“I know!” Carole said. “He showed himself to you, and you took pity on him and kissed him—”
“Actually, it was more like he took pity on me and allowed me to kiss him. I was simply dying for an animal to cuddle by then,” Daisy confided.
“And he turned into a handsome…”
“A Prince at any rate. The only problem is, I’m of dryad heritage, and not a princess, so the counterspell didn’t work as well when I administered it as it would with a real princess. I have to kiss him again rather frequently or he has a tendency to revert.”
“You mean turn back into a frog?” Carole made a face.
“I’m afraid so,” Daisy said resignedly.
“Ugh!” Carole said.
“Rather,” Daisy sighed. “Though sometimes I almost prefer it. I get so tired of humans and at least if Loefrig’s in a froggish temper it’s a nice change for me from the Tape’s company. I am so very glad you’ve come and brought Rusty.”
By that time Jack had finished demolishing all of the halfway edibles he could find remaining on the table, and approached Daisy with his most flourishing bow, and together they joined the dance.
If one could call it that. If there was anything Frostingdungian’s did worse than cooking, Carole thought, it was making music. The problem wasn’t just that it was foreign music either—her father knew several foreign songs and she usually found them intriguing, if not as danceable as Argonian ones. Nor did the fault lie in the skill of the musicians, who played competently enough, though they didn’t seem particularly interested in what they were doing. They might as well have been scrubbing pots or cutting grain for all the joy they displayed in their tunes. Which was perfectly understandable. This was something Carole had never thought to hear—boring music.
And all of the dancers looked as bored as the musicians sounded, even when the dance bestowed them each upon different partners than those with whom they’d begun. Bronwyn was with Droughtsea now, and Mistress Raspberry with Lord Gilles. They made a strange-looking couple, and Carole could see that though Mistress Raspberry tried to be gay in her brittle fashion, Jenny’s young lord was hard to cheer up.
He looked sad and worried and perhaps a little frightened—maybe mad, but Carole wasn’t sure. She had a feeling after the people of Frostingdung got to know her and the people she’d been traveling with, the Dungies would think all of the Argonians madder than Lord Gilles.
While she was thinking and watching the dancers, she started humming, just a little. She didn’t exactly mean to practice magic. Still, merely humming a few suggestions to the musicians, purely musical, as one artist to another, couldn’t possibly count as magic. So she added a little harmony here and a glissando there, this tiny embellishment and that, gaining confidence and inspiration as she went along until her humming blended in with the new and improved music.
It sounded much better. By the end of the dance everyone had a sheen of perspiration on his or her face. “I say, I don’t remember that one going exactly that way, do you, darling?” the Empress asked the Emperor, with whom she was now partnered.
“Never gave it much thought, dear,” he said. “Believe I’m getting tired after all, and the game wardens are coming tomorrow to make their weekly reports. What say we. . . “
“Oh, very well,” the Empress replied crossly.
Many of the courtiers followed the Imperial pair from the room, but the musicians played another dance for those remaining, and Carole helped on that one too. Mistress Raspberry flushed as red as her name and she danced again in Lord Gilles’ arms, and Gilles laughed and smiled throughout most of the song, and seemed to be joking with her.
But as the last strains died away, and Mistress Raspberry trotted dutifully off with Daisy-Esmeralda, the beautiful young baron looked over the heads of the dancers to meet Carole’s wistful gaze with a shrewdly appraising one. He sauntered over to her, poured himself another draught, drained it, and leaned against the table, folding his arms across his chest and regarding her with a perplexed expression on his face.
When everyone had left the room except the servants clearing the tables he said in a low tone, “Little tricks like that can earn you a new piece of jewelry here, Miss.”
“Who? Me?” Carole looked innocently around her. “You’re mistaken, sir. I was just sitting here enjoying the music.”
“Hmmm, so I noticed. And since that’s normally quite impossible, I immediately deduced you were the culprit.”
