Scent of Magic (8 page)

Vazul’s back was now once more in the doorway as he retreated into the room, his hands no longer holding steel but rather drawing after him a body which struggled a little as if it would throw off that clutch. Stretching his catch on the floor the Chancellor hastened to reclose the door, while Uttobric stooped over the man who was struggling to sit up but subsided with a gritting of teeth.

“You were followed?” the Duke demanded, glancing at that strip of paneling and then back again.

“I lay there—” The other’s voice was a thread of sound. “There was no one following.”

“Nor would there be.” Vazul near elbowed the Duke out of the way as he knelt in turn, one hand sending the wounded man flat on his back before he busied himself with loosening a greasy, latched jerkin and was able to pull it back and away from the other’s left shoulder.

Ssssaaa had crouched by the man’s head and with fore-paws was patting sweat-stiffened hair. He they worked on closed his eyes and suddenly his head fell to one side. The Duke started back.

“Dead?” he demanded.

“Not yet.” The Chancellor raised the rolling head a little and bent closer. “There is the stench—”

“Poison!” Now the Duke backed away even farther.

“It is often a trick of the night prowlers. But caught in time— We must not only save the Bat if we can but learn quickly what he struggled against death to bring us.”

“He can be saved?” Uttobric continued to stare down at the body as if he expected to see it crumble into nothingness before his eyes. “You have the knowledge?”

Vazul shook his head. “Not I, Your Highness. But there is certainly one within Kronengred who can return him to life if any mortal can.”

The Duke was nodding. “The Herbmistress, yes.”

“However,” the Chancellor said hastily a moment later, “we cannot leave him here—and tonight is the ball—before that the feasting—at which we must both appear or
there will be those who are overinterested as to why we are not.

“The ball will draw the majority of the servants into the west wing.” Vazul had now gotten the blood-stiffened shirt free and was loosening a swathing wad which had been stuffed in over the source of the blood flow. “There remains—Black Tower.”

The Duke plucked at his lower lip. “Yes, there has not been one held there for half a century or more—not since Duke Rotonbric went raving mad. But how do we get him there?”

“Only by the inner ways, Your Highness. And I must have help to take him, since he is more weight than I can bear that far. Danerx—”

The Duke stared at the man on the floor as if he wished him well away. “Danerx,” he said slowly. “At least the man is loyal to me—or I would be dead long since.” One side of his thin lip quirked upward. His robe tumbling after him, he went to the bell pull hanging on the far wall and gave two vigorous tugs.

He need have no fear that Danerx, his valet, would not be just where he was supposed to be—two doors away, laying out the garments for both the feasting and the ball. What a deal of time one wasted in this dressing up for such occasions. Uttobric thought fleetingly that unfortunately there were going to be more of them until their plans bore fruit.

The summons for Halwice came after dusk and secretly. Willadene heard only swift whispers at the back door as if the visitor must be gone as quickly as possible. Then the Herbmistress turned to the assembling of certain small boxes, flasks, and jars which she stowed away in a shoulder bag without a word of explanation. It was not until she was done and had reached for her cloak that she spoke at last.

“There is dire need and no one must guess the reason.
I am expecting a shipment from overseas tomorrow. You will open the shop as usual and accept the packet—it is already paid for. If I am asked for, you may say that there is a difficult birthing and I was summoned in the night, you do not know where, nor when I shall return.”

She added nothing more, but Willadene was able to guess that it was
not
a birthing her mistress went to attend—she had noted only too well the choice of remedies, and most of them her recent learning equated with wounds.

“Go under the Star—” The girl did not think the woman even heard her, she slipped out of the back door so quickly.

Willadene turned back to eat her bread and cheese. The city was not quiet tonight. Even shut within these walls she could hear the sounds of the crowds. There would be many in the wide square below the castle where there would be free ale and cakes—giving the citizens of Kronengred at least a taste of the feast and the grand ball in the fortress above. Also there would be much to see in the splendor of the arriving coaches bringing noble families to the gathering. Willadene looked around the room in which she sat. Let Her Grace Mahart have all the delicacies, the prancing to stately music, and the rest of the celebrations for her special day; she, Willadene, was entirely content with what she did have here and now.

Halwice had not said when her precious packet was to arrive but when there had been no visit to the shop by First Night Bell, Willadene ceased to expect it. Any emergency which would take the Herbmistress away from her home must indeed be serious. Guesses were useless—if she were meant to know she would learn in time.

