Knight Or Knave

by Andre Norton

  Knight or Knave by Andre Norton and Sasha Miller

  Prologue

  In the Cave of the Weavers, the ancient ones toiled over their work, adding first a dusty green strand, then a blue one, then another of brighter green, then gold ones, as their brown old hands twinkled deftly. Each addition sank into the Web Everlasting even before they had let go of it, though the pattern was not yet clear.

  The youngest of the Three touched a spot where the dusty green and blue strands crossed. "Is it meet," she asked, "that we blend two mortals in this way, with one doomed?"

  "It is meet and altogether meet," replied the Eldest. "For look you here."

  She pointed to a design in the Web that was beginning to take shape farther along in the sheet of Time. In form and fashion this design resembled a heavy snowstorm and in it moved fell shapes, each more terrifying than the last. The

  Youngest recoiled, more a movement of the head than of the body.

  "Is that what they will have to face?" she said.

  "All in due time, Sister," said the middle one placidly. "We have yet to reach that point, for we have come to a spot where things must change."

  "And we do not know yet what that change will be," said the Eldest. "The Web will tell us."

  "Then this joining of the ill-omened might ward off the horror that is to come?"

  "Perhaps. Perhaps. Be patient. The Web is bound to tell us. It always has, in its own time."

  The Youngest returned her attention to the most recent work. "Nothing has blended well in this spot," she said.

  "We cannot be concerned with the affairs of mortals," the Eldest said, adding another strand. "It is as it is, and as it will be. Nothing will change that.

  The Web of Time is all that matters, and if we paused to take pity on those whose lives are interwoven in it, all would become a tangle never to be put straight again. Do not speak of it again."

  The Youngest bowed her head in acceptance. But yet, she kept returning ever to the just-added threads, touching them with her brown and wrinkled fingers.

  Indeed, this was a tangle but even as she looked, it melted and became part of the whole.

  One of the life-threads, the dusty green one, frayed and snapped. Carefully, the

  Youngest clipped it, leaving the fragment that, under her hand, grew and began to change and solidify the pattern the Three had begun. Unexpectedly, as the other two Weavers looked over the Youngest's shoulders, the brighter green thread took up the pattern left off by the dimmer shaded one. It looked strong and durable from that point, with spots left rough to the touch.

  "Ah, yes," said the middle Sister. "That was what was needed. Now we can go on."

  And as always, the living continued to believe that they were free to make decisions, to act as they believed fit, even as their threads passed through the fingers of the Weavers.

  The Youngest glanced back along what had been completed. Yes, there were recorded lives and deaths, Kingdoms' passing. And she knew that the words of the

  Eldest were true. There could be no mercy, no pity from those who held the threads. It would be folly—and worse, it would ruin the work.

  Interested, she watched while the pattern re-formed to accommodate the newly added strands. She recognized what was taking place. A vigorous new strand, not yet the Changer, but close, began to emerge, affecting all it touched. So that was what had been working its way to the surface. All was well. Renewed and refreshed, she reached out and took up the work on the Web Everlasting once more.

  One

  In the capital city of Rendelsham, a steady drizzle had been fall-ing for days, keeping all inside whose duties did not require that they venture out. Also it was unseasonably cold. Servants kept fireplaces stoked and the damp, green wood they were forced to use—all the seasoned having been used during the winter—sent clouds of smoke over the city. Inside houses where chimneys were not efficient, a similar veil of smoke hung in the air, making people cough and sneeze as they huddled into warm clothing they had thought to put away until winter.

  The forced idleness had its uses, however, for there seemed to be no one at court who was not occupied with the problem of what to do with Ashen, daughter of the late King Boroth, newly come to Rendel from the Bale-Bog where she had spent most of her life. This was an illegitimate daughter, to be sure, but one possessing a strong claim to the throne, perhaps enough to topple the new King,

  Florian, if only the lady herself had been of a mind to undertake such a thing.

  Thus, in many residences this topic was the subject of much conjecture, and prominent among them were the households of the Dowager Queen Ysa, who consulted frequently with Lord Royance,

  Head of the Council of Regents, and Count Harous, now officially the Lord

  Marshal of Rendel, who consulted with no one. Rather, he was given to action and it was obvious that the action upon which he was now embarked was the wooing of

  Lady Ashen herself.

  This day Lady Marcala of Valvager—in reality, Marfey, Queen of Spies—had come seeking audience with the Queen, who granted it willingly. "Welcome!" she said when Marcala came into her privy chamber. She turned to her ladies. "Bring heated wine and spice cakes, and then leave us."

  Marcala let Lady Ingrid take her rain-dewed cloak to hang near the fire where it might dry. She approached the fireplace gratefully, rubbing her hands. "Even with gloves lined with rabbit fur the cold seeps through and pinches my fingers," she said. "I've forgotten the last time I saw sunlight."

  "I welcome your presence, but I know the errand must have been urgent to bring you all the way from Cragden Keep. Come, take a seat by the fire. You'll soon be warm enough."