“Not bad for a mad man,” she said. He might be beautiful but he took a lot on himself.
“I see my reputation precedes me. No need to be so sharp, Miss. Your secret’s safe with me. I’m widely known as a half-breed witch-lover anyway, though up till now at least I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure.”
“But isn’t Teeny a witch really, without her bracelet?” Carole asked innocently.
“Teeny Fittroon? Might have been. She was bound when I was born. No way of telling now.”
“Won’t her magic come back if the King lets you take off the bracelet?”
“Not much chance of that.” He slumped down in a chair and filled and drained his cup twice more, mopping his mouth with a gesture less graceful than previous ones. “Loefwin’s not the same man who conquered the Six since he got religion or whatever it was he got in Argonia, besides that female hidebehind he’s married to. But Droughtsea and Loefrig are the same. They’re not likely to let any bracelets be removed, even if the whole country starves to death.”
“If the people are slaves, can’t they be forced to grow things?”
“Certainly they can. My father, Gory Kilgilles, did just that. The vine that makes our pasty porridge is tended by slaves. But that won’t help bring back the meat animals and fish.”
“You must have some meat,” Carole said. “We had roast tonight.”
He laughed, and though his laugh was full and deep instead of old and tremulous, he reminded her of Teeny. “Yes, what did you think of our roast beast? Loefwin’s game wardens catch that particular form of crawler by setting out traps each night baited with part of one from the previous night. Originally, a slave was used for bait, but Loefwin doesn’t care for that practice any longer. People in my region do the same with the sea creatures. When those aren’t available, we eat the gruel.”
“I suppose you get used to it,” she said doubtfully. Marta, the seamstress at Wormroost, was fond of saying that, but then, Marta had never eaten the Frostingdungian gruel.
“Not unless you’ve never had better. I have. Food has gotten shorter and worse every year of my life.” He started to say something else, but abruptly his face and entire bearing changed. Most of the candles and torches in the room had by now been discreetly doused, and as Carole watched, she could almost see another person slide over Gilles’ head like a garment. His eyes narrowed and lengthened, his skull broadened, his body straightened and became less drink-riddled and resigned and more stern and forbidding. He shifted his position to the left, and addressed the space he had formerly occupied.
“You sniveling whelp! When I think of the indignities your mother endured at the hands of that goblin in order to produce a sorry specimen like you, I could weep. Sobbing for our supper, are we, with our people in iron and our realm in ruins? How would you like to eat dirt for all eternity?”
“Wait!” Carole said, searching the face for some trace of the original Gilles. Frostingdungians might call this madness but any witch worth her salt knew the supernatural when she saw it. This wasn’t madness, this was either haunting or possession. “Just who are you and what makes you think you can just barge in on our conversation like that?”
“I’m his father,” the new entity informed her coldly. She found she was rather surprised it was aware of her presence. She’d always thought that hauntings/possessions were more or less personal matters between the haunter and its host, so to speak. “Who are you?”
Before she could answer, the man shifted in his seat again
and became Gilles once more. “She’s a witch, old man, a real unbanded potent witch. And you’re not my father and furthermore if you want either of us to survive, you’d better not even let me hear you think such a thing. Don’t you realize we’re in Loefwin’s castle?”
He switched positions again and the caul of his father’s personality slipped back across his features. The ghost wasn’t the least bit interested in its geographical location. “Witch, eh? And with your powers intact. Won’t be for long, around here.”
Gilles shifted back to himself again. “I was just telling her some of the problems the country has been having and how Loefwin is trying to solve them. I’m trying to persuade him to unband the slaves, to help solve the food shortage.”
“The country! What do you mean the country! Seven countries is what we are, and Frostingdung the lowliest of all. Suleskeria, Bintnar, even the Nonarable Lands, all of us had enough to eat when there were fish left in the sea and our people had the power and skill to coax the plants from the earth and the beasts were allowed to breed—Dungies never understood that you can’t separate magic from production. Goblins rape the earth of metals it doesn’t replace. You can’t do that with food, or you starve. So now they’re starving and I say, let them!” As the ghost spoke, it became more and more distraught, its cultured voice grew louder, and it ground Gilles’ teeth angrily.
