Perceiving that she was too much disordered to speak with clarity or to soon come to the point, Grunewald controlled his impatience, but it required a strong effort. ‘A voice in your mind?’ he repeated, for the truth had dawned upon him the moment she had spoken those words. ‘My sister? My sister gave you Tal’s name?’
Her eyes turned upon him, but she did not seem to see him. ‘I believe so,’ she said. ‘We were observed, it seems, when we brought the fairy ointment to you in Aviel, and the voice spoke of you as brother.’
‘What were you asked to do?’
‘Oh, dear. I am so sorry! I had almost nothing left, but I could not refuse to hand it over!’
Grunewald blinked. ‘She asked you for fairy ointment?’
‘Yes! She was most insistent about it, and really, considering that I had promised a payment for her aid, I could not refuse.’
This news bothered Grunewald more than he cared to show. His sister had been active in Aylfenhame some months ago; had somehow been informed of Isabel’s endeavour, and had interested herself considerably in the business. That Isabel had been watched and shadowed during her journeys in Aylfenhame, and by one whose motives were so unknown as his sister's, troubled him greatly. That she had agreed to such a bargain did not much surprise him; Isabel had, by that time, been almost as much in love with the Ferryman as he had been with her, and she would have traded anything she owned for his freedom. But that his sister had been in a position to supply the lost name, when every other resource had failed, surprised him considerably.
‘Isabel,’ he said firmly. He was obliged to repeat her name before she could be brought to focus upon him, but at last she did. Her expression was woebegone; her eyes implored his forgiveness. ‘You are not at fault,’ he said. ‘Though I wish you had confided in us before, I can understand your choice not to do so. But the matter is by no means as bleak as I see you imagine.’
Isabel blinked in surprise, and seemed to revive a little. ‘It is not? But how can that be? I have been forced to support your sister, when all her efforts seem bent upon harming you!’
‘I am obliged to you,’ he said with a faint smile. ‘I had no notion that my well-being was of such importance to you.’
That brought a watery smile. ‘Oh, Grunewald, how can you talk such nonsense? Of course it is.’
He was surprised into momentary silence. Isabel had frequently behaved as though he discomfited her in some way, and he had most reprehensibly taken delight in teasing her as a consequence. He had long since assumed that he was not high upon her list of favourites, and endeavoured to ignore the peculiar pain that knowledge brought him. Had he been mistaken, or was Isabel simply determined to care for the well-being of every creature not absolutely known to be wicked?
Very likely the latter, he thought, knowing Isabel as he did. ‘I am not much concerned at her possessing the remains of your ointment,’ he persevered. ‘To be sure, I had some hopes of going unrecognised at tomorrow’s ball, and there can be no chance of that now. But I feel sure she would have discovered me anyway, no matter what disguise I chose to adopt. Therefore, her improved sight cannot much inconvenience me.’
Isabel began to look relieved.
‘Consider further,’ he went on. ‘There is much good to be drawn from this. Firstly, we are given another clue as to her intentions. Mister Balligumph has previously posited that she may be seeking something, and this development appears to be in support of the idea. She wishes to be able to recognise someone that she expects to appear at her ball. Knowing this, we may be on the watch.
‘Secondly, she has given us a clue, perhaps, to her identity. At present, we know nothing of her save that she is my half-sister; that she possesses some sorcerous ability, but we know not what it may be; and we theorise that she was associated with the Kostigern in ages past, but we have no proof of that. But if she alone, of all those you asked and searched among, recollected your Ferryman’s name, then she must have known him. It follows, therefore, that he must have known her.’
‘He will not remember! He remembers almost nothing from those years.’
‘Perhaps not, but we may ask him. If he can recall for us even a little information, we must gain by it.’
Isabel nodded, and sighed. ‘Then I must ask him.’
In order to ask him such a question, she must also confess to him that she had made a dark bargain on his behalf, and then neglected to tell him of it. He could well understand her distress at such a prospect.
Tal would forgive her, however. He would forgive her anything.
