Authors: Andre Norton
Stools scraped across the flagstones as the four merchants got to their feet and bowed. Their leader advanced, digging one hand in his belt purse, and Willadene caught the glint of what could only be a silver coin.
“Well has your Great One favored me.” The first of
the cloaked Sisters of Bright Star was already bringing forth a plump bag of her own into which he dropped his offering, his fellows swift to follow his example.
“What prayer would you have us set for you?” the woman asked. It was difficult to see her features so deeply she was veiled.
“That of safe travel—-for me, Jaskar of Bresta, and for these, my companions. Such petitions are needed in our present days, Sister.”
“Evil always awaits beyond the bonds of light,” she returned as Jacoba came into the room.
“What's to do—?” the inn mistress began and then, catching full sight of the women, she stopped short. “You"—her attention swung to Willadene—"if the guests be through, then clear the table.”
Thankfully Willadene put room between her and Wyche. The girl with the basket lugged her burden up to the board, and Willadene hastily crammed in those rounds of well-greased bread. By the looks of what already lay within the basket the Sisters had had good fortune in their begging round of the taverns and noble houses of the section this morning.
“Fortune favor you, goodwife,” the Sister commented, but when her small serving maid tried to raise the basket she near sent it and its contents toppling to the floor.
“It would please the Great One,” the Star follower added a moment later, “if you would lend us this girl of yours to our aid. We have only one more place to cry for alms and she would be quickly back.”
Willadene knew very well that Jacoba wanted to answer that with one of her angry outbursts. Yet no one refused a Sister, for that Great Mistress was well-known to rule the whims of fortune itself.
“Come back, wench"—there was a threat of trouble to come—"as fast as you can. We have dawdled away to near the Second Bell and nothing is done.”
Willadene eagerly took half share of the handle, and the
basket swung between her and the girl as they left. Oddly enough, Wyche was back to the window as if to watch them out of sight.
She was breathing fast. Just as there were odors which clung to evil, so there were fragrances which matched good. She had sniffed those many times in Halwice's domain. And there was a strain of what might even be flowers—a mere whiff—as she and the girl maneuvered their way with their burden out of the inn door.
Wyche was watching, but she thought that she knew the house the Sisters would seek out now—the section Reeve lived three doors away in the direction the Sisters were taking. His wife was well-known to be both pious and bountiful. She could cut through the alley beside the Reeve's house and, though it was near time for the Second Bell to summon all shopkeepers to the business of the day, she thought she could reach Halwice's without being seen.
What would happen then she could not foresee. She had received both kindness and training from the Herbmistress in the past—ever since Jacoba sent her monthly for the scant supply of spices to hide the age of the meat.
Now she walked obediently behind the Begging Sisters, fitting her pace to that of the maid whose burden she shared. The girl had not done more than glance at her once, following the rule of the Star's outventuring—eyes to the pavement and no worldly gazing at anything on either side.
They had turned the corner to approach the Reeve's kitchen door, as was the custom. As Willadene heard die silver notes of the bells she tensed. The moment she saw the door thrown open and heard a brisk welcome for the Sisters, she herself looked to the girl.
There was no time for any explanation—she would just have to go! Shifting her grasp off the basket handle so swiftly that the other girl had to grasp at the house wall to steady herself, Willadene ran.
She thought to hear voices behind her and was amazed
that such did not come. But the Great One of the Star— perhaps
She
would spread
her
shining cloak between those in the house and this fugitive.
Turn left here—yes, she could catch sight of the great Maninger House—two streets over and around another corner—Halwice's. She had never taken this way to the Herbmistress's shop before, but she was sure.
The morning chill whipped about her and caught at her toes left bare by her house sandals. Willadene was gasping a little, aware of every lighted window, every movement on the street. She tried to force herself to fall to a walk, but within a step or so her pace quickened again.
She could not reckon now when she had discovered this haven. It went back to the shadowy days before the plague, for she had known the Herbmistress a very long time.
Halwice had a place on the Guild Council. She was far more learned in the properties of her wares than were many of the doctors who strutted in answer to a distress call, their badged robes of fine cut worn with a flick and flourish of hem, their brimmed hats with a dangle of face mask ready to use when one might be called to enter a disease-tainted room, their pride in their calling sometimes—most times—spilling over into arrogance. Yet it was to Halwice that these same “masters of healing” must send for the mixtures they drew upon speedily enough.
But healing—though Willadene knew well the importance Halwice placed on such knowledge—was not the only product sold in that shop where spice vied with fragrances and with sharp odors of oils. Those scents themselves had their place of importance.
Willadene rubbed her knuckles across her nose. Already she could almost anticipate the feast awaiting her. She always stood just within the door of Halwice's shop for a long moment or two, drawing into her lungs the medley of odors. It was as if she could bathe herself in the freshest air of spring, the headiest perfume of summer, the spice of autumn. She could feel it scrub across her salt-sweated
skin, her sticky hair—freeing her from Jacoba's hold, somehow stirring within her new thoughts and firming good memories.
