by Tanith Lee
Later, when a white sun leered through a hole in the sky, Cirpoz stopped, fed the horses and checked on his cache in the wagon.
“Don’t you touch her,” he now admonished the dwarves. He grinned at Vinka. “Don’t you scratch her, you bitch. She’s my property.”
He seemed never to have thought they might abscond from the wagon’s back, when it went as tardily as now it did. Where would they go? It was winter after all, and there were wolves about. In fact, the dwarves thought much as he did. They were indifferent to the world they must serve, being so deeply thrust beneath it.
While the wagon was at a standstill, however, the girl somehow got herself out. Her ankle cord had slightly loosened and she succeeded in hobbling behind a tree.
“What are you up to? Come back here, you curse of a girl—” But Cirpoz knew she had only gone to relieve herself. He chuckled, amused by her feminine handicap, needing to squat with tied ankles, clinging with bound hands to some low branch.
He offered her beer when she came back.
She drank a mouthful. Then she let him take the flask back. She sat down by a wheel. Once Cirpoz was ready to go on, he lifted her and pushed her in the wagon again.
“If you behave, I’ll untie you tonight.”
As the trek resumed, Tickle’s slabby face was tucked down into her collar. It was Vinka who announced, “He’ll have her. He’ll fuck her.”
“Stitch up,” said Soporo, but idly.
Stormy shook himself and got to his feet. He was used to the difficulty of balancing, and went and stood over Candacis who was Blackhair. “Mistress, you must see to yourself. We can’t help you.” When she did not respond, he said again, “We can’t help.”
“I didn’t ask your help,” Blackhair said in a voice like a thin white slap.
“Some might,” said Stormy stubbornly. “Some have. But we’re nothing. Can do nothing.” And he wondered why he said any of this.
Want began to croon.
Surprised at himself, Stormy sat down.
It was Proud who murmured, “Poor pale thing. She can’t bear it. How can she?”
But Stormy believed she could bear it. Somehow she had attracted his superfluous apology or excuse.
“Let it alone,” he said. “Let her be.”
Through the late afternoon as the wagon gurned on, looking out between the flaps, they saw the woods intensify to forest. It was now black-dark and dead-cold. They wrapped themselves further in their rugs and mothy furs, and Vinka went on with her wordless malediction.
A baleful moon rose early in gaps of sky.
Greedy woke, stood, pissed out the wagon’s back. leaving a starry trail for the moon to flitter on.
Candacis, behind her lowered eyes, sat thinking.
She had been shocked utterly by her abduction—she had only, opened the door that night because she thought some woman had come for Ulvit’s help, some herbal or other medical request. She had believed Death had her. Half aware as they descended, she thought Death carried her under the earth. And in the cold hut, she had tried to escape, but all the while known it was too late.
But he had said, had he not, that Ulvit had arranged this. The forceful “she” of the captor’s tale—who else but Ulvit. and the pagan wood? Candacis had “annoyed” them. Now she thought of this, and the true shock pulled her under. Round and round she went with it, and round and round. She would have paced about. too, if she had not been tethered and the area so constricted.
II.
DEEP IN THE HIGH FOREST WAS an inn.
It appeared out of the darkness, glowing red like a luminous vegetable.
Cirpoz emitted a string of joyful oaths.
The wagon grumbled into the yard just before they shut the gate. “Wolves,”explained the innkeeper, standing to oversee the operation, the heavy bars let down.
By now the moon had set. Yet the black trees had a vibrating sheen from the cold. The yard was slick with ice.
As the dwarves got down and filed demurely into the inn, gaped and pointed at on all sides, Cirpoz undid the girl’s cords.
“Will I trust you? One hint of michief and I’ll tie you up out here, I’ll chain you—see you undo that—and you can freeze all night. Well?”
“I’ll do what you say.”
He ushered her before him. As the blast of heat hit them from the inn door, she half-missed her step. Cirpoz grabbed her arm viciously. “No games.”
