The Still

by David Feintuch

  “Yes?”

  “Pardon, my lord. I know she was your nurse.”

  I kicked the wheel. “Would it weren’t so. Go on.”

  “She’s rather a ... harridan, isn’t she? No need to plant that wreckage here so early as last eve, but no, she said, she’d have the maids lugging trunks and whatnot downstairs through the night, and unless she set the cart in front of the guards’ noses, none of her gear would be left by morning, amid the thieves and knaves of Castle Stryx.” He spat. “Look, noon nigh upon us, and the wagon empty as the day it was made.”

  Nothing he told me was much reassurance as to Hester’s good sense, or even sanity. On top of all, parking her hulking wagon in the middle of the courtyard gave her almost no chance to smuggle Elryc aboard.

  As I stood morose, Hester herself hobbled down the steps behind us. A band of onlookers exchanged grins of derision as she puttered about her wagon, cloak and shawl drawn tight against the rain. She issued an incessant stream of complaints to the struggling footmen and flustered housemaids.

  “Careful with that trunk, dolt! Would you break the straps before it’s seen the wagon? Oh, clever, putting it next to the barrel. At the first rut the cask will—Magret, who told you to bring that drapery? It belonged to my lady; think you I’m a thief like yourself? Put it back—no fold it first; damask will wrinkle like the very demon. Has no one taught you a thing? Faugh!”

  No Elryc in sight. Not that I’d expected it.

  She banged her stick. “You soldiers, stop gawking and help lift that chest over the rail. Steady! By first light I should have been gone, and look at this mess! Were a single soul in Castle Stryx not lazy as a pregnant sow I’d be long on my way!”

  Someone muttered, “And none too soon.”

  “I heard that, you gapemouth churl!” She squinted. “Isn’t your mother fat Etha of the laundry? Hold your tongue, or I’ll give her a piece of my mind for misraising her whelps!”

  A nudge in my ribs, from Fostrow. “She hasn’t a piece to spare.” Despite myself, I grinned.

  “Aye, laugh, all of you. It’s little enough I bring away from the years I served Caledon!” She fussed at a set of leather boxes, making sure they were covered by canvas against the wet.

  “There you are.” A hand on my shoulder, Rustin’s. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

  At his voice, I sighed with relief. “She has them in a dither. Been packing all night.” I glanced at Fostrow, dropped my voice to a whisper. “No sign of the bundle.” Rust nodded.

  We sauntered around the cart. Two of the barrels were large enough to hide Elryc, though he’d be sore cramped. Three trunks were possibilities as well, though if Hester were demented enough to stuff him into any of them, he’d be long smothered and gone. They had no airholes.

  Under the cart, then. Across the way, I spotted Genard gawping amid the crowd, and nudged Rustin. The stableboy had been enlisted. What more natural than two urchins, nosing about the wagon? One would slip under, hoist himself into ropes or straps readied for the purpose.

  I yearned to bend and look, and thought of fussing with my boot, but didn’t dare risk it. “Rust, go ask that dung beetle about, um, you know.” I whispered to him my suspicions. Rust nodded, drifted off.

  Someone sent word to the stables; in a few minutes Kerwyn and another groom led six sturdy dray horses to the thick-hewed wagon.

  “Put that star-faced mare in front. Team her with the bay, you simpleton!” Hester, to my surprise, took avid interest in the harnessing, and showed sense in the pairings. Had she truly been a horsewoman, in her long-vanished youth?

  The steady soak began to work a chill through my bones, but I couldn’t go inside until I’d seen the cart safely out the gate. At my side, Fostrow shivered, and I felt a moment’s compassion, before remembering he was the Duke’s man.

  Rustin poked me in the back.

  “Well?”

  He shook his head. “Says he knows nothing.”

  “He must.” I eyed my neighbors; Hester’s devilments held them in thrall. I whispered into Rustin’s ear the plans Hester had snarled at me, across a wet mop. He nodded.

  I returned my attention to the wagon, mystified at my brother’s whereabouts. Finally the last cinch was pulled tight, the reins were in the old woman’s hand. Hester climbed aboard the high box seat. A boot braced against the footboard, the other on the brake, she took one last look about.

