Scent of Magic (6 page)

But it had seemed that he had not been ready to yield to the authority Halwice used.

“The girl—” Now he had looked once more at Willadene.

“She is my affair, Nicolas. I warn you, one does not meddle with the moves of fate. Now go.”

And go he had, not through the shop but out back to traverse the herb garden, clearly in search of the same entrance which had brought Willadene there earlier.

“Nicolas serves his master well,” the Herbmistress had begun when he was gone. “Now—you will forget him!”

Willadene had blinked and then nodded. Curiosity might be alive in her, but she had had good reason to sense that this was no time for questions. Halwice had surveyed her up and down, and once more the girl had been aware of the grubby appearance she must have presented at that moment.

“Get the kettle, the largest one"—Halwice had gestured toward the hearth—"and set a fire for it. So Jacoba would take bride price for you from Wyche? That can be speedily taken care of. For your own sake, girl, you must be under my hand. There is this much true—good gold would be paid for noting what had passed here when repeated to the right person.”

Willadene had stiffened. Nicolas might well have been a spy—perhaps even so Halwice—but
she
was no talebearer and never had been. She
knew
—knew by the aid of her gift—that there was no evil in the woman facing her, and whatever she had done earlier she might truly confess to the Star and go unchided.

“Yes. We know—for, girl, we are of the same breed, only I have been forged like a fine smith’s weapon, and you are but raw material. I know you have long wanted to come to me, but there was a reason that I should not arouse Jacoba’s malice fully against the two of us. Today has changed all that.

‘‘Bring me now one of the small measures and the third bottle from the left on the second shelf near the window of the shop.”

When Willadene had returned Halwice had tried to take both objects from her, but the woman’s hands had been shaking so hard she had not been able to manage to hold either safely.

“Age comes to all of us,” she had said bleakly as if she spoke the thought aloud. “Take this, pour you from the bottle into the measure until it reaches this line graven in the glass—do it!”

The girl had nodded emphatically, and with the care she had always seen the Herbmistress use in putting together any mixture, she had allowed a green liquid to fall hardly more than a couple of drops at a time into the measure. Around her had wafted a fresh, clean scent she could not have put name to but which she wished would wash every smirch, every bruise, every scar from her body, for she had a strong feeling it might well be able to do just that.

Halwice had taken the measure in both shaking hands and held it to her lips. She had drunk steadily until the last green drop was gone. For another moment she had sat quietly and then she was on her feet moving as briskly as Willadene had always seen her do.

“Well enough.” She reached out to take the bottle from the girl’s hand. “Now the immediate affairs are our own.”

Setting the bottle carefully on the table, she had moved to a chest so old that time had scrubbed away nearly all the painted patterns from its wood. When she had lifted the lid there had been another rush of scent which Willadene recognized came from herbs laid up to preserve clothing from moth and mildew.

Halwice had brought out a bundle tied together with a length of narrow cloth. She had set this on the table and then pointed toward a very large basin, nearly as tall as Willadene herself, where it leaned against the back wall.

“I have no scullery maid,” Halwice had announced. “Those who serve me from time to time go in better guise. Take the kettle water to warm that from the bucket and let us see what lies under all that which plasters you now. Then dress yourself in these.” She had thumped the bundle. “In that box is soap. See that you use it well on both body and hair. No one with the
nose
can wish to remain as you are now. I shall be in the shop. It has been closed too long. We are very near the time of the noon bell, and when I go out on errands I am seldom gone past that.”

She had looped aside the curtain, and Willadene had set about obeying orders. Though the basin was no bath such as a noblewoman could soak herself in, the girl had found she could crouch in its water warmed by the supply from the kettle, and she had set about such a scrubbing with the soft soap scooped from the box as she had not been able to do for years. Though as she’d bathed, washed her hair, and washed it yet a second time, she had begun to remember times when she had been as free with water and soap as she was now.

There had been a rough towel; and she had moved closer to the small fire as she’d rubbed herself dry, ashamed of her hands where the skin seemed still cracked with gray lines in spite of all her efforts. The bundle had
yielded a chemise which had not been too large that she could not pull it snugly about her. Then there had been a shirt with short sleeves, made for a worker who needed full use of her hands. It had had a line of green braid, which Willadene had caressed with a loving finger. Last had been a skirt, full and a little too wide for her waist, but she had been able to belt it in with the same piece of material which had held the bundle together. And they’d all been
clean,
fragrant from dried flowers which had fluttered in the air as she’d pulled free each garment.