‘There is one further ray of light in this business,’ Grunewald said. ‘You are released from the bargain that you made, and in truth you have been asked to do very little. I could scarcely have hoped for a lighter duty for you.’
Isabel’s frown deepened. ‘I hope that it may be so, but I cannot be sure. It was implied that I may be called upon again. I am not at all sure that your sister considers the debt to be paid.’
‘She will be brought to consider it paid,’ he promised grimly.
Isabel nodded distractedly, and rose from her chair. ‘I had better speak to my husband directly,’ she said. ‘Such a duty cannot be too soon performed.’
He did not detain her, merely watched in silence as she departed the room. She left him feeling grim, troubled, and faintly melancholy in her wake.
And angry, that his sister should have chosen to so meddle with his friends. It was another offence he would bring to account, he promised himself.
He spent the remainder of the morning in thought, attempting to piece together the assorted hints and clues that they had assembled about his sister’s past, and her recent activities. The picture did not become much clearer, no matter how he wrestled with the facts, and he was obliged at last to abandon the attempt.
But Tal sought him out, later in the day. The erstwhile Ferryman looked rather grim himself, and the habitual smile had gone from his eyes. But Grunewald did not interpret this as any sign of marital discord between him and his wife; no power in any of the worlds could accomplish that.
‘I recall but little,’ Tal said. ‘But there are faint ideas – hints only.’
Grunewald nodded encouragingly. ‘Anything. Tell me anything that you remember.’
‘I recall…’ Tal frowned in thought, and it clearly cost him an effort to fight his way through the cobwebs that had long clouded his mind and his memories. ‘My Master, the Kostigern, had loyal supporters aplenty, but there were some few more favoured than the rest. More trusted. These I cannot remember with any clarity, but I do but faintly recall a female among them. Goblin blooded, I think? I seem to see greyish skin and white hair…’ He trailed off with a sigh. ‘Poor stuff, I know.’
‘Not at all,’ Grunewald said with a sinking heart. ‘I fear you are on the right course.’ The description, vague as it was, fitted his sister so far.
‘I do not precisely remember her name,’ Tal said. ‘Nor cannot, in spite of hours of striving. But I think… something like Rasghah? Rathashgah?’ He shook his head. ‘That is all that I can offer you. I am sorry.’
‘It is remarkable that you managed so much, and I think you have given yourself the head-ache in the attempt,’ Grunewald said. Tal had been a beleaguered man indeed when Isabel had first encountered him; he had been nameless, lacking virtually all his memories, and bound to service as the Ferryman until his name should be discovered. That he began to remember anything at all must be considered a promising sign; a result, perhaps, of the freedom he now enjoyed.
Tal nodded, and rose from the chair he had sunk into. ‘I do feel wearied,’ he admitted. ‘I had better take some rest before dinner.’
Grunewald did not detain him. He sat alone all the long morning through, lost in deep thought, and did not stir until Sophy came in to warn him of the approach of the dinner hour.
The day had been productive indeed, though in ways he had not been able to anticipate. But the only conclusion he had reached was
that his sister remained several steps ahead of him; that he might guess at her intentions, but could feel no real certainty as to her plans; and that whatever may occur tomorrow night, it would behove them all to be prepared for trouble.
Chapter Twelve
‘Tell me of my brother.’
The hour was far advanced, and with the ball to prepare for, Bessie had begun to think some time since that she would like to seek her bed. But the fetch had summoned her to the library after dinner, and had not yet permitted her to leave.
This would suit Bess’s purposes admirably, if only the fetch would consent to entertain her invited guest with conversation. But she appeared to be in a brooding humour and sat in near silence, staring at the large fire that she had ordered lit.
And now, it seemed, it was to be Bessie who must talk. But the question intrigued her, and told her a little in itself. The fetch’s ostensible requirements for Bess had been satisfied; her knowledge of Lincolnshire, its environs and its families had been exhausted. That she was expected to serve some further purpose was clear enough, but Bess had been unable to determine what it might be.
