Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 02]

by The Crystal Sword (v0. 9) (epub)

  “For your daughter’s dowry.”

  “Mercy, monsignor. That is gold! I would be thought a thief if I had such a treasure. It is old too. From the time of Philippe Auguste. Have you not something less valuable.” She was caught between greed and caution.

  Before he had left London, Dylan had secured as much Franconian money as he could. There was not a great deal to be had, since trade with Franconia was almost nonexistent, and such as there was was mainly in the hands of Flemish merchants who charged a ruinous exchange rate. He groped around again.

  As he pulled his hand out, the coil of licome hair and the birch leaf came out too. The leaf floated to the floor like a butterfly, shimmering in the dim room. The woman bent and picked them up.

  She looked at him with wide eyes. Then she turned the objects over curiously and handed them back to him. “That leaf never grew on a tree, monsieur, and that hair never came from a horse.”

  “True. Will this do?” He handed her two silver louis.

  “You are too generous.”

  “Nonsense, madame. You have fed me and sheltered me and restored my belief in the goodness of mankind. Now you can send your goods to the selvedger and save something for your daughter.”

  “Never again shall I complain that the Virgin is deaf.” She tucked the money under her apron into a concealed pocket. “Tell me your name, that I may mention you in my prayers.”

  “I am Dylan d’Avebury. And you, madame?” “Marguerite.” She made a face. “De-Ion. What a strange name. But it is no worse than a fat old woman like me being a pearl.”

  Dylan laughed, and put an arm over her broad shoulders. “You are indeed a pearl of great price and a good woman.” He kissed her lightly on the brow. “Now, tell me how to find the residence of the ambassador.”

  “Ah, Monsieur d’Avebury, I will do better. I will have someone lead you. Paris is a warren, what with the King tearing down the good old to make way for the bad new, and I get lost myself sometimes. I know just the fellow.” Madame Marguerite darted out into the street and came back with a rat-faced boy who looked about fourteen. His back was twisted and his arms were shriveled and weak, but he smiled broadly and his aura was a clear, pale gold in the dim room. He made a clumsy bobble of a bow and regarded Dylan with lively curiosity.

  “This is Pierre-Louis, and he will show you to the ambassador’s.”

  “Thank you for your many kindnesses, Madame Marguerite.”

  “It was nothing. Besides, I can now tell my friends about your royal wedding. Go with God, my son, and may the Blessed Mother watch over you.”

  Dylan thought of the Lady of the Birches, and of that of the Willows, and smiled slightly. “I think she already does.” He and the boy walked out into the street.

  Two filthy men were shoveling the burnt remains of young Philippe into a refuse-laden wagon. It was late afternoon, and the street was darkened by the shadow of the houses on one side. The steady beat of looms broke the quiet as they went up the street.

  Pierre-Louis, for all his unprepossessing appearance, was a pleasant companion. As they walked he pointed out various things of interest, winding them into local tales or old legends. They first turned back towards the Seine and moved along its course to the east. A large motte with attendant buildings came into view. This, Pierre-Louis assured Dylan, was the Louvre, built by Philippe Auguste some forty years before to defend the city. The King was dying within its walls. Dylan studied it with a martially educated eye and decided that perhaps the French had no talent for fortress building. It was in desperate need of repair, for there were several breaches in the walls. A crew of masons seemed to be making a halfhearted attempt to fix one.

  A bit further up the river he could see the lie de Paris and the spires of a cathedral. The boy informed him this was Notre Dame which was very wonderful but damp. Dylan could believe that, for the street they were walking in was green with slimy mosses, and the Seine smelled, if anything, worse than further downstream.

  It was a relief when they turned inland into a fairly wide road with great houses on either side. Pierre-Louis pointed out one where the due d’Argent had lived with seven wives—one for each day—like an eastern potentate until his ladies had murdered him in his bed one night, and another said to have been the domicile of a great sorceress, Blanche Le Fay, who turned men into swine when the moon was full.

  “Pierre-Louis, where have you learned all these wondrous tales?” Dylan wished his mother could meet the boy.

