Witch Of Rhostshyl s-3

by J F Rivkin

Nyctasia sat wearily on one of the chests, and watched her unroll the bedding and blankets. “Do you know, I might have come, but I couldn’t. I was in prison that night, as it happens.”

  “Prison! What did you do, set free all the slaves for sale a Osela market?”

  “Alas, no, it was quite a different matter-disturbing the peace of the fair. But it wasn’t my fault-”

  “Oh, I daresay,” Ashe mocked, shaking her head. She dropped onto a pallet in the corner, and pointed out a place against the far wall, for Nyctasia. “The first abed sleep to the back, so the others needn’t step over them,” she explained.

  “Leave the lamp for them, they won’t be long. You can put your boots and things on that shelf above your head.”

  Nyctasia was accustomed to more comfortable accommodations, but she was too tired to mind. She crept into the small space allotted to her and collapsed onto the lumpy pallet with a grateful sigh. “It wasn’t,” she said sleepily, “my fault

  …”

  Ashe chuckled. “You must be of very high birth indeed, Lady Nyc brenn Rhostshyl.”

  For a moment, Nyctasia was startled to wakefulness. Calm denials and thoroughly convincing lies, inspired by a lifetime of suspicion and secrecy, immediately suggested themselves to her, but were just as quickly discarded. For one thing, it was unnecessary, she told herself. For another thing, Ashe deserved better of her. And it was also just more trouble than it was worth…

  With a feeling of relief that was almost luxurious, she replied simply, “Yes, I am. But how did you know that?”

  “By your lawless habits, of course-only aristocrats think they can do whatever comes into their heads and get away with it.”

  “Aristocrats and lunatics,” Nyctasia agreed. “Lunacy’s not unknown in my family.

  But I’m not always as impetuous as I was today. Usually I’m uncommonly circumspect.”

  “As you will, lady,” said Ashe, with unconcealed disbelief. “But I’d not be surprised to learn that you disturb the peace everywhere you go. I’ll wager you’re always in trouble of some sort, no?”

  Nyctasia sighed. “Yes, I am,” she said again.

  17

  when maegor had finished her morning’s marketing, it was not long after dawn, but already there were plenty of people about and busy. She carried a milkjug in one hand, and her basket was heavy with cheese and bread, honeycombs, a sack of meal, marrowbones for broth, and eggs nested in straw. Before she had gone far, a gypsy girl, half her size and narrow as a needle, darted up to her and offered to carry it, to earn a few pence.

  Maegor tossed her a silver penny. “Get along with you, and have something to eat. I don’t believe you could carry a sprig of lavender.”

  The girl snatched the coin and curtseyed clumsily. “I thank you, mistress greenwoman. For your kindness, I’ll tell you your fortune, if you will.”

  Maegor stopped. “How do you know I’m an herbalist?” she demanded.

  “Nothing is hidden,” said Nyctasia, “from one who knows the secrets of destiny.”

  She grinned at Maegor’s look of astonishment and recognition. “You will soon have a visit from an old friend,” she predicted.

  “’Tasia, how long is it since you’ve eaten?” Maegor chided. “You look like a wraith.”

  Nyctasia was busy eating most of what Maegor had just brought home from market.

  “Oh, well, I’m used to fasting, you know,” she said vaguely. “It took most of my money to buy a horse in Stocharnos, and Grey had to be fed, of course.”

  At the sound of his name. Greymantle looked up and slapped the floor with his tail, then went back to gnawing on one of the soupbones. “It’s past believing how much the creature eats,” Nyctasia complained, scratching his back with her foot and looking down at him with obvious pride. “I’ll need some of the money I left with you for safekeeping. You told me I’d be back to claim it one day, and you were right, as you always are.”

  Maegor began to fry more mealcakes. “I told you you were just crazy enough to come back, as I recall it.”

  “I’ve missed your scolding, Maeg. And your cooking. Now, the one thing I need most of all-”

  “A bath, of course. I knew you must be starving if you were willing to eat without bathing first. But aren’t you afraid your dusky hue will wash off?”

  “I only hope it will. And as for this filthy thing”-she pulled off the wig, holding it at arm’s length with her thumb and forefinger-“it ought to be burned at once.” She dropped it on Greymantle, who regarded it with surprise and shook himself.