‘What do you wish to know?’ she asked.
‘Everything.’
And Bessie learned that as fascinating to Grunewald as his sister appeared to be, he was no less interesting to her.
She stretched out in her armchair, inched her feet closer to the fire, and began to speak of Grunewald’s habits, his style of conversation and his treatment of herself. She kept her reflections general enough, unsure how much of his doings Grunewald would wish her to share. But the fetch was alert for any sign of concealment, and questioned Bessie closely and shrewdly. She seemed most fascinated by any part of his conduct which might be supposed to shed light upon his character, and Bessie was willing enough to expound.
She had not chosen to describe the occasion of her first meeting with Grunewald, for that obliged her to be open upon topics which reflected personally upon her, and upon which she would prefer to remain silent. But she was not to be allowed to escape. The fetch fixed her with a look of keen enquiry, her gaze raking Bessie from head to foot, and then said:
‘But how came he to take up with you?’
This piece of implied rudeness was more than Bessie would willingly bear, even from one who imagined herself Bess’s captor. She made no response save to lift her brows.
The fetch waved a hand. ‘Gentleman do not wander the countryside in the company of servant girls. I have been long enough in England to know that. How much more can that be said to apply to a king! I cannot account for it. For he of all people to tolerate you; more than tolerate! I would say he was merely using you for some purpose of his own, but it is evident that there is more. He cares for you – sees you as a friend, perhaps more. How can this be?’
Bess took a moment to reflect. Here, apparently, was the source of the fetch’s fascination with Bessie; perhaps the true reason she had sought her company. But why? ‘I do not know why you’d say that of him,’ she replied. ‘He of all people? He treats his retainers roughly at times, and I cannot respect him for that. But it ain’t because he sees them as inferior. He treats himself roughly, and all about him, when he is in a certain humour. There’s gentry enough as treats servants like they was dirt, but I ain’t never seen anythin’ of that in Grunewald.’
The fetch stared at her in wonder. ‘How can that be?’
‘I don’t see why you suspect him of it.’
‘Suspect! Hah!’ The fetch drank down the dregs of brandy in her glass, and then hurled the empty vessel into the fire. The sharp sound of splintering glass made Bessie jump. ‘He deceives you, somehow. He deceives us both.’
‘Mayhap, but I cannot see why he would take the trouble of deceivin’ the likes of me.’
The fetch’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think him sincere, do you, in his regard for you?’
‘Not in the least,’ Bess said promptly. ‘He calls me baggage, and baggage I am to him. But you are mistaken in thinkin’ he ever meant to show anythin’ that you are callin’ regard.’
She spoke the truth as she knew it, but even as the words left her lips, doubts crept in. He had helped her, when he did not have to, but perhaps that did not mean much; though he could be cruel, she did him the justice to believe that he would not have ignored the plight of anybody in Bess’s position. He had afterwards given her the gift of her boots, and a handsome and rare one it had been. But to the Goblin King, even the rarest and finest of goods could be nothing but trifles; she had seen that gesture as the careless charity of a man for whom luxury had become commonplace, and expense had long since ceased to matter.
These things, then, she could tentatively discount. But… he had come to Hyde Place. And if he was to be believed, he had come for her alone, because he believed her to be again in need of his help. Where had that come from, if not some degree of interest in her well-being, and a willingness to promote it?
She put this problem aside for the time being. ‘I cannot help thinkin’, she said into the silence, ‘that if ‘tis insight into your brother’s character you want, you’d be better off talkin’ to him than to me.’
‘You imagine it to be so easy.’ The fetch spoke bitterly, her lip curling. It took Bessie a moment to realise that Grunewald’s sister had spoken the words in her own voice, rather than mimicking her brother’s. ‘Are you lovers?’ she added abruptly.
Bess’s own lip curled with disgust at this most impertinent of questions. Forgetting the pretence of ambition she had previously adopted, she said, ‘If you imagine me to be willin’ to take up wi’ a gentleman in exchange for his help, you are much mistaken.’
