"They decided anyone who came with a complaint against Judge Brimble, especially a foreigner, has to be lying and needs to be punished right away. Oh, what was I thinking, to try to make anything right? That Fae who advised me to do something, to pay back the help I received, he's in on it with Clara, isn't he? He deliberately set me on the wrong path."
"Mi'Lady, no, no."
Bib's words didn't penetrate her heart-thudding moment of panic, but the suspicious hint of laughter in his voice did. Merrigan nearly burst into tears right then and there. Bib wasn't part of the plot to destroy her, was he? Why had she been such a fool to believe he was her friend?
"No, Mi'Lady, the curse isn't to hurt you and keep punishing you, but to guide you in, as you said, making things right. The curse isn't really a curse, if you think about it long enough. Clara did it to help you."
"Hmph. Clara's kind of help, I can do without, thank you very much." Still, now that she sat and thought about it a moment, Bib might be right. "So we gained our audience without any waiting or trouble because the curse is fiddling circumstances in our favor?"
"Let's call it a spell, Mi'Lady. Much easier on the ears. And quite frankly, if the wrong people hear you say you're cursed, they'll never give you a chance. Imagine all the princesses who never would have been kissed to awaken from an enchanted sleep if everyone considered them cursed, rather than enspelled. Princes and knights on quests must be triply cautious. I could turn your hair white again with tales of otherwise intelligent, talented, brave young men who thought they were lifting a spell and got themselves tangled in a curse that refused to be broken. Enspelled, not cursed."
"Semantics." Merrigan snorted, then managed a somewhat unsteady smile. "Thank you, Bib. It's so good to have a friend with some common sense."
"Delighted to be with you, Mi'Lady."
Despite Bib's reassurances, Merrigan tensed the first time a door opened and another servant came in. This one was a woman in a simple, dark green dress, white cap and white apron. She inquired if Merrigan was hungry or thirsty, and when she said she was, brought her a large wooden mug of cider and a napkin with three warm, honey-glazed pastries. Now Merrigan could believe magic worked on her behalf. Certainly, if she was about to be accused of some crime, she wouldn't have been treated like a guest.
Another servant, this time a balding man with an enormous moustache that gleamed with wax, led Merrigan out of the reception room. He took her down the hall to a double set of doors. They swung open as the man approached. Merrigan saw a man and woman, just a little older than Master and Mistress Twilby. They stood in front of a tall man wearing somber black robes and an old-fashioned short, white-powdered wig. That had to be the Overseer. The man shook the Overseer's hand, and the woman curtsied. They glanced once at Merrigan as she followed the servant into the room, then they turned and left by a door on the opposite side of the room.
"Well, so you are Mistress Mara," the Overseer said, after he had gestured for her to take one of the seats facing him. "I was wondering when I would see you here."
"Excuse me? You—you have?" Merrigan clutched the shoulder bag holding Bib, pressing him against her side. Maybe he had been wrong after all? Had someone lodged a complaint against her? "You know me?"
"Oh, indeed. Judge Brimble made sure everyone knew he had a foreign royal seamstress making his clothes." The Overseer's voice was deep, with a rumble that hinted at both contained amusement and anger. Merrigan found that highly confusing. "You can understand why a stranger who goes to work in the home of a high official would be investigated."
"And what did you find out about me, Your Honor?"
"I employ a very clever young woman to flitter from town to town and gather up the images of people I want investigated. She uses magic to peer into the hearts and the dreams of such people. She had to resort to simple pen and ink to capture your image because you are so thickly shielded with magic, her own magic refused to work."
"Please, Your Honor, I'm not a spy."
"And yet you come to me straight from Judge Brimble's household, naming yourself a plaintiff."
"I didn't intend ..." Merrigan took a deep breath to steady herself and gain a few more seconds to think. If she was utterly honest, she had indeed gone into the judge's household to spy on him—just not for a foreign country.
"Mi'Lady?" Bib riffled his pages, nudging her arm where it lay across him, in the bag on her lap. "Shall I speak for us both?"