They ate supper in a corner of the inn hall. It was decked with a few drying evergreens left from Midwinter-Mass. The dwarves and the girl were given bread, broth, and beer. Cirpoz ate a roast and a hedgehog pie, and drank ale.
Some of the other occupants of the hall demanded to know if the dwarves would do any tricks. “There is a thing they do, most entertaining. Maybe tomorrow.” Then Cirpoz added winningly to the landlord, “Something off your charges, maybe, if they amuse your guests? They lastly performed for the palace at Belgra. They’re of some standard.”
The innkeeper grunted churlishly.
Disgruntled, Cirpoz noticed the girl had wasted most of her food.
“Pernickety appetite,” he said to her as they went upstairs, “you’re not at the palace, here.” She must, despite her threadbare cloak, have been a maid or waiting-woman of the better kind. But being refined would be no use to her now.
He had tipped one of the inn boys to keep a lookout for his wagon and the horses. His coins and small goods he had brought in with him, but the other thing, Cirpoz concluded, was well concealed and besides, far too heavy for thieves to shift without planning and noise. (Even the dwarves had not been aware of it, sat there on top of it, as it lay packed under the rugs.) In a way, Cirpoz was still not happy with the witch’s mirror. If he dragged it to the city, the king might not want it after all. It could be better to attempt a sale outside Korchlava, in some partially sophisticated place where they would be impressed by the mirror but not frightened of it.
He had never meant to travel at this time of year. That madwoman had left him no choice.
Cirpoz had secured two rooms adjacent to each other. He hurried the dwarves into one, little more than a cupboard, then pushed the girl into the larger chamber, followed her, and shut the door.
“Well, now. Well, now.” He had dawdled enough.
She would know what came next. Belgra was a lax, lewd place—why should she mind? He was not, he thought, such a bad bargain.
Casually he began to remove his outer garments, then he inspected the bed, an old wooden one which would creak. “Let’s hope they’ve got no bugs in it.” It did no harm to be friendly, if they were to keep each other warm.
But she had not come over to the bed. She stood by the brazier, in which the wood was almost burned through.
“Come here. It’s cozier in here.”
She gave him such a look it peeled his eyeballs. God’s testicles, like some lord’s wife.
Cirpoz glowered. “Need a smack, do you? I’m the king’s man. I served him through five campaigns. I’ve had better than you, Blackhair, and thought nothing of it.”
Something about her made him—more than angry—edgy, unsettled. Would he be able to want her? She was too thin, and carried herself (even during the time she was tied) proudly, and gracefully as a dancer.
He left the bed and veered toward her. She should have a crack across the skull. See what that did.
Candacis saw him wheeling toward her. She understood if she ran for the door, even if she reached it ahead of him, no one at the inn would assist her. And beyond the inn lay the forest, turned to black diamond, where starving wolves moved in packs and homicidal bears woke at a footfall.
A virgin, she knew what Cirpoz intended. Educated paganly, she had learned a great deal about the act of love, if nothing of love itself.
Candacis had learned spells, too, the words to say over plants when plucked and potions as she prepared them. And amuletic phrases—against snakes, beasts, men—
They slipped out along her
tongue now, simply like air.
“Blackest wish turn white like snow,
Bloodiest wish like blood outflow.”
“What? What are you mumbling?” He had stopped, irritated yet cautious. “Are you an enchantress, you black-haired strumpet?”
“No. I am King Draco’s legal daughter by his first queen,” said the girl slowly and clearly, as if she told herself not him.
Cirpoz roared with overdone humor. “You?” Then he caught hold of her and, in the way of countless million others, she readied her nails to tear at him. In that second he saw her as if never before had he done so. In Christ’s mercy—she was the image of the madwoman, the queen at Belgra. Her daughter? Yes—she might be. “Who are you, you say?”
“Draco’s daughter. Candacis.”
“At Midwinter Feast—where did you sit in the hall?”
She sensed exactly how he crumbled to bits before her. calm with her dying horror, she said, “The prince’s table.”
“In a dark red dress.”
“In a dark green dress.”