  Lady Ingrid hurried in with the flagon of wine and two goblets, and a plate of cakes on a tray. Marcala poured for both herself and the Dowager and waited until Ingrid had left again before taking up her tale.

  "If I could draw upon the heat inside me, I would not need a cloak," the younger woman said, a bitter note in her voice. She drew up the low chair the Dowager indicated and sat down with the air of one on intimate terms with the actual ruler of Rendel. "Instead, I am left to molder in Cragden, while Harous dallies with Ashen here in the city."

  "Surely our good Count is not behaving improperly."

  "As to that, I do not know. But, to be fair, Ashen lived for many years in the

  Bog, and defended herself from what threatened from any quarter. Surely she is not so bedazzled that she would yield to Harous's blandishments before marriage for all that he was the one who rescued her and brought her here."

  Ysa looked keenly at her noblewoman, her own creation, the supreme spy she had set to be her human eyes and ears in the household of one who might be a threat or a danger to her plans.

  She did not miss the reference to marriage, nor did she miss the unmistakable resentment in Marcala's voice. This resentment, Ysa knew, came from jealousy—and this jealousy came from the spell Ysa had herself performed to make sure

  Marcala's interest focused on Harous. With Marcala enthralled by Harous, Ysa knew she could keep her Queen of Spies under her complete control, first advancing and then retracting her approval regarding Harous. Also, she had seen to it that Harous was in love with Marcala, according to the spell. His ambition, however, was not subject to any such weakness as matters of the heart and therein lay the weakness in this scheme. Ysa thought again about what

  Marcala had said.

  "But you have yielded to the Marshal," the Dowager remarked, trying to keep her tone neutral. She was rewarded by seeing Marcala blush to the roots of her hair.

  "He has visited my apartment on occasion. It seemed the appropriate step to take," she said defensively.

  "To what effect?"

  "He says he
loves me. When we are in private he acts like he does. But he is wooing Ashen. And he says he is making good progress."

  Ysa kept herself from frowning with an effort. She had enough to worry about concerning King Florian and his latest escapade, without this added. It was all well and good for Harous to pay suit to Ashen, as long as the wench stayed aloof. But if she seemed to be yielding—No, it would not do at all.

  "Have you spoken to Lady Ashen?" Ysa said.

  "I have not. Though Harous has given me no direct orders, my feeling is that he wants me to stay away from his residence here in the city, where he has installed her. And so I have had no opportunity to visit the lady. Besides, I do not think that she would confide in me." Marcala's lips twisted. "A Princess—so much better than I am. Bog-Princess, that's all she is."

  Ysa had to bite her own lips to keep from laughing out loud. Bog-Princess, indeed! And yet, she understood. "It is only natural that you would not be able to summon up much warmth toward her. After all, she is standing in your way."

  "If you could but find someone else, another nobleman—"

  "Do you know of anyone suitable?" Ysa sipped at her wine, keenly aware that

  Marcala was not telling everything that was on her mind. It was a delicate problem. Ashen, last known heir of the House of Ash, in ancient times the cradle of Kings, and the late King Boroth's acknowledged bastard daughter at that, had become much more than an annoying Bog-brat or even, in Marcala's amusing phrase, an annoying Bog-Princess. Unmarried, she was the center of a political faction opposed to King Florian, whether she willed it or not, and a temptation to every hedge-knight eager to improve his station in life. Too lofty a marriage and she was a danger to Florian and even to his heir, when he should have one. Too base a marriage, and she was still a danger, because of those who would become angered at the insult and glad to have this matter as an excuse for opposition to the Crown.

  She wondered if the rumors about Rannore, the new Rowan heiress since Laherne had died, were true. Well, time would tell if there was going to be another heir to dispute Ashen's claim.

  "Perhaps I could think of a suitable candidate," Marcala said. She set the empty goblet on the tray and did not move to refill it. "But my strong feeling is that

  Ashen will marry no one at all, if she does not want to. She has not been trained to set aside personal feelings, the way she would have had she been brought up properly."

  "And what do you suggest?"

  "Ask her."

  Now the Dowager raised one eyebrow. This was something she had not anticipated having to endure—bringing the bastard child of her late husband into her very home, speaking to her face to face. She had not laid eyes on the girl since that awful day when the King was dying. Royance had brought her into the very death chamber, giving Ysa a chance to throw her support to this sturdy Ash twig rather than the spindly, gawky, unworthy product of her union with Boroth.

  And now, this new King, Florian, was creating his own share of personal mischief with Rannore. Her cousin Laherne had died in childbirth, so the story went, only a few months after a visit to Rendelsham. The gossip was that Florian was responsible and also that the aged Erft's passing had been hurried along because of the shame. His younger brother Wittern, a contemporary and friend of Royance, now governed in his place. Ysa had thought to address this matter today, rather than the question of Ashen and a potential marriage. The Dowager sighed. One unpleasantness versus another. Both must be dealt with, but each in its time.

