by PAMELA DEAN
Ted began to get dressed, absently. It seemed to him high time to do something about his left hand. He could not use it at a formal banquet without receiving severe comments on his sloppiness. A week’s practice at eating left-handed had provided great amusement to his companions, but little improvement in his skill. He would be chided for disobedience as well if the seating arrangements put him and Randolph at the same table. And after the Banquet, he and Randolph would resume their fencing practice.
He had already decided that he could not pretend to have hurt his hand; Benjamin or Agatha would be sure to insist on looking at it. Besides, he had an obscure feeling that this would be cheating. He looked after Patrick. Patrick was in a foul mood. He might enjoy disabling Ted’s hand. Ted crouched down beside the bed, reached under it with both hands for the sheathed sword, and was rewarded with a stinging pain in the left one. He jerked back and watched the blood drip onto the stone floor.
“Pat!”
Patrick came out, trailing his towel. “Good God,” he said. “Here, take this.” He crumpled the towel against the cut and jabbed his thumb onto the pressure point.
“Ease up; I haven’t severed an artery,” said Ted.
“I thought you’d settled for spraining your wrist.”
“Reach under there carefully,” said Ted, jerking his head at the bed.
Patrick looked first, and pulled the sword out by the hilt.
“Where’s the sheath?” asked Ted.
Patrick looked again. “Other side,” he said. “Didn’t you take the sword out of it?”
“No.”
“Neither did I.” Patrick paused. “Unless I did it in my sleep,” he said. “I dreamed I was using a sword to—” He looked secretive.
“Well,” said Ted, knowing better than to prompt him, “it certainly solves the handedness problem.” He stood up. “I’d better take this to Agatha.”
“You can’t. She’ll put cobwebs or dung or something on it, and it’ll get infected. Besides, I bet it needs stitches.”
“I just grazed the blade. And how can it get infected if it’s not a real—”
“You think it’s real.”
“So I also think it won’t get infected.”
Agatha, when applied to, provided a lecture, a handful of goldenrod, an odd-smelling salve, a clean rag, and great expertise in bestowing the first on Ted and Patrick and the rest on Ted’s hand.
“Feel better?” said Ted to Patrick as they left.
“No,” said Patrick. “I’m wondering if somebody else was messing with that sword.”
Laura thought she was looking for something. She trudged through the crackling leaves, throwing up the scents of cinnamon and dust and dampness. The trees were huge and the woods dim, and the air had the sharpness of frost. It smelled like Halloween.
Noticing all this had made her forget what she was looking for. She blinked and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She must have been doing this for some time: The hair was very tangled, and full of twigs and leaves. Her hands were filthy.
“Now what,” said Laura aloud, “would I be looking for in the middle of the woods?”
The sound of her own voice made her remember that she was not looking, but listening. It also woke her up.
She opened her eyes painfully. It was gray early morning, and she felt dizzy and unrested. Ellen was not in bed, but Laura could hear her splashing and singing. Laura wished she would stop; the singing sounded wrong.
She got out of bed and bounded across the bare floor to the window—not because she felt suddenly awake but because the floor was so cold—and looked out. It was misty again.
“It’s a rotten morning,” said Ellen cheerfully, behind her.
“It always is,” said Laura.
“It must be the lake,” said Ellen, rubbing vigorously at her hair with a square of linen. “I hate these towels, they don’t soak anything up.”
“The lake at the farm never did this,” Laura said to the misty outside. The trees looked as distant as mountains. The mountains and the lake itself were hidden. Shivers ran up and down her spine, perhaps from the cold floor.
“There’s more water in this lake,” said Ellen, wandering away from the window. “What shall we wear today?”
“I think it’s the unicorns,” said Laura. “It’s their lake.”
“Well, it’s their forest,” said Ellen, doubtfully. “Get dressed, I’m hungry.”
Two pages pounced on them at the door to the dining hall and crowned them with garlands. They found that half the tables had been usurped by a lot of girls about Ruth’s age, all wearing white lacy dresses and all sewing on enormous masses of red and blue and black silk.