“Green … trimmed with fur,” he added, “and a white ring on your hair twined by gold …”
Nearly lightly, to help him, she added, “And a long veil.”
Cirpoz. had let her go. He stumbled back, mouthing at her. “Why—why—why didn’t you tell me who you are—”
She looked away from him. She had never told him because she had assumed that, like most of them, he had not known her by sight and so would not believe her.
Now, by magic perhaps, suddenly he did know.
“Ah—lady—I was treacherously misled into this—that woman—”
Candacis (no longer Blackhair) did not of course say what she thought now, that no one would care that he had carried her off for violence and rape.
“That—woman—a fiend—I’d heard as much, I should have guessed—”
He rambled, wringing his big, hideous hands which had caused her so much harm and had meant to give her more.
Candacis thought, stolidly, curiously, How ever did Ulvit get money to bribe him to do this to me? She must have paid the other way, what he wanted now.
But he was beginning to think too. Not wanting quite to name the queen to the queen’s daughter, in case there might be some other blunder. “A foul and evil slut—ah, I mean no offense, lady. I didn’t know you—you’ve seen I didn’t know. But she—well, oh, well … What shall 1 do? I must take you home to Belgra.”
Licking his lips as if to lick off his crime. Thinking, The madwoman, perhaps she’ll tell them I stole this royal girl away for my own ends. The prince’s favorite she was, too, you could see at the feast, sister or not. I can’t go back with her: And if I let the girl go, what will she tell them herself? Princess Candacis. What will she want them to do to me if they catch me up?
Candacis saw one of the hideous hands flap down on to the hilt of his knife. She saw it before he even thought what he did. Then his hand slipped off the hilt again. I can’t kill her in here. I’ll say I’ll conduct her home. Then in the woods—leave the corpse for the wolves—get away, back up to the mountains—
“The child of her own body,” he muttered. “Addled, damned bitch—”
The muttering made no sense to Candacis, she did not attend. She was still considering how his hand had gone to his knife. “Oh,” he was saying now, “take the bed, I beg you, madam. You must be tired out. I’ll sleep with the seven deformities next door. Will I get someone to bring you something—hot water, wine—?”
Unknown to either of them, the other side of the wall beyond the bed was lined with ears.
Soporo had been the first to listen at the wall. Carnality, in almost any form, even coercive, aroused him. He had wanted to hear Cirpoz and the girl have sex, rape or not.
This disgusted Proud, who struck him. They tussled, tumbling on the floor—but all very quietly, so not to alert Cirpoz.
In the end it was Vinka, her sharpest ear at the plaster, only inquisitive, who drew their joint attention.
“He’s afraid.”
Then they all came to try to hear. Even Want, who had been closing off her hearing with pillows. Even Stormy, frowning, and Tickle with a bemused shake of her orange hair, and Greedy in midyawn.
“Why is he? Has he gone daft?” Want, hopeful, bothered.
“Is it witchcraft? She looks a witch.” Soporo still erect.
Only Stormy and Jealous Vinka heard enough of their master’s jabber to piece it together. At least, Vinka did not trouble. But Stormy moved abruptly away.
“Lie down,” he told them. “He’ll be coming in.”
They scudded to obey. Under their coverings they lay, curled up tight or stretched rigid. Soporo played with himself, grew bored, and left off. Only Greedy fell asleep.
Cirpoz did not arrive after all.
“What’s he doing now?” whispered Proud. “Has he had her or not?”
“No. She’s the king’s daughter,” said Stormy, unaccountably angry for once, like his name.
“What king?”
“The king at Korchlava.”
Kings meant little to them. Or king’s daughters. Everyone stood higher and meant less than they.
In the black stillness, not a noise now from the other room, and from the night outside not even the yell of a wolf.
“He wants to kill her. I can tell from his voice.”
“Why that, Stormy?” Proud, astounded.
“Think, you fool.”
“I am no fool. Not I. I’ve thought. I’m just as foxed.”
Soporo whispered, “He stole her and treated her like his dray, but she’s royal. If the prince at Belgra finds out, he’ll be for it.”