  “A loathsome place,” she said in her disagreeable scratched voice. “And not one of you fit to hold the hem of my lady’s gown.” She clicked to the horses, flicked the reins, began a slow laborious turn round the courtyard.

  I pressed my knees together, wishing I’d visited the privy.

  “Come, let’s get out of the chill.” Fostrow.

  “Not yet.” The wagon rumbled over the cobbles toward the gate.

  Not two steps from where the front wheel splashed in a puddle, Elryc had once slipped and cut his knee, and I’d had to help him inside to wash off the sting. He was a mangy brat, an ill-tempered know-it-all, who harbored Lord knew what designs on my throne. And he sniffled.

  Where in the demons’ lake was he?

  The huge wagon approached, but the gate didn’t open. Instead, Lanford, the chief gate guard, detached himself from his fellows at the lean-to. “Hold, old woman.”

  She spat, catching him neatly on the tip of his boot. “Dame Hester, to the likes of you!”

  “Not so fast, crone.” He caught the lead mare’s bridle.

  “Get away from my team, and do your work at the gate!” She gestured with the whip.

  “Oh, we’ll open soon enough. You’ll hear our cheers long before we’ve seen the last of you. But get off, while we search.”

  “Hah! Think you I’d take one pence of my lady’s—”

  “Not for coin, for the traitor you raised, brother to the true Prince.” An eye in my direction, a nod.

  Hester fixed him with an eye gone iron. “Lanford of the gate, thank Lord of Nature that your face shows your witlessness, else I’d take offense and I’d set the dark word at your throat.” Her hand twitched, as if to make a sign.

  Lanford stepped back so fast he almost fell. “Enough of that!” He made the protective sign. “Down off your wagon. You louts, what are you gawking at? Open the barrels!” Two soldiers jumped aboard.

  Instead of climbing down Hester scaled the box seat, stood with arms akimbo, let loose a cry I thought was anguish, until I realized it was a shriek of mirth. “Aye, poke through an old woman’s undergarments; you’ll have much to dream about tonight!”

  I moved closer, with the rest of the crowd. Evidently, Elryc wasn’t in the barrel; after a perfunctory search the crimson-faced young soldier pressed the lid in place.

  “The trunk has a key, simpleton. Try the one under your loincloth; it’s small enough to fit.” The crowd roared with laughter. She fished through a ring, tossed a key at his feet.

  He swung open the trunk.

  “Carvings from the Sands. One of them is your precious Elryc.” A shrill cackle. “I turned him into that oaken bird.”

  “Enough, old woman.”

  “Dame. The title is mine by right. Don’t touch that box!”

  A sudden hush.

  Lanford snapped, “Get it open, quick! Use that pry strapped to the siding.”

  From Hester, a smirk. “Don’t open it, I warn you.”

  Five feet long, a proper width to conceal a child. I held my breath.

  A creak, then another. As one, we surged forward. Hester, on her high perch, kicked at a hand that trespassed.

  Furs, old and worn. A woman’s hat. A bed quilt, well made, neatly tended. Two work gowns. No more.

  “Try them on, guardsman. Well you’d look in them.” The old woman’s voice was shrill with spite. “They belonged to my sister.”

  In silent fury, the two soldiers hammered shut the lid.

  She hissed, “Who died of the plague.”

  Sudden silence. The one so
ldier stared in horror at his hands, glanced about helplessly for something on which to wipe them. Hester did a little dance on her box seat, humming to herself. I hoped she’d stop before she pitched headlong to the courtyard.

  “Get on with it, you dolts. I have leagues to ride by nightfall!”

  Reluctantly, the guards fell to work. Hester aided them with constant commentary, of a virulence such that I began to fear for her life. Fortunately, few boxes left were Elryc’s size.

  “On your way, witch!” The rattled young soldier jumped down from the cart.

  Hester clambered off her promontory to the bed of the wagon, snatched up a blanket. “Shake it out, my darling; a boy might be inside!”

  Over the years I’d seen Nurse in foul temper, but never had she so baited misfortune. I leaned close to Rustin. “Her wits are gone.”

  His face drawn, he shook his locks in disapproval of the spectacle. “She brings shame on herself and your House.”

  Grumbling, Hester settled herself on the high seat. A flick of the reins. “Hsk, my loves. Now that my lady’s under the earth, no reason to stay.” The gate swung open.