So had begun her life in Halwice’s shop and home. And Willadene found that to be equal to that life in brightness and beauty which the Star promised the faithful.

Of course, the Reeve’s messenger appeared and with Halwice she had been summoned to face all the majesty of the law which had been indifferently placed on Jacoba’s side. But to the girl’s astonishment the innkeeper was subdued, her roaring anger hidden—if it still existed. She had tried to bring up the point that Willadene was a bespoken bride, but two or three skillful questions had dismissed that, since it had been apparent the girl had had no say in the matter.

That was the last of Jacoba, Willadene had thought, with a great feeling of being free of a smothering burden, as she had left with Halwice, her apprenticeship duly countersigned by two Reeves now—that of Jacoba’s quarter and that who kept the Duke’s peace in Halwice’s.

It certainly had been plain at this meeting that the Herbmistress was of consequence in Kronengred and that her word was accepted without question.

However, during the days which followed, questions she hardly spelled out even for herself troubled Willadene from time to time. The trade in the shop was brisk, and, yes, strange merchants or their assistants came from time to time to deliver products from far beyond Kronen.

Among these were what Willadene came to consider special ones. Two had been delivered once after nightfall
by the back alleyway and those who brought them had been given a number of coins which they promptly hid about their persons. Most of these visitors hardly ever seemed to even realize that the girl was there, and she kept mouse still, busying herself with some task of sorting, labeling, or generally setting the shop in order.

However, as much as she tried to efface herself, their quarters were cramped and there was little chance for any true privacy, so she listened. What passed between Halwice and many of these visitors was cryptic, making no sense to Willadene, but about none of them ever clung the cloying, rotten smell of evil.

Twice Nicolas had turned up—once openly in the shop, wearing a fine dark-red jerkin bearing the Chancellor’s arms on both shoulder and breast, with an ordinary request for a product which calmed nerves and allowed sleep. He scowled when Halwice directed Willadene to make up the dosage. It was plain that he had no trust even yet in the girl.

“I hear,” Halwice said, “that Her Grace did well for herself at the court. She is comely enough and appears to carry her position well.”

Nicolas made a sound which was not far from a snort.

“Yes, it made a fine show. Even the High Lady Saylana could find little fault, I understand. But this is true, mistress: the Duke may have come to his rule cross-sidely but he will make every effort to hold it. And what is in a father may also lie in a child.”

“The Lady Zuta still stands at her right hand?”

He was frowning now. “How else can it be? His Highness kept all others from Her Grace. But it is with that Lady Zuta as it is with my Lord Chancellor—only if His Highness remains in position to grant favors will she herself prosper.”

“There are some strange tales from over the border—” Halwice continued placidly. “It would seem that the royal family there also has its problems.”

“That is none of the business of Kronen.” Nicolas shrugged. Then suddenly he changed the subject. “Is it indeed true, mistress, that there be scents which can ensnarl a man—not blast him, mind you, as was attempted here—but weave him to the purpose of another without his knowledge of what is happening?”

“There are said to be such—woman’s weapons—” Halwice replied.

His teeth showed in a very unpleasant smile. She regarded him steadily until that smile faded. “Well you should know what it means to fall even to the lightest of such traps. I would consider such a subject with care if I were you.”

He grinned again, this time like the youth he seemed to be. “Well enough—there are rumors aplenty always flying about to mystify a man—Who needs to believe such? My lord’s thanks for your services—”

Willadene had carefully stuffed the small pillow she had been busied with, now sealing it with a paste which would unite that opening past all forcing. She slid it across the counter to him.

His next visit was three days later and this time after nightfall, heralded by a soft knocking at the back door. Willadene looked to the Herbmistress, and at her nod slipped out the bar latch. This time Nicolas wore no well-cut and fitted clothing, certainly no identifying tabard of the Lord Chancellor. Instead, a long black cloak muffled him from chin, with rolls of a thrown-back cowl, to his booted ankles.

Halwice, without a word, went to a cupboard and brought out a pouch too rounded certainly to carry much wealth and giving forth no clink as she handled it. Nicolas caught it and it vanished beneath his cloak.

