By Slanderous Tongues

by Mercedes Lackey

  Rhoslyn was shaking with anxiety and eagerness to be gone, but she did not dare run to hide herself, pulling two of Mary’s ladies with her. The lindys was quiet, although still very tense. Rhoslyn could not restrain herself from uttering a soft sob.

  “Rosamund, do let me summon the physician,” Jane Dormer urged. “Our lady need not know.”

  “No, this has happened many times before,” Rhoslyn said. “I know what to do. I only need to be alone and quiet and it will pass.”

  “I will run for a footman,” Susan said. “We cannot get you up two flights of stairs.”

  “Oh, yes,” Rhoslyn breathed, with real gratitude, “thank you. And if you will send for my maid …”

  In fewer moments than Rhoslyn had hoped, a tall and sturdy footman arrived. With a murmur of apology, he swept Rhoslyn up in his arms, hurried to the stair in the north wing, and carried her up to her tiny chamber under the gable. There was only a narrow bed with a tiny table beside it, a chest, and one chair, armless but with a back. Still this was luxury when Mary’s other ladies were packed four to a room not much larger than Rhoslyn’s.

  The footman laid Rhoslyn on the bed. She fumbled in the purse hung from her belt and pressed a coin into his hand. He bowed and backed away but did not leave, standing near the door and watching her, in case she should faint or need help. Moments later, Jane arrived, panting slightly from the climb and urging Rhoslyn’s maid before her.

  The girl uttered a faint cry and raised her hands to her head as Rhoslyn violently thrust instructions into her mind. Jane and Susan looked approving, assuming the cry signaled distress at seeing her mistress prostrate. Then the instructions so forcibly inserted into her mind caused the maid to seek in the chest and take out a hard leathern case. She then closed the chest, set the case atop it, and withdrew from it a small bottle. This she brought to the bed, set on the table, and helped Rhoslyn to sit up against her pillows.

  Rhoslyn removed the cork and set the bottle to her lips. Having taken a small draught, she sealed the bottle again, handed it to her maid, and smiled wanly at Jane and Susan.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much. You need not stay. Nell knows what to do for me and I will very soon sleep, deeply and long. Tomorrow I will be quite myself. Please thank Lady Mary for her concern and tell her that I hope to attend her as usual … tomorrow.”

  “Do not seek to do too much too soon,” Jane said. “I will wait on you tomorrow morning. If you are not completely well, I am sure Lady Mary will excuse you for another day.”

  “Thank you,” Rhoslyn said again, as Nell approached and unclasped the heavy necklace that supported the late King Henry’s portrait.

  She did not smile, although if the lindys had not still been rigid she would have felt like doing so. Jane Dormer would be only too glad if Rosamund Scott did not feel well enough to attend Lady Mary the next day or any day. Jane was devoted to Mary and rather jealous of Rosamund, who, Jane believed with resentment, had divided loyalties. Rosamund too often would leave Lady Mary to attend on her brother yet remained a great favorite with Mary because she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of gold.

  Susan promptly took the hint that Nell would like to undress her mistress and stepped out of the room. A moment later, Jane had said, “Rest well,” and followed Susan. As soon as the door closed, Rhoslyn raised her hand; the maid froze, then went to sit in a comfortable cushioned chair not far from the bed. She closed her eyes.

  Rhoslyn slipped from the bed, drew two pillows from the mass supporting her and used them to simulate a body. A pass of the hands, three words, and a simulacrum of herself lay under the rich, furred coverlet. She turned to the maid, set a hand on each temple; her lips thinned with effort and the maid’s face twisted with pain. Rhoslyn drew a deep breath, hoping to still the inner quaking that resulted from the draining of her power.

  That did not matter now. If anyone came to inquire about her, her maid would open the door just enough to provide a glimpse of the body in the bed. She would say that her lady was asleep and that her color was good and her pulse quiet. The maid would request that the visitor not enter as to disturb her mistress’ sleep might be dangerous. If no one came, the maid would get up and walk about every hour or so to keep herself flexible. Her memory would record her vigil accurately, only failing to notice that her mistress never moved at all.