  In a few moments she’d rumble down the hill, and with her, the dregs of my childhood. This weathered, half-mad old biddy had tended my hurts, rocked me to sleep, fed me mush until my milk teeth came. Though we’d soon rejoin her on the road, no longer would she be the dragon of my nursery.

  I swallowed an odd lump in my throat.

  “Hold!” Lanford, at the gate. “You, crawl under, and look.”

  Elryc was done for. I clutched at my side, but I wore only a dagger. My sword was still at the fencing master’s, where Mother had bade me store it. If, after they dragged Elryc out, I lunged for the one holding him, perhaps we could race down the hillside, dodging the guards’ arrows. I drifted toward the gate.

  “Nothing.” The soldier brushed mud from his breeks.

  My breath rushed out in a hiss. Dazed, I watched the ancient cart rumble through the portal.

  After, we went to Uncle’s quarters. In whispers, Rust and I had decided Pytor was to be my excuse; I sought leave to visit him at Verein. Once outside the walls, we would find a way to evade our escort.

  Mar’s tone was dry. “I don’t recall you cared so much for his company.”

  “He is my brother, despite all. And I’m restless. I’ll admit that.”

  “It’s a bad time, my boy. Storm clouds gather.”

  “It’s been raining all morn—”

  “Roddy, please. I spoke metaphorically.”

  I shrugged. Mother had never made me study metaphysics.

  “Oaf! It’s too dangerous now to let you go riding. Have I made it plain enough?”

  “Uncle, Verein is but a night and a day; I rode it with old Griswold, not a year ago.” With an effort, I kept my voice pleasant.

  “Aye, when you weren’t heir to a vacant throne.” His fingers drummed an alabaster stand, on which sat a bowl of fresh grapes. “In a few days we’ll be sending a troop across the hills. Wait until then.”

  “But—”

  “Roddy, I do wish you’d be more sensitive to risk. Your bones are of great value, while you surround them. Others would prefer you separated from them.”

  “In which category do you fall?” My temper smoldered and caught flame. “Both, perhaps. While I live, my treasury is yours to loot as regent. After you dispose of me—of us—there’s the crown itself.”

  He swept away the bowl of grapes with a crash, leaped to his feet. “What grounds have you to accuse me?”

  “None but the obvious. You’ve separated me from my brothers, denied me word with the Seven. Bayard sits waiting at Verein, while I—”

  His hand shot out, slapped me hard. My hand flew to my stinging cheek.

  “Elena was my sister. Think you I’d kill a son of hers?”

  My tone was like ice. “Only if a silver pence were to be gained.”

  He rushed across the room, flung open the door, caught me in an iron grip. One hand on my jerkin, the other on the rope of my breeks, he propelled me across the chamber and out to the hall where Rust sat. “Out, until you learn manners! Out, before I have you strapped like the royal brat you are! Begone!” The door hurled shut with a tremendous crash.

  Fostrow shook his head sadly as I picked myself up. “You shouldn’t rile him so. Your uncle has a fearsome temper.”

  “Guard me, but don’t presume to lecture me!” I set out for the courtyard, my stride so brisk my companions had to scurry to keep up.

  Rustin panted, “Roddy, what did he—”

  “Bottle it, and shove the cork ...” I bit off the rest.

  Fostrow a few steps behind us, we prowled the battlements. Torches were mounted, ready to light, and the walls fully manned as if for siege. Ignoring the steady rain I climbed to the secluded spot where it had been my wont to throw over a rope and disappear into the night, until Mother caught me and put a stop to it. Now, the place was within ten paces of a guard’s post.

  After a time I slowed my pace. I said softly, “Rust, I feel like a badger in a trap.”

  He glanced back to where Fostrow lurked, just out of earshot. “That rampart isn’t the only way out.”

  “But this west wall of the castle is. You know how much steeper are the other walls. Why do you smile? From here to that tower are the only places we can safely—”

  “We need not scale walls. No, let it wait; later we’ll be alone.”

  Upstairs once again, Fostrow trudged along the hall, shivering. “Catch a death of cold, I could. All afternoon in pouring rain, and no chance to change clothes. It’s a long day my master’s set me; early morn ’til Vanire comes at midnight. No warm fire, no dinner, either.”