She went to bed at the usual hour, leaving only the night lamp burning in case of Halwice’s return, burrowing deep into the worn but lavender-scented coverlets of the trundle bed.

It was not until her eyes grew heavy that her memory turned to Halwice’s earlier play with the bowl and the
candles. And, once she thought of that cleft in the rock and what had raised its proud head there, she tried to hold on to every detail memory supplied. Only, sleep came quickly.

Halwice had not returned when Willadene awoke in the morning and now uneasiness awoke also. Yet she made herself carry out her duties in the same order she would have done had the Herbmistress been there.

She had just taken down the shop shutters and made ready to open for business when a familiar voice hailed her.

“Ha, Willa, how goes it?”

Figis no longer wore the drab rags which had been his at the inn—but rather better clothing such as an apprentice in a small shop might have. He walked with something of a swagger. Though, Willadene noted, neither his bony hands nor his gaunt face was really clean.

“Well enough,” the girl answered shortly. She had never considered any beneath Jacoba’s roof ones to be trusted, and her earlier uneasiness was growing. “And the inn—”

“
Paugh!”
He actually spat on the paving stones. “There have been changes there—the old sow does not oink very loudly anymore.”

Taking that coarse expression to refer to Jacoba, Willadene was interested enough to ask: “Jacoba no longer keeps the inn?” She had heard no such rumor, but sometimes facts outran even gossip.

“It keeps her,” he returned somewhat cryptically. “But where’s the mistress? Here—I have a packet for her.”

He reached within the loosened lacing of his jerkin and pulled out one of those familiar squares so well fastened up in oiled silk.

“She was called to a birthing,” Willadene answered promptly, “but she told me that a shipment was expected and to take it in.”

He eyed her narrowly, turning what he held around in
his hand as if he were in two minds about relinquishing it. “Don’t know ‘bout that. Wyche—” He stopped short as if that name had been a warning. “He who sent me said nothin’ about givin’ this to anyone save the mistress. But then he also said he’d have me ears offen my head did I not do as he told me. Wyche— Jacoba is afeared of him and there are others that come—maybe for orders.” Figis grinned. “Seems like he’s taken a shine to me. Don’t have to go luggin’ in greasy pans no more I don’t!”

He moved closer to Willadene. “I’ve learned a lot jus’ listenin’ around. The Duke, he ain’t as safe as he thinks he is—parading ‘round like a cock an’ showin’ off his daughter. There’s them as may bring him to heel jus’ like that!” He shifted the packet to one hand and snapped his fingers.

“You know what they’re sayin’ now—that young Lord Barbric has caught Her Grace’s eye. She led off with him at the ball last night and then never danced no more. She marries him and we’d see a might lot of changes hereabouts. And me, I’m gonna be ready for the pickin’s—that I promise you. Oh, well, take this— I got me other important business—”

He thrust the packet at her and strode off, his thin legs trying to hold the important thud of a district guard but falling far short of that.

Willadene missed that exit, for she was staring down at the packet. This was—evil—veiled but there. She certainly had not forgotten the trap in which she had found the Herbmistress and the Chancellor’s man many days ago. Was this another such—something wrong to be planted among Halwice’s supplies and then discovered to the hurt of her mistress?

The oiled covering felt slimy to her fingers, and she wanted to rid herself of it speedily. But she had no intention of storing it anywhere within the shop. Who knows—it might even be a source of contamination.

She swiftly sought the herb garden, stopping only to
snatch up some garlic. Weaving broken bits of that about the packet she placed it on the ground on the barren spot where they spread the ashes each morning and snapped over it a flowerpot, pressing that down well into the ground.

This proved to be a busier day than was usual and she had a steady stream of customers—some housewives seeking cooking herbs, the up-nosed maids and waiting women from the castle in search of cosmetic supplies as if the rigors of the forenight’s ball had depleted such to an alarming degree.

There were a number of inquiries for Halwice, but Willadene could detect that no one seemed dissatisfied with the reason she gave for the Herbmistress’s absence. At the back of her mind was always that potted menace behind the shop, but no guard came marching for a search and gradually she relaxed. Halwice would know how to deal with it—she only wished that her mistress would return.

It was not until dusk gathered in that she did come. Her bag was no longer slung over her shoulder and her face was white and strained. Nor was she alone. By his stride and stance he was a guardsman, perhaps even an underofficer, but he was soberly dressed like any merchant.