“The border?” That was no statement, rather a question.

“Mistress, no one can track well a night flyer.” He
laughed, almost the joyous laugh of one about to engage in mischief. “If this one succeeds you will soon hear strange news—”

With no more farewell he was gone. Halwice sat down slowly on the chair they had dragged back from the shop, the former seat of her imprisonment. She was shaking her head, not at Willadene but at something perhaps only she could see.

“May the Star light him through! One can take such risks against fate but not forever.” She sighed and then spoke directly to Willadene. “Bring me the book which stands at the far end of the knowledge shelf and take care; it is so old that someday it may turn to dust in one’s hands.”

Willadene obeyed quickly. There was an odd smell to what she held—the decay of ancient leather and parchment, and beyond that a medley of scents she did not have time to identify before Halwice had it from her, laid on the table between two lighted lamps so that the full glow was turned on the pages she so carefully turned.

“One can only try,” she muttered as she searched. “Oh, get you to bed, Willadene. I may be half the night about this business.”

And again, though questions nearly choked her, the girl obeyed.

“Were she younger I would have my cane across her back.” Duke Uttobric snarled. “Making a show of herself before the whole of Kronengred, and I can well believe that most of the city was there to gape at her doing it!”

Vazul pursed his lips as he faced his master, and his black-furred companion made the faintest of chittering sounds from where she hung in one of her favorite positions around the man’s neck. Sometimes—mentally Vazul hoped for patience and firmly banked down his impatience—Uttobric tried a man near to the far limits.

“Highness"—he picked his words now with care as he answered—"instead of Her Grace proving a barrier to your wishes, she has, on the contrary, played her part as well as if she had been trained to it from youth. With her own hands she has fed the hungry, standing with those pious Sisters of the Star. Not a task, I will grant you, that many of her blood have ever done in the past, but one which made all who watched it believe that she has the good of Kronen in her heart.”

The Duke scowled, that dark twitch of skin and eyebrows fading slowly. “What say the court?” he then demanded. “Do they mutter behind their hands that one of
the Old Blood so forgets her place as to mingle with beggars?”

Within himself Vazul sighed, but his tone was conciliating as he replied. “Highness, have we not been gathering rumors for more than a year now that those who oppose you are secretly building their own net to bring you down? And where is any army they can summon? Who can raise enough coin to import even one company of mercenaries? And, as all know, those are apt to turn upon their employers if their pay is not forthcoming as promised. Therefore any support your enemies could hope to gather would be from the dissatisfied, the unruly, the night flitters, of Kronengred itself. In every city there are those who will rise at the thought of loot.

“So far we have sifted very carefully all strangers coming into the city. The majority are honest merchants. Those, we wish to encourage, for our very life depends upon trade. But—” he leaned forward a little and drew from his belt a roll of paper he proceeded to pull taut enough to be read “—we also know that there are others who find their way through and out again our gates, that there are ties rooted within this city itself which lead to the outlaws. In the past year five small caravans have disappeared entirely as if the earth swallowed them, and attacks on two well-guarded larger ones were beaten off only with loss of life, and, what is more, of merchants’ confidence that we are strong enough to protect them.

“We must hold the city. Just as you have graciously made concessions to the most powerful among the merchants, accepted—at least outwardly—suggestions from the Reeves, so must the people themselves believe that their welfare is a matter of heart interest for you. Thus—Her Grace’s act at the Abbey—news of which, I assure you, has already spread through the city and even grown in the telling—is such which will serve you now as well as a full corps marching down from the castle. I repeat, Highness, Her Grace Mahart is one of your best weapons
at present and must be well used. Twenty days hence is her birthday—to make such a holiday this year, Her Grace appearing perhaps to give thanks for the generous recognition of your pleasure in it—”

The Duke’s gaze had gone from the narrow face of his Chancellor to the wall where a particularly drab stretch of tapestry celebrated a victory won long before his own birth.

“Very well—a feasting—alms—all the usual, I suppose,” he said grudgingly. “Her Grace and I will proceed to the Abbey to give thanks—Do you realize what a hole this will leave in my purse?” he ended snappishly.

“But it shall be done with all propriety—” promised Vazul. If he was going to add to that promise, he was stopped by his furred companion, whose chittering now reached the point it could be well heard by the Duke also.