For Willadene had “the nose.” Although each and every one of her kind wore such a feature, only to a very few was the privilege given—the ability to recognize and name the most subtle of mixed scents. Just as the foul odors which haunted Jacoba's kitchen assaulted her to the point of choking and nausea, so could inhaling the perfume of a skillfully blended cream, a packet of dried leaves and petals, liquids so precious they must be dripped one drop at a time from small glass tubes, bring her a kind of freedom and pleasure.
She could remember Halwice's first testing of her “nose,” the holding of a small jar of ointment from which there had risen a moisture—-golden, luxuriant as any treasure from a jewel casket. And Willadene had confidently named each ingredient of that cream—measures of this and that.
Those of the ducal court paid well for their choices from Halwice's array of bottles and jars. Though Willadene was sent only for the coarsest and cheapest of spices, she would linger as long as she dared to drink in a nearly distilled scent, to listen to Halwice's explanations, to regard longingly the lines of tubes and bottles, the stands of narrow drawers—each compartmented and meant to hold powered leaves, petals, snippets of dried fruit rind. She had even drawn back to her a near lost skill in reading by studying the symbols lettered on each container.
If Jacoba would only— That frustration which was like a pain never left the girl. For two years now the Herbmistress had made regular offers to buy Willadene's apprenticeship. The cook's spiteful answer was always the same—that her scullery maid had been officially assigned to her from among the children orphaned by the great plague and as a relative she had accepted the Reeve's fee for taking such an unhandy servant.
Why the innkeeper wished to hold on to a serving maid who was always deserving of punishment, who was as sickly as a winter-born lamb, Willadene could never understand. There would be a fine-fee for such a change, yes, but she had even heard Halwice offer to pay that. Was the answer what she had learned today—that Jacoba could get a bride price for her?
She had sometimes thought that the cook had held on to her from pure spite. Jacoba had this twisted desire to torment. Willadene often thought that she was sent to the herb shop on trifling errands just to tantalize her.
But all things come to an end in time. In twenty days she would be of age and Jacoba could not hold her against her will. Then—not yet had she dared suggest to Halwice that perhaps the Herbmistress would take her into her employ. She would not even expect a full apprenticeship— willing to work any number of hours without more pay than a chance to be in the shop, to learn—if Halwice came to think her worthy.
The Herbmistress was of calm and unruffled temperament—but she was not cup friend to any of her neighbors. Pleasant to all but not welcoming chances for idle gossip. For the most part she was a silent woman, as if her thoughts occupied her more than her customers. Yet she was ready to serve all, listening to the complaints of those who ailed, mixing cordials and salves which served their purposes so well that all Kronen-bred knew their value.
She certainly was not noble born. However, though Halwice went plain of dress and quiet of demeanor, Willadene had seen her more than once reduce some fretful or up-nosed housemistress to uneasy deference. She dealt with courtiers as well as stall keepers, and treated both with the same quiet courtesy.
The girl gave a start now as the Second Bell boomed out the orders for the day. She slipped out of an alley and hurried down the street. There was rising clatter and sound
as the merchants unshuttered their shops, calling greetings from one to the other.
Halwice's shop was the ground floor of a three-story building. And while its neighbors were hung with banners urging this or that product upon the possible customer, her windows were trimmed with boxes—some green and lacy with ferns, others bright with flowers. Even her roof, Willadene knew, had been put to use with racks of shelves each bearing trays of plants, while Halwice's back door gave upon a stretch of well-nourished and tilled land, producing more healthy crops than one might usually find in the heart of a city.
Willadene slowed. Jacoba could well guess where she would head. And already she might well be reported to the Reeve for straying. Could she be bringing down trouble on Halwice?
The shop shutters were still up and there was no sign that the Herbmistress was starting her day. Willadene's head suddenly came up. That scent—it had the same evil promise that she knew meant trouble.
She was at the closed door. Only— The latch cord was out—then why were the shutters closed? With caution, the girl raised her hand to the door. There was something wrong—she stifled a gagging protest.
Though she had not been aware of it, she had given the door a nudge and it was swinging open. All the crowding scents she loved were loosed—but with them something dark and dangerous she could not name. . . . Halwice?
The shop was dim with the shutters closed. She could see only the bulk of counter and shelves. And she stepped within as warily as if she were certain some trap waited beyond.
The great bell's first sounding had not awakened the man who had left coverlets trailing behind him from the bed as he had crossed to draw the heavy curtain a little aside and look out on a dawn-grayed city. Uttobric of Kronen had never been an impressive figure even when decked out in the robes of formal ceremony. He was still less so now as he chewed his lower lip, his mind awhirl with the thoughts which had given him very little sleep this past night.
His scanty stock of gray-brown hair stood on end above a narrow face worn by deep crevices of wrinkles, two bracketing each side of his thin-lipped mouth, others furrowing his forehead. He stared shortsightedly out into the gloom where the twinkle of a few lights below marked the coming of a new day of—
Of course he had regretted the ravages of the plague, as any just man would; however, he certainly was not responsible for becoming the only male left in the straight line of descent. Now he could acknowledge to himself that he had both feared and envied his predecessor on the ducal throne. Wubric had been everything he was not—a ruler secure enough to be able to turn his attention to other matters.