“Ah.”
Stormy said, “Shut up. He’s coming.”
The other door opened, then their door, and Cirpoz was in their cupboard.
Through the pitch dark they felt him looking round at them, hating them, loathing them. Then he was gone again.
“Where’s he off to?”
“Down the stair—listen.”
“To the shittery?”
“Somewhere. Anywhere but where she is.”
Stormy lay on his back. In the dark he could see hallucinatory flames, which softly coiled to and fro. He watched them, brooding. Cirpoz, whatever he did tonight, would murder the girl tomorrow. It was easy, out in the forest, to do things like that.
What do I care? She was not his race or kind.
Stormy thought of Cirpoz carefully. Of the horses and wagon with its store of money and treasure-trove of stuff Cirpoz had stolen or earned—normally under false pretenses. Stormy thought of the forest and the wolves, and the six others lying in the dark with him, especially intelligent Tickle and spite-full Vinka, and Soporo, with his brazen fists. Who might also be thinking somewhat as Stormy was.
Something tugged and teased at Stormy. But why? She was nothing, a human. Oh, but perhaps it was sorcery, some spell she had cast—with that verse she had sung out at Cirpoz. Perhaps it was only that. By morning, Stormy decided, he would have slept it off.
Cirpoz, having dozed by the inn fire, was up early and surly, and soon had his wagon hitched ready. He ate his breakfast bread standing, and offered nothing to the dwarves, or to the girl. “We should be off, Princess, get you home. There’s edibles in the wagon—” He did not mean to waste any more extra food on her. Especially now, when she would not need it beyond midday.
Though jumpy and ill-humored, he observed nothing odd about the dwarves. They seemed the same as always to him, misshapen, monstrous, potentially lucrative, obedient, and uninvolved.
The inn gate had been opened.
By day, the forest was only discouraging. But in the frosted mud by the wall, even Cirpoz made out wolf tracks.
“We’ll have a stop here, Lady. Rest half an hour. Come out when you’re ready, for some air.” He spoke coaxingly. Obviously he had not tied her up this time. But she sat where she had yesterday, speechless and quite negative. No wonder
he had not recognized her, until it was almost too late. She had no spirit, less than any slave.
Disgusted by her, Cirpoz walked about in an indolent way.
The dwarves meanwhile, had already got out of the wagon via the handy box. Soporo and Stormy went off into the trees to relieve themselves. The others ambled about. (Vinka was in one of her tempers, sizzling and slashing at frozen ferns with her hands.)
When he heard the shout, Cirpoz was almost unnerved. He had always been unsure, killing people; he knew it was a skilled job and he was no professional. He had been bracing himself, honing his knife—and now he dropped it and stood with his eyes out on stalks.
Soporo and Stormy pounded up to the wagon.
“Master—”
“What in Christ’s name?”
“There’s a man dead over there, in the trees. A rich man in furs—and gold spilled everywhere about—”
Cirpoz revived. Cupidity swamped all else.
“Dead, you say. You’re sure?”
“His brain-case is stoven in.”
“And gold. Show me.”
They went off again, infantilely relieved to have told him, and Cirpoz went after, having picked up his knife. Vinka came wandering in their wake, and next Greedy. They were all following like lambs. “You”—Cirpoz shouted at Want and Tickle—“stay there. Look after the lady in the wagon.” It would be just his luck, Cirpoz thought, to find this unexpected hoard and lose the girl because she had escaped, maybe back to the inn, and convinced someone else—
In fact, his luck took another form.
“Where is he?”
“Just over there, master.”
“Here? It’s a rare tangle—fucking trees—what? Here? I can’t see—”
“Bend down, master, to our height. Under that dead bracken. See the blood? And there’s the gold shining.”
Men see sometimes only what they want to see.
Cirpoz, bending low under the boughs, his avarice striving hard for him, did make out the form of a sprawled man, a vision of spilled coins. In the less than daylight, they were really a fallen pine scattered by yellow toadstools. Two instants more, he would have known.