The animal had slewed around on Vazul’s shoulder and her whiskered snout was now pointing to the wall. With a speed which was out of place in him usually, the Chancellor was on his feet and at that wall, his hand outstretched so that the fingers pressed there in a certain pattern.

With no sound—the latch was too well oiled for that—a panel slid back and presented an opening through which a full-sized man could come only if he were bent double as the newcomer was.

He straightened to his full height, which was more than the Duke’s and a little less than Vazul’s. His cloak swept back a little as his hand came free to sketch what might be a salute of sorts, but he showed no other formal deference to the company in which he now found himself.

“Prince Lorien,” he reported, “has reached the lodge. Two nights ago a shepherd was slain just within the borders there. His flock was all killed, an act which will arouse the country people—on
both
sides of the border. It seemed that the Red Wolf held high feast for a comrade.”

“That comrade being?” the Duke demanded. “Noble or baseborn?”

“He did not appear openly but kept to the Wolfs own quarters, and none ventures there except under orders. The Wolf rules with the lash and the stake.”

“Yet he rules,” Vazul said quietly. “With such as he commands, it takes a man of unusual personality to hold so close rein. There was no way of finding out the identity of the visitor?” He spoke now to the newcomer.

“Chancellor, for that I ride—tonight. The network is well in place as usual.”

For the first time the Duke’s lips formed one of his sour smiles. “Good speed” was his farewell.

When the panel had closed behind their visitor, the Duke looked to Vazul. “You put great trust in this Bat of yours—has it not always been your plaint to me that to trust entirely weakens one?”

Vazul was smoothing the fur of his creature. “Your Highness, the Bat has good reason to hate as we hate—and is there not truth in the saying he who has the same enemy is in some manner a comrade? Yes, I trust this night journeyer of mine because he not only carries a burning hate within him, but one he has learned to control, that he may accomplish best what is asked of him.”

The Duke was now eyeing him thoughtfully. “I have you, Vazul, because we both well know whatever fate the future holds will serve us equally. However—now that you have made clear the worth of my daughter to our plans—does she have any confidante who might be seduced into betrayal if such a moment of need arose?”

“Highness, the principal lady—in fact the only lady for the past four years—who serves Her Grace, is Zuta of Lakley.”

“Lakley? But that—She is kin to Darmond?”

“She is a victim of Lord Darmond’s greed,” Vazul returned calmly. “By rights she should be lady there—with the coming of the plague he moved upon his grandfather’s
hold with force enough to hold it. It was given out that all those of the true bloodline died from the sickness. Sickness—
and
steel—as has been whispered. She could not have inherited the title and ruled there—being female. But she was entitled to daughter’s share, and that was worth a little bloodletting—her father having been very lucky in several ventures overseas. It was her nurse who saw her safely into the hands of Lady Janis of Ille. When the plague brought down that guardian my sources appraised me—” He continued to stroke his pet, and the Duke uttered one of his snickering laughs.

“Always you see the future worth of any deal, Vazul. You administer her birth funds, of course.”

But the Chancellor shook his head. “Unluckily no—Darmond being what he is and having false witnesses to say she is not the true heir. However, as all of us, she can hope for a less burdensome future. She has funds to draw upon, from her mother’s line though they may not be her own, and she is very clever. Her Grace has been safe these past few years because they were so closely united.”

“Another of your eyes and ears, Vazul? If so, she is acceptable—you will nourish a traitor no more quickly than I would.”

“No. She knows nothing of our shadow servants, Highness. But she is my source of information concerning Her Grace and all which pertains to her. Concerning Her Grace, Highness, there is another matter—”

“That being?”

“When she made her pilgrimage to the Abbey she walked it. To have ventured into the heart of the city in a horse litter would not have served the purpose. Now—Her Grace must learn to ride, Highness.”

“Ride!” The Duke blinked rapidly several times. “But there is no need for her to make any journey.”

“Except through the city, Highness. Think now, when the feast day you have planned comes and you ride forth—will it not seem strange to all that your daughter is carried
in a litter? The people now know she is no invalid and will wonder why she journeys half hidden from them.”

“Ride!” repeated the Duke with a snort. “How, pray you, can she learn such a feat within less than twenty days? The girl has never been near a horse!”