  “No, not burned, buried in the garden. Human hair’s good for the soil. But is it wise, ’Tasia, for you to go about undisguised?”

  “Why, Maeg, you always reproached me for being too sly and secret, and now I’m too free and forthright to suit you. I declare, there’s no pleasing you.”

  Maegor turned the mealcakes and slid more butter into the pan. “Forthright’s one thing, and foolhardy’s another. And you’ve never been either of the two before.”

  “Well. I’ve never been sole claimant to absolute rule of the city before,”

  Nyctasia said, through a mouthful of egg and bread. “Soon enough, everyone will know where I am. But I shan’t be so very foolhardy, I promise you-I mean to have Corson brenn Torisk at my back, if she’s to be found. With her, and Greymantle here, for protection, I’d defy an army of enemies. What did you make of my Corson, then?”

  “She looks like a cutthroat-until she smiles.”

  “Oh, that’s when she’s most dangerous. But of course she’s a cutthroat. One of the best. I couldn’t have a better bodyguard.”

  “I can well believe it. You’ve cast your charm over that one, and no mistake.

  It’s plain to see that she’s devoted to you.”

  Nyctasia laughed. “Corson! That she-demon claims that she’s only saved my life time and again lest she be cheated of the pleasure of killing me herself. You’ve never heard the like of her insolence.” But she was pleased by Maegor’s opinion.

  “I’ll go to the Jugged Hare later, and see if she’s in Chiastelm. I’ll be sending for some of my own people from Rhostshyl too, so you needn’t worry over my safety. And no one will be looking for me in these parts, not yet.”

  “That’s not so, ’Tasia. There are rumors of your coming already, even here in Chiastelm. It must be common talk in Rhostshyl.”

  At this, Nyctasia grew more concerned. “But how can that be? I’ve not sent word to anyone.” Who could possibly have betrayed her plans?

  “I think it must have been Therisain who started the stories, to strengthen his own position. He hinted as much to me once. When he left the letter here, he suggested that it would help your cause if I encouraged such rumors.”

  “Of course,” said Nyctasia, disgusted with herself for her suspicions. “My letters of warrant would carry more weight if folk believed that I’d soon return to direct my affairs myself. Therisain was quite right, but this does make matters rather more difficult. It will be just as well, perhaps, if I adopt a less conspicuous guise

  …”

  So soon, Nyctasia brooded, before she had even set foot in Rhostshyl, she was caught up in the scheming for power, the endless intrigues of the court. She could play the game as well as anyone, if she must, but it was not for that that she’d come back to her homeland.

  “I truly believed that I’d escaped, Maeg. But now it seems as though I’d never been gone at all.”

  “Then go back, ’Tasia, for the vahn’s sake!” It was not an oath Maegor used lightly.

  “For the vahn’s sake,” Nyctasia echoed, her voice bitter. “Of what use is it to appeal to me in the vahn’s name? I’ve no right to call myself a Vahnite-I’ve betrayed the Principles too often, and I shall do so again. I’ve no doubt, before many days have passed. I killed a man, on my way to the coast, only to save myself a few days’ delay.”

  “I don’t believe that of you, ’Tasia,” said Maegor. Yet she knew that Ny
ctasia would never say something so outrageous unless there were some truth in it.

  “Oh, very well, don’t look so shocked-perhaps my reasons were better than that.

  But I can hardly claim that it was the act of a Vahnite, nor even that I’ve suffered true remorse. And there’s no telling what measures I may have to take soon…” She looked away, not meeting Maegor’s eyes, but she spoke with calm certainty. “I only know that I can’t be an able ruler and a good Vahnite.

  Sacrifices must be made, and I care more about my city than about my spirit.

  This is wrong of me, I have no doubt, but sometimes it is a luxury to be right, an indulgence one must deny oneself.” Nyctasia had faced this paradox before, but never had her duty seemed so clear to her. If she was to be more honest with others, she must be more honest with herself as well.

  “It is not for me to judge you, ’Tasia,” Maegor said gently. “What is right for one is not so for another. You bear burdens that I am thankful to be spared.”

  She sighed. “But you were happy in the home you’d found?”

  Nyctasia smiled. “I was taking root very well, so I was told. I was among a clan of vintners, you see, and they were distant kin to me as well. They regarded me as a delicate foreign scion, grafted to their hearty Midland root-stock, and they tended me with every care. You’d have liked them, Maeg. They taught me much.”