“Do we have to dress like that?” demanded Laura. She hated lace. And white just got dirty.
“Gosh, I hope so,” said Ellen.
“They sure are noisy,” said Laura, helping herself to bread and honey.
“So would you be if there were that many of you. Where’s the drumsticks?”
“You sound like Agatha.”
“Agatha hates drumsticks.”
Laura sighed, and sat down on the corner of a bench. It was unusually crowded in here today, even if you made allowance for all those sewing girls.
Ellen came back empty-handed and glaring. “There’s nothing to eat here!” she said.
A young man grinned across the table at them. Laura thought he was one of those who had left the table, on their first morning in High Castle, when Randolph began talking about Shan’s manuscripts. “You don’t want breakfast, Your Highness,” he said to Ellen. “Save your hunger for the banquet.”
“Have some bread,” said Laura, afraid Ellen would be rude to him.
Ellen thumped down next to her and bit morosely into a hunk of bread. “I want cornflakes,” she said.
“Gah,” said Laura.
They wandered aimlessly about after they had eaten, resigned to being caught and put to work. But no one heeded them.
“I know,” said Ellen as they dawdled past the kitchen. They had discovered very early in their stay that no children were allowed in the kitchen on the grounds that anyone under sixteen would eat more than he helped. “Let’s go to Fence’s tower.”
“With that beast?”
“I liked it,” said Ellen. “And it won’t be nearly so bad in the daytime.”
The corridor to the foot of Fence’s tower was not much improved by what little daylight was coming into it when they got there. The fog had not lifted as it usually did, and the corridor was still dim and cobwebby. The purple torch still burned before the shut door. There was no beast.
“Well,” said Laura gratefully, “so much for that.”
Ellen put her hand on the heavy door and pushed, and it swung inward without a sound. Another purple torch glared across the darkness at their feet, where the stairs went down, not up. They looked at each other. A cold air came up the staircase and stirred their hair.
“Well,” said Ellen. She stared into the darkness earnestly, as if she were trying to read a street sign. Laura wondered if there was anything anywhere that Ellen was afraid of.
“Let’s get a light and try these stairs,” said Ellen.
“No.”
“Oh, come on. This is Fence’s tower, it must be all right.”
“If this is Fence’s tower maybe I don’t like Fence,” said Laura grimly. Everything else had come out funny, why should not Fence be, after all, the kind of magician who lived in a cold cellar and kept gurgling purple beasts? She hunched her shoulders, shivering. She had not realized how much hope she had been putting in Fence’s return.
“Huh,” said Ellen. “I guess it’s not much like Fence. He’s all cheerful and fiery, now that I think about it. I wonder if this isn’t his tower after all?”
“Whoever’s it is I don’t want to meet him,” said Laura, doggedly. Now there was a nasty thought. Maybe there was no Fence at all, but some utterly unknown person.
“Maybe something’s wr
ong,” said Ellen. “If this is Fence’s tower, maybe some of his enchantments have gotten loose while he’s gone and are lying in wait for him.” She shut the door firmly and leaned on it, tracing its intricate carving with her thumb. “We should tell someone.”
“Who?” said Laura, watching her cousin’s grimy thumb move over carved leaves and branches and strange small animals like cats or rabbits. “Maybe it’s not Fence’s enchantments. I think he’s too good for that to happen—he’s the best wizard in the Secret Country. Maybe it’s a plot. Maybe Andrew did it.”
“But there’s something magical wrong here, and Andrew doesn’t believe in magic,” said Ellen. She rubbed a forefinger along the carved wing of an eagle, scowling.
“Lots of people don’t like Fence,” said Laura. “And we don’t know what’s going on. I don’t feel like trusting anybody.”
“We should tell Ruth and Ted anyway.”
“Well, yes,” said Laura. Ellen’s aimless finger thumped suddenly into a shapeless indentation in the door’s carving, and Laura’s mouth fell open. “Ellie, look! The door’s like that tapestry!”
