head downward to the stones and seemed to watch them intently with beady eyes, as if they were fully aware their territory was under invasion. There were birds that wheeled and soared overhead also, sometimes swooping so close to the earth as if to alight on a rock outcrop—though they never did.
Mahart’s body ached from head to foot. They had stiff leather bottles of water hung from their saddles, and from time to time Yellow Beard offered her a drink from his.
She judged by the light that sunset was close, and yet they made no move toward setting up camp. How long had it been since she had lain herself down on her own bed in Kronengred? She had no way of knowing.
At last the passage ahead began to narrow, those standing crags drawing in closer together until they seemed to form two walls between which their party rode. However, here there was a change in those rocks. The deeper-colored veins did not ran smoothly but bore deep incisions here and there, almost as if they were meant for inscriptions.
Then came one space where the dark-green vein was near as wide as the rock which bore it and that had surely been worked upon by some intelligence, for Mahart found herself staring at a face.
It was of natural size and that of a woman, though there was no indication of any hair framing it. The features were clear-cut. It was beautiful in its perfection—but the perfection itself— Mahart shivered. She had heard them say that the Herbmistress’s apprentice could actually smell evil—well, now she was sure she saw it!
There was movement from beyond that face. A mail-clad form, wearing a very strange helm which completely hid all features, stood in the way before them.
Yellow Beard twitched the lead rein of Mahart’s horse, drawing aside so the animal could pass his own mount.
“This is the one,” he said.
That helm-masked figure reached forward and took the lead rein. There was no answer, merely that jerk on the rein which brought the horse on. But neither Yellow Beard nor any of the others accompanied her. Ishbi—had they at last reached their goal? She had passed that face; had she been any taller she might have brushed against it. And her flesh tingled at that thought. No, it was not Saylana who brooded over the way which led ahead—but someone greater and far more powerful.
Willadene kept her grip on Nicolas, straining to hear any sound emerge from the opposite reach of this cavern where the stairs to the upper floor lay. The fact that there was a lantern set on top of a barrel by the foot of those was warning that someone either was here or intended to shortly return.
Nicolas edged a little to the right where he could get a better sight of those stairs. Save for a distant drip-drip of water there was no sound to be heard.
Suddenly Willadene caught that—the thread of scent which had drawn her along. With all the care at separating one odor from another she could summon, she drew in two deep breaths.
Yes, it was certainly stronger here, as if Mahart had been some time in this place. Either that or—Willadene swung a little away from the stairs. Her fingers were claw sharp in Nicolas’s flesh now. He did not try to shake her off but followed as she went—not toward the steps and the light, but back into the gloom of the huge cellars she had never explored in those days when it had often been her task to hunt some dust-ridged bottle from one of the tottering shelves.
Around two of those shelf towers she pushed a way. Then the beam of their own lantern caught on something and she grabbed up a tatter of cloth, still white enough to be easily spied in this gloom.
The stuff was silk, soft between her fingers, and she did not really need to raise it to her nostrils to know that it was a piece of Mahart’s body linen—her night shift doubtless—which had entrapped her scent so deeply.
The rag had protruded from what looked like solid wall. She could hardly even see the crack from which she had freed it. Nicolas deliberately shifted the shades of the lantern, using the light as he might a sword blade to draw some pattern.
“Ssssaaa—” He uttered a hissing noise not unlike that which Vazul’s creature might sound. “Hold—so—” He thrust the lantern into Willadene’s hands, and she watched his gray-dusted hands run fingertips back and forth across the wall—first up and then down from the place where she had found the rag.
“Here!” She concentrated in answer to his urgency, holding the lantern beam on the end of one block of stone which seemed to her eyes to be no different from its fellow. Nicolas had knife in hand now and he seemed able to insert the slender point into a pattern of invisible slits.
Noiselessly a narrow door opened, showing another dark way into which the lantern’s beam seemed swallowed up. Nicolas turned to her.
“This way?” She did not need that rag, though she stuffed it in her jerkin to preserve the faint person-scent. Now she nodded in answer to his question.
He was muttering to himself, and from one or two words she caught she knew he was cursing—but who or what was the object of that anger she had no idea. At least the way was straight, and oddly enough the thick dust they had found in the other passages did not seem to lie here. Their lantern beam flitted across a pile of tree-knot torches, as if this was a much-used path.