The fetch ignored Bessie’s indignation. ‘So it is not that, either,’ she said in a musing tone. Her rage of a few moments before seemed gone, and in her mercurial moods Bess observed another similarity between the fetch and the Goblin King.
She seemed lost in thought, and it occurred to Bessie that she might be able to capitalise upon her odd hostess's distraction. So she said, in as conversational a tone as she could muster: 'What is it you want from him? Yer brother.'
The fetch shot a sharp look at Bessie, and smiled in a fashion which displayed too many teeth. 'What does any scorned and dispossessed royal sibling want, little Bess?'
'Power? Revenge?' Bessie guessed. 'To supplant him, mayhap. Or there again… maybe yer just wantin' his attention.'
'I want nothing to do with him,' said the fetch, with an expressive curl of her lip. She no longer mimicked Grunewald in anything save the stolen Glamour of his face, and it was strange to see the expressions and mannerisms of another imposed over Grunewald's features. Fascinated as much as she was appalled, Bessie watched the fetch intently.
'No?' she prompted. 'Tis a deal o' trouble yer goin' to wi' this ball, if it ain't to thumb yer nose at yer brother.'
The fetch waved this away. 'I confess, it amuses me to create trouble for him.'
'You are lookin' for yer family.' Something about the fetch's bitterness brought this notion to Bess's mind. She seemed consumed by her resentment towards Grunewald, and yet irresistibly fascinated by him. Grunewald might be right in thinking that she sought to prove her blood relationship to him, and by now it seemed indubitable that his sister had her eyes on his throne. But that did not explain the ball. Disappointed by her goblin family, could Grunewald's sister be in search of her human connections? Could it be that simple?
The scorn in the fetch's eyes quickly disabused Bessie of that notion. 'I know them,' she said shortly. Then she added in an undertone, 'As much as I ever wish to.'
What, then, were the blood sorcerers supposed to be for? That they were stationed here in readiness for the ball, it was difficult to question. Someone was expected to appear, someone with heritage that the fetch was in need of but someone whose identity she did not know. What was this person expected to do? Bessie wrestled with the problem, but she could not make it out.
'You wanted me to help you in trappin'
yer brother,' Bessie reminded the fetch. 'I cannot help thinkin' you are mighty fascinated wi' him, for someone as wants nothin' to do wi' him.'
The fetch's eyes narrowed, and she looked upon Bessie with malice. 'And I cannot help thinking that you lied, when you suggested that you might be of assistance to me in that. You care for my brother.'
Fine; Bessie had never been any good at dissembling. She folded her arms and returned the look, stare for stare. 'I had to say somethin' to get you to gi' me a chance.'
'A chance at what? Are you a traitor in the making, Bessie dear?'
'A chance at gettin' the two of you to talk to each other.' Bessie snorted. 'I think most of yer troubles are based on naught but misunderstandin', and I would be glad to see it resolved. For both yer sakes.'
The fetch rolled her eyes, and slouched in her chair with a palpable display of exasperation. 'Preserve me from peacemakers,' she muttered.
'He wants to know you,' Bessie persevered. 'All yer curiosity about him? Goes both ways.'
This sally was not without effect. Grunewald's sister studied Bess for some time in silence, with no sign of her earlier malice. Bessie read interest in her gaze, and maybe even… hope.
Then it was gone. Her face darkened into bitterness once more, and she shook her head. 'It is too late for that.'
'I am sorry for it.'
'Why?'
Bessie blinked. 'Why… because yer right, I do care about yer brother. And I have a notion I could like you pretty well besides, if you would stop wi' yer mad antics. As would he.'
This amused the fetch, for some reason, for that unpleasant smile spread across her borrowed face again. 'What a delight you are.'
Bess wanted to probe further, but she judged she had pushed her luck as far as she could; there was nothing more to be got from the maddening woman tonight, and she had already roused suspicion. So she rose from her armchair, saying firmly, ‘I still think you should talk to him. But I am for me bed.’
Bessie Bell and the Goblin King Page 20