“Highness, your Master of Horse is counted the best in all Kronen. There is that large court where the guards drill—it can be made private for periods of Her Grace’s instruction.”

“All right. If it must be done to humor the baseborn in the streets, let it be so. You always have such good reasons for your suggestions, Vazul.”

“That is why I am of service to you, Highness,” returned the Chancellor.

So now Mahart, whether she wished or no, became introduced to what might give her in the future another form of freedom. Her lessons were well supervised by an elderly man, who plainly considered these hours of instruction in a way a reflection upon his status. But he knew his job well, and she was eager for any new knowledge. There always remained in the back of her mind that dream she had now dreamed three times over—of being free in flowered meadows under the open sky. Learning to govern this animal, which was presented to her each morning at the same hour, might well be another key to the outer world.

Luckily she proved to be a very apt pupil, graduating from boring rounds on a very placid old mare to at last a younger and less sluggish mount. Though the Master of Horse never expressed any satisfaction at her progress she could guess by the slight changes in his attitude that she was in some ways measuring up to what he considered a credible performance.

If she came to enjoy this new learning she could not say the same for Zuta. The practice place was seldom in full sun and since the year now advanced to harvest it was
chill for anyone who merely stood enshawled, watching the action but not taking part in it. Mahart, catching sight of a cold-pinched nose and not missing the accompanying shivers, finally suggested that her companion withdraw into the tack room beyond. Then she became so absorbed in what she must remember to do properly that she completely forgot Zuta. Nor did anyone know that the lady-in-waiting was joined there by one dressed in simple garb but of noble materials—carrying no house shield adornment.

Mahart continued to make her solemn rounds. Apparently the fact that she could stay in the saddle, arranging her wide, divided skirt in proper falls; keep a straight back; and have her rein signals obeyed was all that was going to be required of her. The lessoning had become such a routine that she found herself able to occupy at least a fraction of her mind with other things.

Her eighteenth birthday was looming ahead. She could only remember very faintly when that had been a date of note. These past years, the full of a celebration had consisted of the good year wishes of Julta at her rising, similar ones with a small gift from Zuta, and the appearance of a footman sometime during the morning bearing a salver on which rested her father’s remembrance, formal good wishes delivered in a monotone by memory from the bearer.

Now she was going to be, she gathered, the center of festivities of some extent. She would appear in the heaviest of formal court dress with her father on the west balcony, to be shown off properly to any of those in Kronengred who were interested. Then, later, she would practice this new art of hers in public, riding behind her father to the Abbey, to present a birthday gift to the Abbess.

She already knew that she was going to be walled by half the guard, protected carefully from any contact such as she had rebelliously indulged in before. But at least her father could not forbid her meeting with the Abbess, and
so perhaps with some others of those who supported the shrine.

Mahart had already discovered that the scented candles of the inner shrine and the incense alight there were the product of the Herbmistress she had heard so much of. And, if protocol would not allow her to visit Halwice’s own shop, there could be a good chance of such an encounter at the shrine—though she knew better now than to try personally to bring that about.

Her hour’s exercise done, she allowed the Master to help her dismount, thanked him civilly as she always did for his efforts on her behalf, and headed for the tack room. There were other entrances to this exercise court, of course, but one could not clear out barracks and interrupt military matters so that no guardsman could get good sight of Her Grace—and the Duke’s decree in this matter had been strictly followed.

She looked for Zuta, but the room was empty and it was a full moment before the lady-in-waiting appeared. She still had a shawl bundled closely around her chin, above which her face was a little flushed.

“It is done for the day,” Mahart said. “Now what have we before us?”

“The Mistress of the Robes, Your Grace. As you remember, at last fitting your train would not lie flat.”

Mahart sniffed. “Might as well clothe me in armor—these state robes are near as heavy. Very well—let us go.”

She was always glad to get away from this guard section. There was a grimness about it which made her uneasy, and twice she raised the pomander which swung on its girdle chain to sniff at the fragrance it held.

“Your Grace?”

Mahart looked inquiringly at her companion. At least Zuta had dropped that fold of shawl so she could see her plainly.

“Yes?” she prompted when the girl did not continue.

“It is nothing—only just talk as usual. Concerning the
ball. The High Lady Saylana—she is sometimes in despair of her son—”