It continued straight, though twice there were other openings, but the clue she followed lay in neither direction. However, they were in sight of a third when they saw dim light ahead and a rumble of voices distorted by the passage.
Nicolas whirled her into that side passage. He pushed shut the slide on the lantern, and they huddled shoulder to shoulder waiting.
“Got the city hummin’,” commented one voice. “Tell you it weren’t no good that that head-chopping Prince of theirs weren’t taken. That demon-birthed Vazul will somehow git him into it and not like was planned, neither.”
There was a rough laugh in answer and now the light was plain enough that Willadene could see the two of them. That fat lump of spoiled lard. She might not know Nicolas’s more colorful estimate of their situation, but she had her own words for what she found nauseous.
That was Wyche bellowing along. “Let ’em turn the city top to bottom.” He spat loudly at the near wall. “They ain’t goin’ to find th’ wench—an’ without a-knowin’ who has hands on her they ain’t goin’ to push too hard. The High Lady now, she has an eye for the Prince—like as not she’ll make a full meal o’ him afore he knows which side is up.”
Willadene could feel Nicolas’s breath on her cheek and the heat of his anger. “Wyche I know too well,” he gritted out.
“This Ishbi place now—” Wyche’s companion was beginning when the other lost all signs of joviality. “Shut your mouth, slime toad.” And because he spoke without any tone of anger somehow that made it more threatening. “You ain’t never heard o’ that—understand?”
They were well past the entrance to the side way now, leaving the two in thickening darkness. Willadene had felt Nicolas’s body tense at the mention of that queer name.
“Ishbi?” She made a query of that as they came again to the main corridor.
“If they think to take her there—!” He had quickened his pace until he was almost running, and Willadene had to scurry on as best she could at his heels though the weight of her bag seemed to be heavier with every step she took. Would they ever be out of this place of dark and able to rest for a moment?
There were no more breaks in the wall, but they kept listening for a sound which might mean other wayfarers. Nicolas seemed possessed by the need for speed, and the girl began to lag in spite of all her efforts to keep up.
Suddenly he dropped back a stride and put his arm about her waist, lending his strength to hers. It was not soon after that that the passage did turn to the right, and ahead there were patches of light which were the honest ones of day and not from torch or lantern.
They came out through a mass of brush which Nicolas held aside for their passage. Willadene breathed air fresh enough to renew her energy a little. She looked around and saw that they were in the vine and shrub overgrown ruins of a small build
ing.
Nicolas had released his hold on her. In spite of all her will to continue, she crumpled to the ground, only her bag keeping her from total collapse. Her companion stood, hands on hips, looking around. Suddenly he gave a sharp nod.
“So—this is their long-sought passageway! Now listen, mistress"—he stared down at her with those compelling sword-bright eyes of his—"answer me truly—did the High Lady indeed come this way?”
For the first time Willadene was at a loss. The scents crowding in around her were so many, a number entirely new, and she must sort through them. Rather forlornly she pulled that rag from her jerkin, sniffed at it, and then sat head up and eyes closed for a long moment.
Slowly her head turned, though she did not open her eyes. “I think they laid her there. But there were horses—”
“As might have been seen!” he snarled. “Now listen, I must carry what we have learned to the Lord Chancellor. Also we must have supplies, mounts. You must keep yourself out of sight here until I return. Can you do so?”
She nodded. As far as she was concerned at that moment she could not have crawled a step farther. Her throat felt parched but she had a small supply of cordial which would allay her thirst for a while.
He urged and partly dragged her back into where two ruined walls met and then shook the brush into place before her. That done he was gone with a hawk’s speed and she was left alone.
The Duke was huddled in his great seat, an untouched goblet of wine to his hand along with a platter of crumbled but untasted biscuits. A map of Kronengred was spread before him, but he stared not at the recently chalked marks there but rather at the wall where messenger squires stood to attention, ready to dart off upon command.
“Prince.” He did not turn his head toward the man he addressed but continued to stare ahead. “There was a plot—in half it failed, for you were not taken. Mahart is in their hands, but there is hope that they will—”
He hesitated. The younger man spoke.