  It was the best Rhoslyn could do so quickly and she did not really care. She needed more urgently to get to Pasgen than to maintain her position with Mary. Behind the chair in which the maid sat was a tiny Gate, hardly large enough for her, but it took her to the Goblin Market. From there she wove the tortuous course that would take her to Pasgen’s domain.

  She found him still seated limply where he had dropped when he arrived and she sank down to her knees, taking his hands in hers. “What is wrong?” she whispered. “Are you hurt? Bespelled?”

  “No.” But instead of pushing her away, he gripped her hands and, after a moment, almost smiled. “I am frightened.”

  “Frightened?” Rhoslyn’s voice shook. “Do we need fighters to defend us? I will go to an Unformed land—”

  “No!” Pasgen exclaimed. And he told her about his adventures in the Unformed land, shuddering as he added, “What if there is some communication among the Chaos Lands? What if the land you work in should also wake? That thing … That thing it made was a travesty of … of me.” He shuddered again. “It let me go, but I think only because it did not yet know how to stop me. I feel as if it is waiting for me, that it wants something from me. I—I feel it reaching for me.”

  Rhoslyn shivered too, then got to her feet, tugging at his hands. “Get up, Pasgen. Let’s go inside. The wards on the house are stronger than those out here.”

  She did not doubt his word. Although Rhoslyn felt nothing untoward in the atmosphere of the domain, the description of those incomplete doll-like constructs was chilling. And the idea that the Unformed land itself had created them was mind-boggling.

  Inside the house Pasgen sank into the hard-looking but surprisingly comfortable white sofa. After a moment he drew a long breath and shook his head. “I do not know,” he murmured. “I cannot believe that anything can come through my wards. Yet I still feel a drawing on me.”

  “Are you sure those things were mist-made?” Rhoslyn asked. “You said Vidal was in that Unformed land. Is it possible that he left someone there, someone who was not an expert in creation, and that person made them?”

  He thought for a while and then slowly shook his head. “I have no proof of who made the things, but when the lion tore the … the male thing, the mist healed it. And that lion was no half-formed blob. Likely that was because Elizabeth had an image of the lion in her mind and must have projected it at the mist. So if someone wanted to create a construct of Elizabeth … or me … the image would have been much more real. I can only believe that the mist was working without a mind to direct it.”

  “You think it wants you to direct it?” Rhoslyn’s voice was thin. She sank down before him again and took one of his hands. “Don’t go back there, Pasgen. Don’t.”

  “No, I won’t. At least—” he swallowed hard “—not if I can help it. There is a … a pull on me … a kind of horrible curiosity about whether what I saw was real, a desire to see those things again, just to be sure. But I am sure! So why do I want to look again? Is that something the mist set on me?”

  Rhoslyn tightened her grip on his hand. “You still feel an urge to go back there?”

  “Yes. My infernal curiosity. I always want to know and this is such an enormous mystery. Perhaps what is driving me is within myself and nothing to do with that accursed mist.”

  “You need to be busy. You need to be busy about something entirely different.” She spoke quickly, panic pushing the words out almost in a tumble.

  “I am not sure I could be sufficiently interested in something entirely different. I … even as we talk, I am wondering …”

  “You need to be
where the mist cannot reach you!”

  The note of panic was stronger in Rhoslyn’s voice, which made Pasgen lean forward and put an arm around her shoulders. “I will try, but if it can draw me here, in the midst of my own domain and my strongest protections—”

  “The mortal world,” Rhoslyn interrupted. “Their life-force drains down to us, but nothing from Underhill reaches into the mortal world. If you go there, if you try to find out what mischief Vidal plans against Elizabeth, that should keep you occupied.”

  “The mortal world,” Pasgen repeated. “I do not like the mortal world.”

  But even as he spoke his head turned away, outward toward the Gate which could take him back. Rhoslyn released his hand and took hold of his face, turning it toward her.

  “Don’t go there, Pasgen,” she cried. “You will be trapped. Don’t leave me alone!”