  “By listening and asking, monsignor. Also, I can read, and though the monks will not permit me to enter orders, they sometimes have let me come in and see their books.”

  “How did you learn to read?”

  “My mother taught me. She was educated at the Convent of the Genevieves and was a lady of the chamber to the duchesse de Loire. But she was indiscreet with one of the due’s valets, and she was cast out when I was born.

  So, she went to be a seamstress in the tailors’ quarters and married an old man who had buried three wives already. He was kind enough, but his older children were less so. God made me ugly, but he gave me a strong mind, and I learned numbers and letters and was a clerk to the old man until he died two years ago. My mother was already buried, and the fools cast me out before he was quite cold.” Pierre-Louis gave a crack of laughter. “They spent his money within a year and lost the business. He left me twenty sous in his testament, but they cheated me out of it, and God rewarded them by taking away everything. The ones who did not die of the summer fever—it was very bad last year—are beggars, except Jean-Paul. He was a thief when Papa was alive, and so he is today. It is the way of the world, monsignor. If you pursue evil, it will catch you.”

  “You are very wise for one so young.”

  Pierre-Louis gave him a large grin. “I am near twenty, though I do not look it, and not so wise. I am practical and very, very careful. I keep the weavers from being cheated too much, and they feed me and clothe me and give me shelter. It is a good life.”

  “But why could you not take orders?”

  “The priests think my body would offend the Lord. But they are just ignorant fools and I am glad not to keep them company. They exchange piety for money, unlike an honest merchant who gives you something for your coppers. Here is the hotel where your ambassador lives. Bon chance, monsignor.” He turned and was gone before Dylan could thank him.

  The residence was made of ruddy stone, and the door was carved with the two lions of Albion. Dylan knocked and a surly-looking servant opened it.

  “Go away.”

  “I have a letter for the ambassador.”

  “Give it to me and go away.”

  “I must deliver it into his own hands.”

  “Do I look like a fool to let a ruffian like you into—” “What is it, Paul?” A soft, female voice asked the question from somewhere behind the servant.

  “It is nothing, my lady. Just some scoundrel trying to get in and steal the silver. ’ ’

  The speaker appeared beside the servant, and Dylan found himself looking into eyes like blue flags. They were huge, set in a long face that was beautiful and sad at once. Her hair was as pale as wheat and it was coiled under a jeweled net beneath a fine veil. She wore a clinging gown the same blue as her eyes, so the flesh of her breasts was clearly visible beneath the cloth. She was quite the loveliest thing he had ever seen, fairer even than the woman of his dreams, and his breath was taken.

  While he studied her, she studied him, taking in the clean tunic and the dirty braies and mud-soiled boots. “You do look like a robber,” she said softly.

  “Oh, do thieves come to the front door in Franconia? In Albion we always make them go around to the back.”

  She gave a delightful laugh and covered her mouth with a graceful hand. It was a tiny hand and remarkably white, as if the sun had never kissed it. She lowered her eyes and the lashes were dark against the radiance of her skin. “Why?” she almost whispered.

  “It would not do to
have them get above themselves, demoiselle.”

  “Send him away,” snapped the servant.

  “I bear a letter for Giles de Cambridge,” Dylan repeated. “Do you? Then you had better come in, hadn’t you?” She gave a tiny smile and he caught a flash of glistening teeth. She stood aside and the servant grumbled.

  “I am Genevieve de Lenoir and I am the ward of Giles de Cambridge,” she said.

  “I am Dylan d’Avebury,” he responded, wondering what the devil the Albionese ambassador was doing with a Franconian ward.

  “Come this way. Giles is in the library doing the accounts with his clerk. He will be glad of the interruption. Poor dear, he suffers so much over the ledgers. And he is cold all the time, so you will find the room quite warm.” She led him towards the back of the house through a dimly illuminated central hall all hung with murky tapestries.

  Opening a door, she said, “Giles, dear, I have brought you a visitor.”

  “What? A visitor? Who?”