Willadene hurried to reheat the kettle, prepared the herb tea she knew that Halwice found sustaining. While she worked she could feel her mistress watching her. The guard remained by the door as unmoving as if he were on duty in the castle.

“That which was to come—” Halwice spoke slowly as if she found even the formation of words an effort.

Willadene paused, teapot in hand. Certainly she must not speak in front of this stranger. She made her choice quickly.

“It has come and is planted,” she said deliberately, looking straight into Halwice’s tired eyes, “as you wished in the special ashed ground.”

It seemed to the girl that there was a spark deep in the
Herbmistress’s eyes. But Halwice nodded as if she perfectly understood. She took up her filled cup with both hands as if too weak to risk a single hold.

“Now—there is little time. Take fresh underclothing and your other dress. Also the book third from the right on the shelf. I cannot any longer be away from here, but there will be a heavy trust placed on you. Remember well your gift and use it at all times. The one you must nurse is sore hurt—but he is still with us. He must remain so if we can at all will it, by the aid of the Star. You will go with this guard—” She nodded toward the man who had not spoken. “Obey him, for it is his duty to get you safely to your goal. I have left instructions for you with the one now there. Perhaps—by tomorrow—enough will be resolved that I can see you again. This is true duty, child, and perhaps you are over young to assume it—but there is no other choice.”

Completely bewildered Willadene hurried to bundle up her scanty possessions, and the last she saw of Halwice, the Herbmistress was standing by the door watching them cross the garden.

Mahart lay back on the pillows of the wide bed and stretched her toes. She was well aware that sunlight was laying stripes across her from an opening in the heavy curtains, but she felt no desire to pull herself out of this slothful ease right now, though she had been well aware for some time of purposefully soft comings and goings beyond the privacy of the curtained bed itself.

Looking back it seemed to her now that several twenty days of living had been thickly packed between first ball and the promised events, and whenever she tried to sort out a clear memory it slid inexorably into another.

If yesterday was an example of what was going to be demanded of her as to continued patience in the future, she was dubious she could measure up. Then two faces loomed out of her muddled recall— Vazul—what did he really want of her?

She was well aware that his private meetings with her in the immediate past had been in the nature of schooling. Though he had not skimmed far below the surface in any of his accounts of this or that to do with the ducal court, he gave one the impression—perhaps deliberately, Mahart
thought now, pursing her lips—that there were darkish depths and traps to be avoided.

He need give her no warnings concerning the High Lady Saylana (and had not, except a dry comment or so). Since Mahart had been a small child she had been well aware of the chasm between that one and her father. She made a face now. Yes, she had led the first dance at the ball with Barbric. He did not quite have two left feet but sometimes, in one of the stately figures they had walked through so pompously, he had given the impression that that misfortune was his. And his hand—she now wiped hers swiftly back and forth across a fold of the sheet—its disgusting warmth and softness was not what one would accept joyfully. She did recall seeing Vazul once watching her as she turned and minced the small trotting steps of the figure. She wished at first that the Chancellor would be more open with her—and then decided it was better that he kept his own counsel. At least now.

But the second figure which she remembered so clearly—the woman among the town council, as stately as any noble lady of the court—the Herbmistress. Mahart had not quite summoned up the courage to invite her to the castle to learn more of her and her wares—though she believed that it might indeed be practical to do so. Yet—

Mahart sat up, pushed away the covering, and set her hand to that crack between the bed curtains through which the sun was coming. She had no idea as yet just how much power she might hold—whom she could send on an errand or demand service from. But that she would meet Halwice sooner or later she was sure.

The sight of her fingers on the edge of the curtain must have been a signal, as it was pulled quickly back and she looked out upon what seemed to her an unwonted crowd of people, all facing her, as if it was now her will to set them in motion for the day.

Julia still stood holding the curtain she had drawn back
but
at the same time managing a curtsey of sorts. And
there was Zuta, a bright note in this time-dark room in her favorite yellow. Beyond her were those two noble misfits who had attended her on that first court appearance. She was completely bored by their company and only Vazul’s suggestion that their presence among her retinue might have some purpose led her to continue to greet them each morning with the smiling mask she assumed at the drawing of the bed curtains.

“A fair day, and may the Star favor you.” She repeated the formal greeting, thus giving permission to all of them to be about their assigned duties, such as they were.