"Yes, Bib. Please do." She reached into the bag and put him on the massive desk between her and the Overseer. The man tipped his head to one side and didn't appear at all startled to see the book, or what happened next. All he did was listen, his face entirely unreadable.
Bib flipped open and proceeded to empty himself of all the documents. He explained what they were, and why he and Merrigan had taken them. She thought he spoke rather like a minister in a king's council, with a compelling combination of brevity and elegance. He then backed up and narrated how Merrigan arrived in Smilpotz, challenged by a Fae to find some justice for young Corby. Then he explained how she had overheard first the baker's complaints and pleas for help from Judge Brimble, then later heard the judge and Swickle laughing about the baker's plight and making plans to worsen the situation. He finished by repeating what the baker had told Merrigan on the ride to Carnpotz that morning.
The Overseer studied her in silence, over the tips of his steepled fingers, so long that Merrigan was ready to slap him, just to get him to blink. "You have been given a quest by someone magical, I presume? Other than the Fae who gifted the lad, Corby."
"Yes, I suppose you could call it that," she said.
"My assistant said she couldn't decipher all the layers, but it was applied with uncommon wisdom and purity of heart."
Merrigan swallowed hard, rather than release a thoroughly unladylike snort. She had enormous doubts about the "purity" of Clara's heart—or whether she had a heart at all.
"She believes much of the spell muffling you is to protect you. I agree."
"That's ... comforting."
For some reason, the Overseer found that amusing. He spent the next hour asking questions to bring out more details of the official complaint against Brimble and Swickle. He admitted that complaints had been registered against Swickle over several years, but no one had been able to bring him evidence. The knowledge that Brimble participated in the schemes explained the difficulty in finding any justice.
"A bitter truth that the whole countryside must learn," the Overseer said, as he stood and crossed the room to pick up a small copper bell, "is that the longer justice is delayed and lies replace truth, the heavier justice will strike when it finally does so." He rang the bell and returned to the desk, to offer his hand to help Merrigan rise. "I must presume you do not wish to return to Smilpotz."
"No, and there's no need. I finished my work and I have all I own in the world right here." She bent and picked up the bag with her few possessions, her new clothes, and the empty bag for carrying Bib.
"Forgive me, Mistress Mara, but I will need you to return, for the investigation. You will, of course, be housed at the expense of the tribunal, and a servant will guard you at all times, so there is nothing to fear. But I do need you to go back there."
"I understand."
Merrigan hoped the Overseer would understand when the spell of no return wouldn't let her retrace her steps to Smilpotz.
FOUR DAYS LATER, AFTER being housed in a nice, sedate inn, Merrigan climbed into a very large coach with the Overseer, four secretaries, six officers of the court, and massive boxes of documents and inkwells and ledgers. They were escorted by other court officials in open and closed carriages, and three dozen mounted soldiers. A good twenty people had been found to testify how they had been cheated out of gardens, horses, shops, or homes, and couldn't prove it wasn't entirely legal.
The coach rolled heavily and smoothly and slowly away from the Overseer's massive house, through the central square of Carnpotz, and
toward the main road that cut the kingdom in half going north and south. Merrigan tucked herself as far into the corner as she could go without sliding between the cushions, and trembled in anticipation of what would happen next.
"Mistress Mara?" The Overseer looked up from the massive journal spread open on his lap, took the spectacles off his long nose, and frowned at her. "Are you feeling well?"
"Very well, sir. Why?"
"You look ..." His frown deepened. "You look rather ... transparent around the edges."
"It's started," Bib announced.
Most of the other people in the coach flinched at the voice coming from the bag sitting on Merrigan's lap. The Overseer had specifically requested she tell no one about Bib.
"What has started?" the Overseer asked.