  “So I see. You’ve grown so forthcoming, I scarcely know you.”

  Maegor had asked Nyctasia nothing about where she’d been or what she planned to do, and she certainly had not expected to be told. Nyctasia might deny the vahn-or believe that she had done so-but she seemed more at peace with herself than Maegor had ever known her.

  “Well, I’ll prepare that bath for you now, shall I?” said Maegor.

  By the time Nyctasia emerged from the apothecary, she had transformed herself yet again, into a travel-worn messenger, or a vagabond student-or, indeed, almost anything else. In her completely commonplace leggings and tunic, her old boots and patched cloak, she was ready to assume any role that was necessary, at a moment’s notice. She had even reluctantly left Grey-mantle behind, the better to slip through the streets unnoticed. From her walk, and the set of her shoulders, she seemed a slight, carefree youth as she sauntered down Market Street, a servant-boy on some household errand.

  Vroehin the Moneychanger was alone in his shop, and Nyctasia no sooner entered than he gave an exclamation of surprise and pushed past her to slam and bolt the door. Standing with his back against it, he frowned down at her fiercely and jabbed a long, bony forefinger at her face.

  “So you’ve appeared again! You’ve some explaining to do, my fine young scapegrace. You’re no more page to Lord Heirond than I am-whose money was it you left here, Master Rastwin, if that’s your name? Speak up!”

  Nyctasia backed away, holding out her hands placatingly.

  “Just as you say, sir. Rastwin is not my name,” she admitted, “but however did you find me out?”

  “Very simply! When Lord Heirond died, I sent to know what his heirs’ orders were, and his steward knew nothing about the sums you’d deposited with my house, nor about you. The household had never employed a messenger the likes of you.

  Now I’ll have the truth from you, my lad-I’d be within my rights to keep that money, you know. You’d best have a reasonable tale to tell, or I’ll have you up before the magistrates for theft.”

  “Mercy!” Nyctasia laughed, not at all contrite. “I’m a liar and a deceiver, but not a thief, I promise you. So His Lordship died at last. He’d been ill for so long that I expected him never to die, I suppose. Carelessness has ever been my greatest failing.”

  Suddenly she was tired of carrying on the masquerade, and galled by all the deceptions she had practiced for so long. She sat down on a bench and regarded Vroehin with composure, abruptly abandoning the manner and affectations of the impertinent rascal Rastwin. “It is not a violation of the law to arrange one’s affairs under an assumed name and guise,” she pointed out, “provided that one acts for one’s own protection, and not for the purpose of cheating others. The money I’ve kept here was my own, you may be quite easy about that. It’s true that I was never page-boy to Lord Heirond-”

  “You were never a boy at all!” said Vroehin in an astonished whisper. “For the love of Asye, who are you, woman?” He had never before seen Nyctasia’s features in repose, nor heard her so serious and softspoken. Now for the first time he saw her clearly, and he could not understand how he’d failed to perceive the truth about her before.

  Nyctasia smiled. “I know you to be perfectly trustworthy, sir, but I have reasons, good reasons, to be secret in my dealings. It would not do you-or your daughter-any good to know who I am. You understand.” She stood. “I only came here today to tell you that the money still in your keeping is to go for Mellis’s dowry. I meant to send instructions as to that, but-”

  “So it was you who sent Mellis that valuable gold locket,” Vroehin interrupted,

  “She declared that it must be your doing.”

  “Vahn, so I did. I’d forgotten it. I couldn’t resist the temptation to send her some little keepsake-I didn’t expect to pass this way again, but my plans have changed, you see.”

  Vroehin was thinking hard and fast. He was a shrewd man, and by now he had begun to suspect whom he was dealing with.

  Not long before Lord Heirond’s death there had been much talk of the mysterious disappearance of the Witch of Rhostshyl, and Vroehin had seen the last of young Rastwin at much the same time. This woman was wealthy enough to be a Rhaicime, and witch enough to convince him for years that she was nothing but a common messenger-boy… And he’d heard the rumors from war-torn Rhostshyl that folk were calling for the return of the exiled lady of the Edonaris… Decidedly, it was as well not to question her further.