Ellen looked, and jerked her hand away. “Let’s find Ted and Ruth,” she said.
They did not find either of them, nor did they find Patrick. They were quickly caught up in last-minute bizarre preparations of the Banquet. They found themselves back in their room at six in the evening under orders to bathe and dress, and with no idea where their companions were.
They did not have to wear white. Agatha had told them to wear “the green,” and they determined after some debate that this must mean either the green velvet or the green muslin. Ellen said that it must be the muslin because you didn’t wear velvet in the summertime. Laura said they should wear the velvet because it was cold. The fog had still not lifted, and Laura had felt everywhere she went as if the air from Fence’s stairway were blowing down her neck.
They went and knocked on Ted and Patrick’s door, Ellen in muslin and Laura in velvet. Patrick let them in, scowling. He was wearing a dark blue tunic with what looked like a fox embroidered on its chest, and he held a crumpled mass of dark blue in one hand.
“What’s that?” said Ellen.
Patrick slammed the door, and Laura jumped. “Stockings!” he spat.
“Hose,” said Ted, wearily. He was sitting on the bed unlacing his sandals.
“They look warm,” said Laura wistfully.
“If I want to be warm I’ll wear jeans.”
“I’d a lot rather wear your clothes than mine,” said Laura.
“I don’t see what you’re upset about,” said Ted. He picked another mass of dark blue off the bed and went into the bathing room.
“They look ridiculous,” Patrick snarled after him, “and they’re uncomfortable.”
“Why should you care?” demanded Ellen. “You don’t think it’s real anyway.”
Laura wondered if Patrick would forget this if they didn’t keep reminding him.
He had rounded on Ellen as if he were going to hit her, but he only let his breath out in a snort. “Even if I’m only dreaming,” he told her, “I don’t like nightmares.”
“Yeah,” said Laura, remembering the purple beast and the cold stairs.
Patrick looked at her. “What happened to you today?”
“There’s something wrong with Fence’s tower,” said Ellen.
Patrick shrugged. “There’s something wrong with everything else. Why shouldn’t there be something wrong with Fence’s tower?” Ellen told him about the staircase, and Laura watched interest creep over his face. “Heh,” was all he said.
Then Ted came out and they had to tell it again. Ted was dressed for the banquet, and he looked frighteningly grown-up when he came out. But when Ellen had finished, he just looked frightened. Laura was not sure which was worse.
“I think we should tell Randolph,” he said. “Let’s go on downstairs. He’s bound to be at the banquet.”
“Patrick’s not dressed,” said Ellen.
Ted looked at him. “You could wear your jeans under your tunic and look like a college student,” he said.
Patrick picked up his hose and headed for the bathing room. Laura thought he looked as if he preferred revenge to argument.
The Banquet was held in a hall none of them had been in before. They found it by following the groups of wonderfully dressed people they met almost as soon as they got out the door. The hall was enormous, full of torch- and candle-light and even fuller of people. Laura felt as if she were lost in a department store at Christmas. She had never imagined the Banquet as having so many strangers in attendance. Neither the sight of other people in velvet nor the sound of musicians hooting and burbling upon odd instruments made her feel any better. She wanted her mother.
They could not find Randolph, and they could not find Ruth. The strain of being among so many people so much bigger began to tell even on Ted after a while, and he found them a spot where they could observe untrampled. They were between the tables and the door to the kitchens, so they stood and watched young people in white carry plates and bowls and platters past them, and smelled the rich smells from the kitchen.
The hooting of the instruments began to settle into something resembling a rhythm. The glittering crowd began to separate and order itself.
“I hope they sound better than that when they get going,” said Patrick.
“I think the dancing’s starting,” said Ted.
“And who’ll dance with us?” said Ellen.
“Gah,” said Laura.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Patrick. The people moving back to make space for the dancing were crowding all four of them into the wall.