  The room was like a furnace. The large fireplace was roaring and the room was very bright. The ambassador sat in a thronelike chair with a large book across his knees. There were several other books resting on lecterns around the room, and there were shelves piled with codices along one short wall.

  “He says he is Dylan d’Avebury.”

  “By gad, you are even taller than your father!” The ambassador squinted at him. He was the fattest man Dylan had ever seen, and his flesh was an unhealthy color like porridge. He wore a heavy brown robe and a shawl across his shoulders. “I would know you anywhere. Come in, come in. What a pleasant surprise. Go away.”

  It took Dylan a moment to realize this last remark was directed at the clerk who crouched on a stool, bent over a long sheet of paper. The fellow sniffed and rolled up his paper and left without a bow.

  So much for Franconian manners, Dylan thought as he made a modest bend towards Giles de Cambridge.

  “Greetings, milord. I bear a letter for you from the King.”

  “He isn’t recalling me, is he?” There was a note of panic in the fat man’s voice which puzzled Dylan.

  “Not to my knowledge, sieur. I believe it to be no more than a letter of introduction for me.” Dylan pulled the letter from one of his packs and offered it to the ambassador.

  “You need none, of course. I have known your parents for many years. But the amenities must be observed. Genevieve, my child, bring us some wine, and a morsel or two. I am quite famished from all these wretched numbers.” He slid the book onto the floor with a thump. “Some Rhenish, I think, and a bit of ham, some cheese, a few grapes, and perhaps a comfit or two. I am nearly faint with hunger.” His enormous jowls jiggled as he spoke.

  Dylan stood patiently, although the room was stifling, and there was no other chair except the clerk’s stool which was much too short for his long body. The ambassador broke the seal on the letter and read it.

  “He commands me to give you all aids and comforts— which I would do without his direction—and he does not say a word about the funds I have asked him for. Ah, well. That is the way of Kings. I shall have to borrow from the Hems again. How was the wool last year? How fares Albion?”

  Dylan was aware that there was some complex agreement whereby the Flemish merchants took a part of the wool crop in exchange for providing the support of the ambassador, and though he had no head for numbers he could not understand why Giles de Cambridge should have to borrow money. “The wool was excellent, sire, and Albion is blessed with good fortune. The King’s son has married now and no doubt there will be a young Prince or Princess in a year or so.”

  “Married! My goodness. When I left he was a spotty boy. The wool crop was good, you say. These damned lying Flems! I knew I was being robbed. I am helpless. Was ever a man so plagued. 1 wish I had never come to this benighted land. My servants steal me blind, and if it were not for my sweet Genevieve, I would die of neglect.”

  He continued to complain and Dylan only half listened. He was soaked with sweat from the heat and began to wish he had not come to Giles de Cambridge. The man was obviously incompetent and a fool into the bargain. He wandered towards one of the lecterns and began to puzzle out the words on the open page. He stopped, startled. It appeared to be some sort of formula for flying ointment, and it called for the fat of a new baby. What did his mother call such a book? A grimoire. She spoke of them with contempt, and he could see why. And what was the ambassador doing with such a wretched thing?

  Genevieve de Lenoir returned with a large tray and he hastened to help her. She was such a tiny thing. She gave him a little smile and poured wine. There was an array of viands on the tray: white loaves and golden cheeses, apples, figs, and grapes, a slab of pate and a hunk of ham, plus little pastries filled with dried fruits and creamy custards. Dylan held the tray while she served Giles de Cambridge a heaping platter, then set it down on the clerk’s stool. The woman handed him a cup of wine with a flutter of dark lashes.

  The ambassador stuffed food into his mouth and barely chewed before he swallowed. He gulped the wine and dribbled onto his robe front. Dylan was revolted by his greed and turned away to study another book. It seemed to be a history of one Simon Magus, an ancient sorcerer who appeared to have studied with Merlin. He toured the library as the girl fussed over the ambassador and found every book to be on some aspect of magic.

  De Cambridge gave a gargantuan belch and sighed. “My boy, I do not see what I can do for you. I cannot even afford to offer you a good horse.”