  Chapter 10

  Partly because he did not have anywhere else to go and half his mind kept toying with visiting some Unformed land, Pasgen Gated to the house of Fagildo Otstargi. Automatically he assumed the appearance of the mortal magician, cast a quick glance in the mirror to be sure he was unremarkable, and went downstairs. From the office, he rang for the servant who showed not the slightest surprise at seeing him.

  Since he had not been back to the mortal world in years, the lack of response was unexpected, even in this dull creature. Pasgen touched his mind, found it wide open and scarred by cruel and indifferent handling. That annoyed him. He was not tenderhearted, but to damage a useful tool when it was unnecessary was stupid.

  Pasgen was gentler but just as thorough and was soon learning everything the servant knew. He was uninterested in Vidal’s dealings with Wriothesley. It must be Vidal, he thought, although of course the person the servant imaged was the Otstargi disguise; however, Pasgen did not think there were any other Dark Sidhe capable of withstanding the overall malaise caused by the iron everywhere in the mortal world.

  Idly Pasgen wondered whether Wriothesley had retained his position, but knew even as the thought crossed his mind that it was irrelevant. He had no intention of mixing himself into Court politics. His ignorance about who would rule as regent for the child king was only equaled by his lack of interest in the subject. For a moment he found himself wondering why Rhoslyn thought being in the mortal world could distract him from the lure of the possibly intelligent Chaos Land. No, if it was intelligent he could no longer name it a Chaos, could he?

  He was aware that thinking about those unfinished-looking constructs was dangerous; they grew less chilling and more intriguing each time he thought of them—and suddenly his attention was fixed by a name that now was dominating the servant’s thoughts. Albertus. But the image in the servant’s mind was not the elderly mortal healer. It was a person of late middle age and much different appearance. But Albertus? In Otstargi’s house? Had Aurilia cast him out?

  No, Pasgen realized, concentrating again on the servant’s mind. From the way Albertus had suddenly appeared in the house, not coming to the door and entering in the ordinary way, the mortal healer had been Gated in. Pasgen bit his lip. Did that mean that Vidal had used Pasgen’s own Gate? That was something that merited strict examination. True, the Gate to this house was from the Bazaar of the Bizarre, but how had Vidal found it? And could he somehow trace the path from it to Pasgen’s domain?

  There was no way to investigate that through the dull and damaged mind of the servant. Pasgen continued to follow the creature’s thoughts and soon enough discovered that Albertus was currently in the house and had ordered a nuncheon of cold meat and salad. Pasgen dismissed the servant to serve the meal and went softly up the stairs to Otstargi’s bedchamber.

  He was aware immediately of the feel of a Gate, which he had not noticed when his own delivered him to this chamber. Now that he felt for it, he could feel its power. Pasgen wrinkled his nose. It was Vidal’s work, no doubt of that, and he suspected from the amount of power that it was directly connected to Caer Mordwyn. He started to reach into it and checked himself with a slight snort.

  Vidal would know from the servant that an Otstargi who was not himself had been in the house. Pasgen knew that if he touched the Gate, Vidal would be able to detect his touch; if he did not, however, Vidal would be left wondering whether Pasgen had been clever enough to leave some trap in the Gate while concealing his meddling. He found his own Gate as he had left it, quiescent, barely noticeable.

  A wry smile twisted Pasgen’s lips as he fell prey to the very doubts he had anticipated for Vidal, wondering whether the Gate had escaped Vidal’s notice or had been subtly altered. It was true that he had just used the Gate to come to the mortal world from Underhill—but the trap would not be on the mortal side. Pasgen racked his memories for ways to detect meddling, but a sound drew his attention. Albertus had left his room.

  Pasgen glanced in the mirror and frowned. Should he retain the Otstargi disguise? Likely Vidal would know he had been in the house when the servant’s mind showed Otstargi at a time when Vidal knew he had not been Otstargi. Then Pasgen grinned. Why not add confusion to doubt. If he now were seen by the servant as himself, would not Vidal be wondering who the other Otstargi was? The next moment showed Pasgen in his own form, long ears, oval pupils, golden hair and elegant elven dress.

  He stepped out of Otstargi’s bedchamber and, seeing the man the servant’s mind had imaged about to step off the stairs, called, “Oh, Albertus, there you are.”