Carole watched, both fascinated and apprehensive, waiting for the young nobleman to turn into himself again, when she heard another noise.
“Hsst! Lady Carole!” Jack hailed her.
“Who’s that?” the ghost asked, whirling to face Jack. “Another witch?”
“No, that’s Jack. He’s a gypsy.”
“Certainly is. What about that creature you were dancing with earlier, whelp?”
“That’s Mistress Raspberry,” Carole answered, not willing to watch the switch again. “She’s an ogress and also a little bit of a magician, I think.”
The ghost chuckled. “So, Loefwin’s inviting magicians back to his court, is he? Could be he’s found he needs ’em.”
Jack heard the chuckle and rushed forward. Gilles shifted position and answered his specter, “I’m trying to convince the Emperor of just that, if you don’t queer the deal for me first.”
“You! All you ever do is wallow in your brew,” the ghost said from the left again. Jack, who had at first clasped Carole’s arm, dropped his hand and stared first at Gilles and company and then at her.
“Come, Carole. It is not good for you to be in this dark hall with Teeny’s crazy lord. No offense, crazy Lord,” he said quickly. “But you also should be in bed. Old Teeny would wish it,” he added lamely.
“An excellent idea,” the real Gilles said, rising. “We can continue this discussion in my room, old man.”
“Bah!” the ghost replied, but was then silent.
Chapter 8
Bronwyn hadn’t really been avoiding the Duke of Droughtsea when he found her, but neither had she been seeking him out. She’d actually been waiting for Mistress Raspberry, who had asked Bronwyn to meet her in the west courtyard after breakfast. Breakfast being a great deal like dinner, she’d decided to skip it despite her hunger. She arrived in the courtyard early in hopes of getting in a bit of practice with her sword.
After the ogress lifted her curse, she intended to go directly to the Front and lend her father a helping hand. No doubt he had everything under control, of course. He was the world’s greatest warrior. But she still wanted to prove she was the world’s second greatest. It probably wouldn’t be enough just to have the curse off. She’d probably have to convince a few people they needed to believe her when she said something, and Father always said there was nothing like a good sword to make a believer out of someone. She tried a few experimental thrusts, pretending to quarter a few Ablemarlonian generals.
When she tired of that, she thought she might find good new offensive and defensive maneuvers for dealing with monsters tactically useful in this terrain, and set out to devise some. With the Great Tape in mind, she ferociously minced a hapless clothesline that happened to be hanging in the wrong place at the right time, Recalling the fliers, she hacked several large chunks out of the sky, but she was beginning to get bored when the Duke came along.
“Your Highness! So you’ve decided to honor me with a duel after all,” he said with a flourishing bow.
“I’ve been waiting for some time,” she said, panting from teaching the sky a lesson.
“Then by all means,” he said, drawing his weapon from a pocket, “Let’s begin.”
Droughtsea felt in no way imperiled by this oversized child. Even if Loefwin mistook her for a grown woman, he did not. He’d had it out of the gypsy boy that the Princess was large because of lineage, and a fighter only because she so designated herself. She was un-blooded, whereas the Duke was very bloody indeed.
For a time they circled each other, Bronwyn feinting once or twice. She had practiced against veterans before, for though her father was her favorite sparring partner, he seldom had time to spare and often sent some general who was waiting for an audience to school his daughter in battle. She had always had the feeling these men weren’t taking her seriously and did not fight hard against her for fear of injuring the royal heiress. She’d done her best to challenge them, and had few qualms about her ability to match her sword with sword or lance, but the unconventional weapon wielded by the Duke was another matter.
After her second feint, he fell back, and set his weapon in motion, the right-hand weight twirling in the direction of the sun, the left-hand weight twirling in opposition to it. Bronwyn became so interested in watching the things flip around that she almost didn’t see when he loosed it.