  “Well, you’ve a right, I suppose, to dispose of your own goods in what way you will,” he said. “But you might have made your wishes known sooner.”

  “Forgive me, sir-I’d have done so if I’d known of Lord Heirond’s death, but I’ve been far away. I’m sorry to have given trouble.”

  Vroehin hesitated. “I thank you for your bounty on my daughter’s behalf,” he said uneasily, “but, meaning no offense, I’d as soon you were gone before she returns from market.”

  Nyctasia nodded. “That is wise,” But at the door she turned back to him for a moment, with Rastwin’s impudent grin. “Farewell, Vroehin. Pray give my best love to the fair Mellis, and tell her I sigh for her still.”

  “Get about your business,” snapped Vroehin, from sheer habit.

  Nyctasia bowed. “It may be that we shall not meet again,” she said with mock solemnity, “and so, good luck to this house!”

  Vroehin watched till she reached the market square and vanished into a side street, “And to you, my lady,” he murmured.

  18

  “someone’s asking for Corson,” Trask reported to Annin, in the kitchen. “Take a look. The little one in the corner.”

  Annin peered through the knothole in the kitchen door, which was convenient for spying on the taproom. “Looks harmless enough,” she observed. “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing,” said Trask, drawing a mug of foaming cider from the cask. “Do you think Corson’s in trouble again?”

  “Probably. Get rid of her, and we’ll lock up for the night-it’s almost time.

  I’ll start chasing the others out.” There were only a few customers left in the tavern, and the kitchen had already been set to rights for the morrow. Walden had gone home not long before, and Steifann was in his own quarters, scowling over his accounts and downing a large tankard of ale.

  Trask set the cider before Nyctasia and asked curtly. “Will there be anything else, mistress? We’ll be closing our doors soon.”

  Nyctasia had told too many lies in her life to be misled by the likes of Trask.

  She had not for a moment believed that he could give her no new
s of Corson, but she knew that further questions would only make him more suspicious. She sipped at her cider and said only, “I shan’t keep you, then. I’ll come back another time for a meal. Corson always says you have the best cook on the coast here.

  Tell her Nyc’s looking for her, if you happen to see her, will you?”

  “You’re Nick? Oh, well then-Corson’s told us all about you. She talks about you all the time.”

  For someone who denied having seen Corson for months, he seemed remarkably well informed about her habits, Nyctasia thought. She saw that she would soon find out whatever she wanted to know from Trask. “Does she indeed?” she murmured encouragingly. “And what does she find to say about me?” It was gratifying, in a way, to hear that Corson had spoken about her, but exactly what had she said?

  Surely she knew better than to tell her friends too much…?

  “Corson claims that you’re a great lady.” Trask eyed Nyctasia’s worn garments dubiously. “Not that we believed her.”

  “Oh, but I am,” said Nyctasia, in a tone which could only invite disbelief.

  “And I’m High Lord of Torstaine,” said Trask, with a grin. “As if a great lady would take up with Corson! But she always has some fool story to tell when she comes back here.”

  Nyctasia smiled. “She’s told me about all of you, too. You must be Trask. And that-” She broke off and stared as Steifann came out of his room to fetch himself more ale, slamming the door behind him. He was simply the largest person she had ever seen. “That must be Corson’s he-bear, Steifann.”

  “Does she call him that?” Trask asked eagerly.

  “Well, only when she’s been drinking.”

  Trask was delighted. “Steifann!” he called. “Look here, this is Corson’s friend Nick we’ve heard so much about.”

  It should be said in Steifann’s defense that he was rather drunk. It took a great deal of ale to affect Steifann’s judgment, but he’d been worrying about Corson, and when he worried he drank even more ale than usual. Corson should have been back days ago. She’d only been escorting a shipment of merchandise to Ochram, and that couldn’t have taken more than a fortnight. Unless she’d tangled with robbers on the way…? The roads were most dangerous in the spring, Steifann brooded. Bandits were desperate and reckless after the scanty pickings of the winter, when travelers were few-and the coast road led through deep woodland at more than one point. He pictured Corson lying dead in the forest, hewn by swords, impaled by arrows, maybe devoured by wolves… Or it might be that she was just tarrying in Ochram, spending her pay with some newfound friend, and letting him worry. By the Hlann, he’d kill her himself when she came traipsing back-!