  “A horse?”

  “To go on your quest. The King spoke of a quest.”

  “I need information more than a horse, sire.” Dylan decided not to mention that he possessed quite enough money to buy several horses. Despite his geniality, he did not quite trust the affable ambassador. “I seek an object, a jeweled scabbard, which I understand might be in Paris.” The girl exchanged an odd look with Giles de Cambridge. “There are quite a few jeweled scabbards in Paris, boy. Even the King has one.”

  “This one would not fit any modem sword, and the leather would have a complex and curious pattern of

  Hibernian make.” He had seen the sheath of the Fire Sword which was a treasure of Albion, and he had some idea what he was looking for. He also had a clear picture of the sword upon the breast of his dream woman and knew it was an unusually shaped weapon.

  “I know of no such object.” Giles de Cambridge’s eyes seemed to shrink into the rolls of fat as he spoke, and Dylan knew he was lying.

  “Then I thank you for the wine and will take my leave.”

  “Oh, please,” began Genevieve prettily. “You have only just arrived, and Giles is so hungry for news of Albion. Will you not stay the night with us?” She smiled a little too broadly, and Dylan saw her sharp, white teeth for a moment.

  The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and he was chill despite the heat of the room. There was something very wrong, very evil, in this house, but it was not of the Shadow.

  The girl fluttered across the room and laid a white hand upon his. It was cold as winter. She turned her pansy eyes upon him beseechingly and brushed her breasts against his chest. “Oh, do say you will stay. Giles will be heartbroken if you do not.”

  For a moment Dylan was enchanted and beguiled by the promise behind the words. Then she smiled and he knew he had seen whores with more subtlety. He was not sure what she was, but he did not want to stay to find out. He put a finger alongside the slender throat and felt nothing there of human warmth. He must find out where the sheath was hidden, and he had no other informants, except the knowledgeable Pierre-Louis, now vanished into the warren of Paris.

  ‘‘Where is the privy closet?” he asked abruptly.

  “Ah, you will stay then.” She almost gloated. “This way.”

  Dylan stood in the foul little room and relieved himself.

  Then he thought, searching his mind for some means to force the truth from the ambassador or the girl. He knew much, but it was disordered know
ledge, for like his father he had few gifts for the magics that his mother used. The sort of nonsense that the ambassador’s books were filled with was both useless and repellant to him.

  “Beth,” he whispered.

  She shimmered above the stinking cesspot, all green and silver, and smiled. Lifting her fingers to her hair, she braided a tress and laid it across her own throat. Then she was gone, but another leaf from her glorious gown lay upon the soiled floor. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand, then tucked it away in his belt pouch. His fingers brushed the coil of licome hair.

  Dylan drew it out and stared at it. It was coarse and silky at the same time, and he uncoiled it. He took three hairs in his hand and put the rest back. Then he knotted the three together and held the knot in his teeth while he tried to plait the hairs into one. It was difficult, more difficult than he had imagined, and he admired the way his sisters’ fingers flew upon their tresses. When he was done, he had a slender braid as long as his arm plus a bit and he tied up the bottom end as neatly as he could. He looped it over his hands and tugged. It was amazingly strong, and he cut his left palm where the thumb webbed to the index finger. He licked the blood away and wiped the droplet off the rope.

  “Dee-lon. Are you well?” Genevieve’s sweet voice cooed through the door.

  “Yes.”

  “You are such a long time in there, I began to worry.” Her voice was full of honeyed promise and Dylan felt his skin crawl again.

  He opened the door and she turned to lead him back to the library. With a swift movement, he looped the garrote around the lovely throat, pulling it taut but applying only a little pressure.

  Genevieve gave a tiny cry, like a strangling rabbit, and clawed at her throat. She flailed and writhed and tried to twist away. Dylan turned the little woman towards him, holding the noose in one hand, and watched her features transform: the nose elongated and the mouth beneath it, deep teeth glittered and the blue eyes blackened. She snapped at him like a dog and he jerked the noose a little. The hands raked at his arm, but they were not quite human any longer.