They squirmed their way along to the other end of the hall. Laura looked hopefully at the tables spread with food, but they were guarded by more young people, Ruth’s age maybe. One of them caught her looking and stuck his tongue out at her. Laura showed her teeth at him and turned away, bumping her shoulder on the jeweled hilt of someone’s dagger. In her confusion and irritation, she expected him to notice her and draw it, but he did not.
They came at last to an empty alcove. “Is that all they wanted those sheepskins for?” demanded Laura. The skins were spread on the stone bench and on the floor.
“Maybe we shouldn’t sit there,” said Ted, and jumped as a hand came down on his shoulder.
They looked up into Benjamin’s face. He seemed displeased.
“Thy father wants thee,” he said to Ted, and began to maneuver him through the crowd. Ted cast a despairing glance over his shoulder and disappeared behind somebody’s billowy sleeves.
The other three stood abandoned, and the musicians’ hooting and burbling settled into a melody. Laura jerked her head up. She knew that music. She had been listening for it in her dream.
“What are those weird instruments anyway?” said Patrick.
“Be quiet,” said Laura quickly. Far in the back of her mind the music made her remember places she had never been and things she had never seen.
Patrick was so astonished that he was quiet. Ellen moved closer and stared at Laura, but she was quiet too. Laura pulled her braids and scowled. “What is that song?”
“Is that all?” said Ellen. “It’s ‘The Minstrel Boy,’ don’t you remember? Your mother used to sing it to us when we were little.”
“No,” said Laura. That was the tune, but that was not what she was trying to remember.
“What are all those instruments?” repeated Patrick.
“And where are they?” said Ellen.
Patrick pointed to a balcony at the end of the hall from which they had come. It was dim so high up. “I can see the harp,” he said, “but what’s all that other stuff?”
“Why do you care?” said Ellen, dodging an old man in red who carried a cushion.
“The J-shaped ones,” said Laura hastily, “are crumhorns. That’s what hoots. And they’ve got recorders and a dulcimer, because I can hear them.” She stopped, dumbfounded. S
he did not know how she knew these things.
“What’s that thing on the left?”
Laura squinted at it, and felt the shock of a different and more normal sort of recognition. It did not come from the back of her mind as the names of the other instruments had. “That’s a zootibar.”
“A what?”
“It’s from a story Ruth read us,” said Laura, “but I decided what it looked like, and it does.”
“Huh,” said Patrick. He looked at her for a moment. “What’s it supposed to sound like?”
“The story didn’t say,” said Laura. “I thought, like a glass with a lot of safety pins in it, only it could play real tunes, of course.”
“Jesus,” said Patrick.
“Don’t swear,” said Ellen.
“I wasn’t.”
“Why aren’t they dancing?” said Ellen, looking back to the center of the hall. People had cleared a wide space, and were standing around it.
“You don’t dance to that song,” said Laura.
“Well, the words are a little sad,” said Ellen, dubiously, “but the music’s okay.”
That was not what Laura had meant. Not knowing what she did mean, she was silent. Concentrating on the knowledge in the back of her mind only made it recede further.
The musicians began another song, and this time people did start to dance. They overflowed the space cleared for them and pushed the rest of the crowd back toward Laura and Ellen and Patrick. It began to get hot, and Laura almost regretted her velvet.
“Come on,” said Patrick, “let’s get closer to the door.”
They edged along the wall, being elbowed, and stepping on people’s feet with a certain vengeful satisfaction. Nobody paid the slightest attention to them.
This hall had double doors which opened onto a paved place, which in turn led to either the stables or the rose garden. The doors looked west. They were open. No guards stood in the doorway, which Laura thought odd. Any door in High Castle which opened on outside air, even those to the inner courtyard, always seemed to have a guard or two on it.
They struggled out of the last of the crowd and stood breathing the cool air from the doorway. In the gray light just inside it, three children were playing something which looked like jacks, but probably wasn’t. It involved two balls and a number of wooden pieces.