He had thrown for her neck, which wasn’t sportsmanlike at all, but she hopped backwards. Consequently on its downward fall, after failing to meet with her throat, the senyaty found her feet instead and wrapped securely around them, tripping her.
She fell back with her sword still raised and her shield covering her. She wasted a precious moment thinking how to untangle the senyaty without destroying it before she glanced up and saw the Duke advancing on her with his sword drawn and realized he had every intention of destroying her, whatever she did to his weapon. Her reflexes were well-trained enough, but her confusion delayed her almost too long. She was still thinking about untangling her feet, and had her blade engaged with the leather strip, when his sword came crashing towards her head.
She threw up her shield, and his sword shattered against it at the same moment hers severed the leather binding her feet. Before she could raise her weapon to press her own offensive, he sprang upon her, another senyaty in his hands, wrapped it around her neck and pulled so tightly that most of her strength fled with her breath.
Why was he doing this? Didn’t he like redheads or was it tall girls he hated? Of all the Argonian party, Bronwyn had the least magic. If he was of a magic-hating people, why pick on her? No doubt he realized her natural valor would cause her to fly to the defense of her companions if he attacked them first, so he was getting her out of the way before proceeding to his real target. She wanted to ask him if she was right, but all she could say was, “Ack,” as he jerked her around in front of him and pulled harder on the leather thongs. Her sword arm was powerless to reach him.
She fell backwards, her height helping her fall heavily to knock him down. The cords loosened and she ripped them off, though her fingers felt lifeless. Her sword had clattered to the ground in the tussle and now both she and the Duke jumped for it.
“Ah, Droughtsea, helping our lovely young guest get some wholesome exercise, I see,” someone said, and both Bronwyn and the Duke abandoned the sword to turn sweating, discolored faces to the Emperor. Mistress Raspberry and Lord Gilles stood on either side of him and Rusty lifted a thin eyebrow at the sight of Bronwyn’s disarray. “Kind of you to entertain her, but don’t be so rough, my dear fellow. We don’t want to damage her. Heh heh.”
Before
either Droughtsea or Bronwyn could reply, a young page ran into the courtyard, slowing to a more sedate pace when he saw Loefwin. “Your pardon, Sire, but you asked to be informed when the gamekeepers had assembled. They await your pleasure.” Spotting the Duke, he also bowed to him, looking a bit leery of addressing the man, Bronwyn thought. “Milord, His Highness Prince Loefrig asks you to attend him in his bath.”
The Duke bowed hastily and retreated and Bronwyn rose, accepting the Emperor’s proffered hand and examining her skinned knees on the way up.
The Emperor looked after him for a moment and Bronwyn thought she saw a glint of suspicion in Loefwin’s deep-set eyes, but if it was there, he masked it almost at once with a genial smile. “Mustn’t keep the gamekeepers waiting, must I? But, Princess Bronwyn, I would like to have a word with you after court. While talking with Sister Ruby-Rose and Kilgilles here, it occurred to me that perhaps we might come to some arrangement of mutual satisfaction with Argonia concerning your war and our food shortage. I should like your opinion.”
Before Bronwyn could reply, Mistress Raspberry gasped with a motherly concern which was totally uncharacteristic. “Why, Princess Bronwyn, dear, you’ve bloodied your knee! That will never do. Come along, and we’ll ask my mother to help us fix it.”
The Emperor fled the moment the tone turned to such womanly matters, and Rusty said under her breath, “We mustn’t risk your curse botching this conference. Let’s talk to Mother right now about curing you.”
* * *
Belburga was at her dressing table when they reached her chambers. She looked surprised enough to see Rusty but she looked absolutely amazed to see Bronwyn. “But, my dear, what an unexpected pleasure,” she said, quickly recovering her composure. She waved a rouge pot in the direction of Bronwyn’s knees. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”
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