  Marcala was here present, and Rannore and her guardian, Wittern of Rowan, had not yet arrived at the city.

  "Send for Ashen," Ysa said. "Tell a messenger to go and fetch her while you wait with me."

  Marcala inclined her head. "Yes, Madame." Then she arose and went to do the

  Dowager's bidding.

  Obern flexed his arm, the one that had been broken in a battle with giant birds atop a cliff at the edge of the Bale-Bog. It was whole and well again, though it ached a little in the damp weather, and this day he wanted nothing more than to go back home. He missed his Sea-Rover companions, missed the freedom of being able to go out in a ship where the sea air blew away the miasma of city life.

  That, however, would be as Count Harous pleased. For the moment at least, Count

  Harous pleased to keep Obern as his "guest" and Obern still did not know why.

  Once in a great while, since the doctor had decreed that he no longer needed to keep his arm in a sling, Obern had been allowed to go out on a patrol. As long as it did not involve ranging a great distance from Cragden Keep or actual skirmishing with the Bog-men, who still kept up their campaign of raids on honest Rendelian farmers, he could ride with the soldiers as he pleased. Even that break in the routine was denied to him now, however, since he and Ashen had been removed to Rendelsham and Harous's great house at the foot of the rise where the castle perched.

  Still, this part of his sojourn had been interesting. Before now, he had never really learned to handle a horse, and now he was counted more than adequate. He had never been among a group of land nobles, so that he could observe their ways. He had never before attended a royal funeral, or a coronation, when the new King Florian was crowned.

  Obern studied Florian appraisingly. So this was the one who had come, as the report had it, to his father, Snolli, with his little private treaty paper in his hand. Obern almost laughed, but that would have interrupted the ceremony.

  Oh, the King looked good enough stripped to the waist for the anointing but that was merely because he had not yet begun to show the effects of dissipation. He could have had the nicely muscled body of youth, but King Boroth, his father, had gone to fat in his later years and this stripling looked fair to follow.

  Obem and Ashen, at the insistence of Count Harous, stayed well back in the crowd. Ashen's presence, so Harous said, could be a disruption but it would also have been an unthinkable discourtesy for her not to attend. And as for Obem, well, he was practically highborn himself, so his presence was almost as mandatory as hers.

  Obern liked standing next to Ashen in the mass of people filling the nave of the

  Fane of the Glowing. He liked putting himself between her and the possibility of her being jostled by a rude stranger. Most of all he liked looking at her, at the beauty of her face and form, and her silver-gilt hair falling like pure treasure down her back.

  He liked also those rare times when they walked together through the grounds of

  Rendelsham Castle, and when they passed the high lords going about their business. One he recognized, Lord Royance of Grattenbor, the Head of the Council of Regents, who had questioned him in the Hall at Harous's residence the night the old King died. Others Ashen pointed out to him—Gattor of Bilth; Valk of

  Mimon; Jakar of Vacaster; Liffen of Lerkland and another, whom Ashen had not met that memorable evening, Wittem of Rowan, lately come to the guardianship of that high House. Of those Obem formed no particular opinion one way or the other except to acknowledge that Lord Royance seemed an able, experienced, and stoutly honest man.

  The city of Rendelsham interested Obern because of its strangeness. He was used to the Sea-Rovers' way of life, and a much more casual—one might even say cruder—approach to city building. Here, instead of a cluster of small, sturdy huts, all was whitewashed stone, with carvings and decorations in profusion, and at every corner of the rooftops fabulous creatures rendered so lifelike that they seemed ready to leap down upon the unwary passerby beneath. From the mouths of these creatures the rainwater poured into the streets, away from the walls where it might cause damage. It seemed an ingenious arrangement.

  Together he and Ashen made a small pilgrimage to the forecourt of the Great Fane of the Glowing, to view the four great trees that represented the Four Great

  Houses of Rendel. A courteous priest, passing by, informed them of the history, of how Rowan was rallying and even Ash was making a miraculous revival, with new growth crowding through the dead old twigs. Oak still
continued a slow, steady decline, however, and Yew throve, as always. Obern gave the priest a coin, one he had won at gambling, and the grateful fellow then took them inside and showed them the interior wonders, even to the three mysterious windows, hidden away where casual visitors might not notice. One window was shrouded from view by a curtain that, the priest informed them, no one touched on fear of death by Her

  Majesty's orders. Another showed a Bale-Bog pool, with something just beginning to break the surface. But Ashen gazed longest on the third, a depiction, the priest said, of the Web of Destiny.

  "They move," she said, as if to herself. "The hands of the Weavers move."

  But Obern could not see it.

  These pleasant excursions had been cut short, however, with the arrival of the wet, cold weather. Obern was used to a chilly climate, but this was unnatural, occurring as it did in the middle of the summer. Gratefully he accepted a fur-lined tunic and cloak from the stores of clothing at Harous's residence, and stayed inside as much as his free spirit could bear. He began wearing a cap indoors, the way the Rendelians did, and learned that it, too, contributed to keeping him warm.