  I snarled, “You have my pity. Better yet, my leave to go.”

  He stood hands on hips, glaring. “Be thankful you’re not behind a barred door. From what I hear, Lord Mar would as soon brick you in your chamber!”

  “I—we ...”

  “And I’d volunteer to set the mortar!” His eyes had a dangerous light as he shook the wet from his grizzled hair. “Royalty you may be, but a more brazen young charge I’ve never seen. All day you run me about the castle, upstairs and down, in and out, and delight in my discomfort.”

  I paused at the entry to my chamber. “Oh, for Lord’s sake, Fostrow, I only want the freedom I’ve known.”

  Fostrow muttered something, shook his head. “And for your sake, Prince, don’t mock Vanire as you do me. Stay your roaming, and your complaint.”

  For answer, I slammed my door.

  In my room, I relived my conversation with Uncle Mar, pacing with reignited fury, while Rustin sat comfortably on the rag. After a time my diatribe slowed to a muttered string of oaths. I marched from window to door, my fists knotted.

  Rust cast his dice. “Tell me when you’re calm enough to hear.”

  “Now.”

  “Hah.” Another cast. “Why do twos come up so often?”

  I thought to launch myself at him, reined myself in. “You’re no friend, Rustin son of Llewelyn, and a wretched vassal to boot.”

  “Yes, it’s all my fault.”

  “Would you care to eat those dice?”

  He gathered them in. “If you can feed me.” Another cast. “Royal brat, eh? An interesting phrase, and apt.”

  I threw myself at him while he was still rising to his feet; in one graceful motion Rust caught me round the waist, swung me to the floor, climbed on my chest. His powerful hands pinned my wrists to the flagstone.

  “How often have I said you lack patience?” His look was one of sorrow. I bucked, almost heaving him off, but he held his position. “A word of refusal from Mar, a gibe from me, and you froth at the mouth.”

  I tried to bite his wrist.

  “Oh, Roddy.” He grasped my hair, raised his hand for a blow, instead dropped my head with a thump. “No, you’ve already been slapped today. It does no good.” A lithe spring, and he was on his feet. “I’ll go, if you
wish.”

  “Yes, and never come back! Leave me to my fate!” I flung open the door. “Better yet join that oaf in keeping guard on me.” I wiped a damp cheek. “Leave!”

  He made a house bow, courteous and correct. I tried to catch him with the slam of the door, missed by an inch.

  Buried in my bed, I muffled my sobs so Fostrow wouldn’t hear; that would have been the ultimate indignity. When at last I was spent I lay dazed, overcome by the magnitude of my calamity. Rust, my only friend, my sworn ally, was lost forever, through—I hated to admit it—my fit of temper.

  Now what would I do? I could resign myself to Uncle’s rule, and the risk of murder. Might I still flee the castle, without Rust’s help? If so, was there any point to it?

  Even if I found Hester, I could be of no help to my brother; I’d end up following her to her cottage, to be raised alongside Elryc by a mad old crone. I snorted with derision. Me, a bucolic peasant boy? Better Uncle’s knife in the night.

  Still, I was better off outside Stryx than penned here a prisoner. The day was wasting; better I go about my escape. Without Rust’s help, I’d emerge with nothing but the clothes I wore, and perhaps not even a horse.

  On the other hand, if I could reach the outer wall, perhaps I could throw over a bundle to retrieve later. Best I scout the terrain below, but for that I’d have to devise a way past my jailer. That depended on his mood. I took a deep breath, unbarred the door.

  Rustin perched on the bench, chatting amicably with Fostrow. I gaped; he waved. “Good day, my prince.” Idly, he rose to his feet. “Are you ready now?”

  I nodded dumbly. He sauntered back into my room, closed my door. “Ready to listen, I hope.” He sat me in a stiff carved chair. “You act the fool, Roddy. Your innermost thoughts flicker on your face or roll off your tongue. Where’s the guile that once you displayed?”

  My tone was sullen. “Why do you berate—”

  “Answer, or I’ll leave in earnest.”

  I flared, “You’re my sworn vassal, and I call you to my standard! You can’t leave!”

  “Ah, that’s another case.” He sat. “I will do your bidding.”

  “Tell me what to do.”