"More dratted magic. I was hoping for a reprieve, for a worthy cause, but ..." Merrigan spread her hands in helplessness, and saw they were indeed turning transparent. She clutched the bag holding Bib with one hand and the nice, new, larger bag for her possessions, supplied by the Overseer. "It seems I'm not allowed to retrace my steps. Please be kind to Flora and Fauna and Cook and—"
The carriage turned upside down around her. A moment later Merrigan decided she had turned upside down, instead. She tumbled around for a few breaths, then landed in a loud rustling and an explosion of spicy green scent. When the world stopped tumbling, she opened her eyes, checked that both her bags were there, felt for her cap and her shoes, and looked around.
She sat in the middle of a candlespice bush, the feathery fronds dropping spicy-sweet powder all over her. More black powder rained around her, tossed upward by her landing.
"Mi'Lady? Are you all right?" Bib asked.
"That depends on your definition of 'all right.'" Merrigan turned carefully to get onto her knees, and from there to her feet.
She still felt somewhat wobbly and faintly dizzy, so she moved with caution and took deep breaths, fighting the hints of impending nausea. Then there were the tickly, feathery, long fronds of the candlespice bush that clung to her, tangling her legs, shifting when she took steps, so she couldn't be sure she could stay upright.
At last, she stumbled her way free of the bush, which had to be at least fifteen feet wide and high—on the small side, for a candlespice, actually. Merrigan's heart caught in her throat as she recognized the classic markings of a crossroads. From the broken bricks tossed into the ditches bracketing both roads, and the visible signs of patching with new bricks, she guessed this had to be a major roadway. What kingdom had she landed in?
"Bother," she muttered.
"What's wrong, Mi'Lady? Where are we?"
"You tell me." She dug Bib out of the bag and let both bags drop as she clasped the magic book in both hands and held him up, facing the tall stone pillar with mile markings and arrows pointing in all four directions, accompanied by city names. "I have no idea where these cities even belong."
"Hmm ..."
She did not like the sound of that.
"Have we found another limit to your magic, Bib?"
Merrigan stopped short, startled by the snap and sharp edges to her voice. What was more disquieting? The familiarity of it, like stepping into a favorite old ball gown from two years ago, full of comforting, delightful memories—or the realization that she didn't really like it? In essence, the ball gown smelled like someone had loaned it to a number of people who chose perfume over soap.
"Focus," she muttered, and held Bib up a little higher, closer to the signpost.
"I'm trying, Mi'Lady. Forgive me, but I think there have been some changes in boundaries and kingdoms and the names of towns and roads since I was essentially put into storage. My original master would update me regularly, feed me maps and reports on the political doings and wars in other kingdoms, so I knew who was who and what was where and ..." He sighed. For a few terrifying seconds, his cover turned spotty with wear. "I am sadly out of date. I must syphon information from other books or documents to catch up. I fear I am not much good as an advisor if my information is behind the times."
"It's not your fault," she said, hating the tight cords underneath her voice, and the effort it took to comfort him.
After all, who was the queen and who was the servant bound in the book, here? He was supposed to be looking out for her, not the other way around. By rights, she should have at least one servant just to carry Bib, so she didn't have to endure the weight of him, riding in that bag that bounced on her hip with every step she took.
But that was the problem with all this—nothing was right.
They stood there long enough that her arms got tired and she cradled the book against her chest.
"There's nothing to do but pick a direction, a destination, and start walking. After the good deeds we did, certainly we've earned some help from someone magical, don't you think?" he offered.
"Hmm, I suppose so." Merrigan sighed, slightly nauseous from the surge of anger that curdled through her belly.
What kind of fool had she been, to feel so utterly disappointed at this turn of events? She was under a curse, no matter what game of semantics Bib tried to play. Curses never let up so easily. What made her think that getting involved in the petty crimes and political games and lies of a minor town in a minor country would earn her a reprieve? Landing in a candlespice bush certainly proved there was no mercy extended in her direction.
With a decisive nod, she tucked Bib back into his bag, adjusted the straps of her two bags, and stepped up to the crossroads post, to study the names of the cities. Wardenkraft sounded pleasant, even friendly. Then again, maybe it was because the marker said Wardenkraft was only two miles away, while the other towns were eight, six, and twelve miles away, depending on the direction she walked. She had to be a pragmatist, after all.