The Ladies Famina and Geuverir made a bustling business of escorting her to the screens about the bath, accepting the night robe she tossed to them. Julta, however, gave no play of any new awesome service as she stood ready with the big towel and waited for Mahart to draw on drawers and underchemise.

There was a war of scents in the room now: that remaining incense which had burned out during the night, the herbs steeped in the bath, and those less strident odors from the clean linen in which she clothed herself.

She could hear the whispering of Famina and Geuverir, but noted that, as always, Zuta kept apart from those two. What they were whispering about she could guess. Though they had not been friends when first assigned to her service they had bonded quickly, mainly because of a common interest—men. And she knew that both, having been betrothed properly from childhood, were eager to become mistresses of their own establishments, peevishly eager at times. Mahart had asked Zuta why these bridal festivities had not rid her of the two. Zuta had shrugged and declared that in the case of the Lady Famina, it was a matter of dowry—that the father of her lord-to-be was avid for a certain strip of territory to add to his own holdings with the bride’s arrival. And there were still negotiations for the Lady Geuverir in progress.

However, this morning it was not men that the ladies were discussing. It was ghosts!

Catching a word or two, Mahart was intrigued enough to summon them closer as Julta brushed and braided her hair.

Of course there were parts of the castle, as Mahart herself well knew, within which the air seemed to enfold one in an ominous, smothering way. And there were innumerable tales of this or that past dignitary (usually one who had lost his or her head through crossing ducal authority) who had been seen pacing some corridor during the hours of darkness.

However, the new manifestations apparently had to do with lights, and, though she was hearing the tale about thirdhand, there were two separate tales, yet similarities in both. The ball had lasted until dawn, and she herself had been so sleepy by its ending that she wanted no more than to find her bed and tumble into it. However, others had more nighthawk blood than she—or else were engaged in such dalliance as they must seek less open ways. And so the reports—

“ ’Tis the Black Tower, Your Grace.” There was a quiver in Lady Geuverir’s voice. “They have always said that it has been cursed ever since the mad Duke Rotonbric hung himself there with a curtain rope.”

“Yes,” chimed in Lady Famina. “The Lady Horsetha—with her own eyes she saw this
thing
all in white moving along. Guardsman Kylow, he challenged, and the thing disappeared straight into the wall.”

Mahart raised a small smile. “The Lady Horsetha, she is, I believe, married—but
not
to a guardsman.”

Lady Famina flushed, and she was not one on whom any form of a blush was an attraction.

“They were heated, Your Grace—and went into the open passage for a breath of air. But it is true— Lady Horestha came back shaking so Guardsman Kylow had to support her on her feet. And she swooned again later when Lord Margrave told what
he
had seen.”

“Which was?” Mahart accepted the mirror Julta held ready so that she could inspect her back hair before the maid pinned on the shoulder-length veil which was now another hampering bit of her life.

“Well—” Lady Famina tittered, and it was Lady Geuverir’s turn to redden as her more talkative companion continued. “There was much drinking, you understand, Your Grace—”

“And he sought a garderobe,” returned Mahart impatiently. “But why in that direction—?” And it was her turn to blush. Gentlemen—men—were not always so particular in such matters. “Well, and what did
he
see?”

“Two huge black figures, Your Grace. They came out of the night as if they were pulled from some other world, and then went up the passage. There was a greenish light—a death light—” Lady Famina was now enjoying her own fears. “And they went into the wall also!”

“I suppose His Highness’s guard finally arrived?” Mahart commented. “And what did they find?”

“Nothing.” Lady Famina paused as if summoning breath to enhance the force of her report. “Nothing—only that door as was barred and sealed after they brought out the mad Duke’s body.”

Mahart fingered a frosted bottle. She did not believe in specters, she told herself sternly. However, she was sure that she would find good reason
not
to visit the Black Tower was she ever invited to do so—and had any choice in the matter. No—Breath of Lilies was too exquisite to be wasted on any but a state occasion. She opened a cream-filled jar instead, sniffed at the invigorating scent she had so released, and delicately swept fingertips behind her ears and down the line of her throat. Ghosts in the castle? she wondered. What would Vazul have to say to that now?

Willadene had always been so close quartered in the inn and Halwice had kept her so busy in the shop that she
did not know this part of Kronengred. Halwice did not deliver her products—her customers came to her. And although those visitors formed a goodly cross section of the old city the girl had heard names of streets, noble houses, and the like with no idea where such might be.