  The man started slightly and turned. He frowned when he saw Pasgen but not as if he were puzzled about who had called him by name. “I am not doing any business from this house,” he said defensively. “Lady Aurilia should know I would not disobey her. There was no reason for her to send you to oversee me. Merely I eat and sleep here.” He made a disgusted grimace. “The accommodations where I must go to hire men for the task she set me are beyond reason repulsive.”

  So Aurilia, not Vidal, had put the disguise on Albertus. The voice was that of the mortal healer. Just to make sure, Pasgen said, “Yet that was where I found you.”

  Whereupon the man confirmed his identity by his immediate understanding of Pasgen’s remark.

  “And that was why I leapt so eagerly at your offer,” Albertus said. “Nor have I regretted it for one moment. I came here only because my lady ordered it, and you can go back and tell her that I will obey her implicitly.”

  Pasgen laughed. “I am glad that you are so satisfied with the bargain you made with me. No, Lady Aurilia does not distrust you. I did not come to oversee you. I came to discover how you progress and whether I can do anything to help speed matters along. I will join you for your nuncheon and we can talk.”

  He had no idea what task Aurilia had set the mortal healer, and he did not dare touch Albertus’ mind; Aurilia would know that at once. But if Albertus assumed that Pasgen was also Aurilia’s servant—as might seem reasonable since he was the one who had found Albertus and brought him Underhill to Aurilia—it should be easy enough to learn what Albertus was about.

  Albertus hesitated at the door of the parlor, where a table had been set up with one chair and one place setting. Then he waved Pasgen ahead of him and told the servant to bring another chair and another plate. It was apparent to Pasgen that Albertus was not sure of their relative status in the hierarchy. Since Pasgen wished to establish his right to ask questions and receive answers, he strode forward as a superior would and seated himself in the chair.

  Neither spoke again until Albertus was seated and the platters of cold meat, cheese, and bread were set on the table. Pasgen helped himself first and nodded to Albertus.

  “I am sorry if Lady Aurilia feels I am moving too slowly,” Albertus said apologetically. “When she told me what I was to do, I thought it would be easy. All I had to do was hire a few bravos.”

  “But now that is not enough?” Pasgen invited further explanation.

  “No. Something has made the household wary against attack. I am reasonably sure that there are men watch
ing the house from across the road, at least at night.”

  “Obviously not your men. Did you find out who had hired the watchers?”

  “No. My men never thought to be secret and try to take them. All they cared about was driving the others away. That was when I still believed four or five strong thugs could break in and do the business. In any case the others slipped away as soon as my men approached, as if secrecy was very important, but it was too late. The household was alert. And did you know that the servants are all Low Court—” Albertus suddenly coughed and raised a hand to his throat where a gold chain glittered.

  Pasgen realized immediately that the chain was bespelled to prevent the mortal healer from speaking about Underhill, thus understood that the house Albertus had been ordered to invade must be Denoriel’s. Only Denoriel could be using Low Court Sidhe as servants. What did Aurilia want in the house?

  “Are they?” Pasgen said. “How interesting.”

  “Yes, well, there is no bribing such servants and they can speak little or no English so it is impossible to learn anything from them.” He went on to explain what he had learned about Denoriel’s household from discreet inquiries in the neighborhood, ending with “And the doors are not only locked and bolted but barred. That much I learned from going to the house myself. Once I waited in the entryway for a parcel and once I came begging to the kitchen door.”

  “Such devotion!” Pasgen smiled slightly. “I will tell Lady Aurilia how devoted you are to her service.”

  “I am also eager to get back Und—”

  This time when Albertus’ voice was cut off, he made a gargling sound, and began gaping, eyes bulging, mouth open. After another few minutes he was able to breathe again and, shivering, seized his mug of ale and drank.

  “Perhaps you had better just tell me what you have done here and now and how this will affect your task.”

  Albertus nodded, trying to insert his fingers between the chain and his neck, but what he said was, “When I saw the difficulties, I realized that I needed men with brains and skill not just strength and indifference to blood. And the ones who have brains … if they know how to get into a house so closely guarded, they are too clever to kill.”