Perhaps those trees looming closer to the road, maybe half a mile away, harbored someone magical. Even if it was just a handful of pixies, or a brownie. Brownies always wanted to be helpful, didn't they? Merrigan considered limping, to gain some sympathy from anyone watching. While that might work with simpletons, like farmers and goose girls, that wouldn't work with magical creatures. They would see the spells woven around her, get suspicious and wonder why she was shrouded in magic. Merrigan dearly hoped curiosity would get her some sympathy, if not bring someone close enough to investigate.
"Bother," she muttered, when she walked far enough for the woods to close in on both sides of the road, and the paving was replaced by pebbles and dirt, then plain dirt. Merrigan found the lack of wheel ruts highly discouraging. "Bib, should I turn around?"
"It might be wise, Mi'Lady. You are vulnerable to any highwaymen or common thieves lurking in the shadows hereabouts. Even as poor and feeble as you appear to be, you do have two bags under your cloak. Someone might be desperate enough that whatever they take from you will make them richer."
"I do wish you would stop with the philosophy." Merrigan stopped and looked over her shoulder.
She glimpsed some sort of structure among the shadows. As she took a few steps closer, an errant gust of wind moved branches overhead, letting a beam of light reveal a simple slanted roof over a well, with several buckets hanging from the support posts, and two cranks to raise and lower the buckets on ropes.
"I don't suppose the water is enchanted, and if I drink some, it will break the spell?"
"We need to expand your education, Mi'Lady," Bib said as she followed the little beaten dirt path from the roadside to the well. "More often, an enchanted well will only make your situation worse, unless you drink from a special cup, or you have a magic coin to appease the guardian of the well, or you know the right words to say to convince the water to help you. You're better off if it's just plain water."
"I'm thirsty enough to appreciate plain water." She stepped up onto the platform of boards surrounding the round wall around the mouth of the well. "How do you propose to expand my education?"
"I could tell you stories as we walk along. It will certainly pass the ti
me. Oh, and maybe if we're in a safe town, where some greedy magistrate or mayor or merchant doesn't try to take me from you, I could earn you food and shelter by telling stories. I'm sure even the simplest villagers would pay to hear a magic book talk to them."
"Bib, you are brilliant." Merrigan swayed for a moment at the thought of staying in a decent inn, and people waiting on her.
She looked down into the dark depths of the well. The water was far enough down, lost in shadows, she couldn't catch the slightest glimmer of the surface. She reached for the handle to lower the bucket.
"What do you think you're doing?" a young girl called. "You're supposed to wait for me to help you."
Merrigan looked around and located another path coming toward the well from the opposite direction of the road. A girl, maybe fourteen years old, dressed in bright clothes, probably her festival outfit, trudged down the path, lugging a silver pitcher.
"Oh, dear," she muttered, sensing she had stepped into a fable, but not quite sure which one and where she had entered. "Are you supposed to help me? Dear?" she added. After all, she looked like an old, skinny, helpless widow. Might as well play the part.
Did she have a part to play in this particular story? Merrigan hoped not. She was a queen, which meant she was the one who did the manipulating of others. No one manipulated Merrigan of Avylyn and Carlion.
"That's what Mother told me to do. I'm supposed to come to this old well that nobody goes to anymore, unless you're in trouble, and be polite and sugary like Drusilla and draw water for a ragged old granny, and she'll reward me. Then maybe we'll have enough money she can leave Drusilla's lazy old father and we can go somewhere far away and be better off." The girl plunked the silver pitcher down on the stone lip of the well. The pitcher rang slightly off-key, indicating the silver wasn't pure. Definitely a lower-class family. "You're not ragged, and your hair isn't that disgusting shade of white that really isn't white, so maybe you aren't a granny?"
"Oh, not yet. What's your name?" She settled on the edge of the well, careful to sit forward so she wouldn't topple in. If this was indeed an enchanted well, whoever lived in it would not be happy at having an uninvited visitor.
The Kindness Curse Page 11