She kept close to her silent guard, even more so when they ran into merrymakers on their way home, steady or unsteady, the last of the revelers of the day before. Willadene found herself elbowed close to the wall, the guard taking his position between her and any body of townsmen who passed. She had pulled the hood of her cloak down so far she could barely catch glimpses of the outside world from under its edging.

The streets and alleys through which they went their way seemed to go on forever. As the night closed in only the decreed lamps lit above each doorway spread small pools of light between dwelling and dwelling. At least the guard matched his swinging stride to her own best pace, and twice his arm with a quick grasp saved her from a stumble—almost as if he had the talent for seeing through the dark.

Above them loomed the castle, and they were drawing ever closer to that. The number of lighted windows in the upper walls marked out most of the outline of the building, and at the foot of the rise on which it stood there was much more light and comings and goings.

However, her guide turned away abruptly from that and brought her into an alley so narrow she wondered if his wide shoulders did not brush the walls on either side. This was worse going, for here and there were refuse bins, primly kept out of sight from the passersby on the main streets. And it was before a large one of these, near the far end of the way, that he came to a stop so sudden she nearly ran into him.

A snap light, shielded by hand, gave her a glimpse of a great tun, so large a one she wondered that any one man
might move it. Yet it rolled easily aside when her companion laid a single hand on it.

Willadene could see nothing but stone wall, but he did not look to that at all, rather stamped on the pavement where the tun had rested. Three times his heavy boot rose and fell. Then he crowded back, pushing her with him. There came no warning sound, but a square of the set stones dipped and was gone, leaving a black hole. For the first time he spoke.

“There is a ladder, girl. Get you down quickly.”

However, it would seem that she was not about to chance descent into total darkness, for there
was
now a faint glow and she saw the ladder. Hampered by the full folds of her cloak and the bag she had slung over her shoulder by its carry cord, she did as he had bidden her.

There was more light below, illuminating a very small section of a passage which assaulted her nose with a musty, earthy odor. Once they were both down the inner stair, the guard picked up the waiting lantern and started briskly on. She heard a soft thud behind her and guessed that that doorway had fallen shut to seal off this way.

There came stairs, long steep series of them. She kept tight hold on a groove in the wall to her right, which must have been intended as a safety measure, though she did not think it really so.

There were three such flights—each ending in a broad landing before the next began. At two such lanterns had been set, but the third staircase was something of a puzzle. In the first place, it was much narrower, ragged of edges, with chips of stone lying on the floor as if it had been only recently cut.

The stair leading upward was far narrower and her shoes stirred dust which arose to make her cough, even as her companion did. They came to a fourth landing, this very small, so that their bodies touched as they both reached it. The guard raised a fist, and the wan lantern light brought a
gleam of answering metal shine—he was using the hilt of a belt knife to rap on the wall.

Willadene smelled fresh oil and guessed that some long-shut way must have been so coaxed to open. Then there was a fair burst of light. The guard’s hand on her shoulder propelled her forward into the space beyond while he remained where he was. Before she could glance around she heard a snap of latch.

But her head was up now, for her nose was busy reporting. Above the mustiness and dust of a long-unused room she could smell balms and remedies she was only too familiar with and other odors also, not so pleasant but found in any close-kept chamber where there was illness.

The man who arose from a chair to face her caught her attention first. He gave her no greeting, merely surveyed her from head to foot and back again. And all this time he played and petted with one hand a black-furred creature which curled about his lean throat above the splendid embroidery of his robe as might an extra fur collar.

By the sight of that alone Willadene knew him and somehow forced her legs, trembling a little from that long climb, into a curtsey.

“M’lord Chancellor—”

“Halwice stands hostage for our trust in you.” He spoke abruptly. “She also says that you have talent to obey her orders and to keep a shut mouth.”

Willadene could not think of any answer to that, but she knew a spark of pleasure that the Herbmistress rated her so.

“You have one to tend, and the tending must be of the best.” He turned away, crooking a finger as he did so.

Now she could see the bed, like a huge cavern, draped with curtains resembling the thickest clouds of night. But it was not about that that a row of lamps had been stationed. Rather, resting much closer to the floor and easier to reach, was a trundle bed such as she herself now used. On it was stretched a body. Now and then a hand arose
to push impatiently at the covering. But in the face turned toward hers the eyes were closed as if he slept.