Uttobric did not have to turn his head now and look back at the table, where two candles were fast guttering out, to remember what lay there: reports—too many of them. . . . Between them they would pull him to bits if they might.
Whom could he trust? Sometimes he even suspected Vazul—though that Chancellor, if Uttobric were swept away, would certainly fall with his lord, since he was not of the old nobility but rather the merchant class, a man of keen wit and wily action, all seemingly at the Duke's service.
It was Vazul who had made that suggestion the night before—one which had shocked Uttobric at first. The Duke still thought of his daughter as a child, content to amuse herself with a handful of carefully selected companions, of no proper service to him because of her gender. But what had Vazul pointed out? That very gender might be put to use now.
Uttobric loosened his hold on the curtain and padded back to the high-standing bulk of his craven bed. He picked up the holder of an unlighted candle and the miniature which lay beside it on the bedside shelf and then, lighting the candle from one of the dying ones, he dropped into the chair nearby and held the miniature of his daughter closer to his eyes.
It was his secret belief that commissioned artists always flattered their subjects; that was only good business for them. Yet Vazul had assured him—and it was true that Mahart took most of her looks from his wife's now-extinct line. He could see the soft rolls of dark brown hair, the slightly triangular face (that pointed chin was certainly his). But above that the mouth was generous, curving in the hint of a smile. Large eyes of an unexpected green were lashed thickly, and the brows delicately marked. Yes, this was no longer the face of a child, and he had to admit to himself that if the artist had not lied with his brush his daughter was possibly fair looking.
Beauty might snare the passing attention of a man, but anyone shrewd enough to provide what he, Uttobric, might have to demand could well wish more than just a pretty face and the fluttering attentions of a green girl. Dowry—
Uttobric tossed the miniature onto the table among the papers. Favorable port treatment? That would be too ambiguous. No, he would have to make it plain that on the wedding day he would proclaim the groom his accepted heir.
The small man in the tall-backed chair sighed. Could it be done? King Hawkner was over blessed with sons, it was true. He might be willing to provide for, say, a third or fourth one of them in this way, and Kronengred was a rich prize. Once the alliance was set, then changes could be safely made. For Hawkner's army was idle, and idle soldiers need to be occupied lest they view what lay about them and make a few decisions of their own.
Uttobric scowled at one shifting pile of reports. Of course he knew that he was stripping the western frontier and the mountain territory dangerously of trained manpower. The complaints of merchants grew louder and longer all the time. Let this Prince of the Blood Royal bring with him enough guards and that could be easily remedied.
If—again the Duke bit down upon his lip. If they had time! Saylana—now his mouth twisted as if he would spit—her backing—even Vazul could not pierce deeply into her ranks with his expertly trained spies to learn for certain who would rise for her if there came a day which actually tested them in open opposition. Wubric's daughter, unable by law to claim the throne—though she had a son, Barbric, around whom all her plotting was twisted.
However, with Mahart wed to a Prince Royal who could call upon Hawkner's own forces, one would think several times about any treachery. He glanced at the miniature. He had never really understood women. Her mother he had first seen at their own wedding—fair enough, yet he
had always been pricked by the thought that she led some kind of secret life into which he had no entrance. Though he had not really cared. Then the plague and all his doubts were ended. The fact his daughter had survived had just been one of those jests of fate the raging disease had played throughout the city.
He expected no trouble from Mahart. The girl had been close kept all these years and had had no chance to form any interest in some boy of her own age. The thought of being a Princess Royal would be enough to dazzle her into welcome compliance. Yes, he would summon Vazul and—
He was startled by the discreet tapping at the door. Though he was no trained warrior he was out of his chair in an instant and reaching for the pillow sword resting each night as the ceremonial defense at the foot of his bed.
He flushed as he realized he had to clear his throat before he could harshly answer. “Enter!”
The door did not open very far, just enough for a very tall and thin figure, robes wrapped about him to aid in speed, to sidle in.
The robes shone in the dim light, which also picked out the heavy, gemmed gold chain which lay on the man's narrow shoulders, the signet at its end dangling near his belt.
“What's to do, Vazul?”
For the Chancellor to seek him out in this fashion was against all custom. Now the visitor was closing the door tightly behind him, almost as if he feared some follower.
“Your decision, Highness?”
In this gloom it was almost impossible to see the face of the speaker, only his height (for which Uttobric secretly could not forgive him) as he loomed over his master as he approached the table.
“Why must you come at
this
hour to know?” demanded the Duke testily.
“Time never waits for men—men are its servants.” The rich voice was that of a practical speechmaker, one who
was able to sway his fellows if the need arose. “And time is running out, Highness. The Bat has not returned.”
Uttobric took a tighter grip on the sword he had not yet relinquished.
“Taken?”
Vazul shrugged. “Who knows? But he has never failed to report within the promised time before. He is mind blocked to the best of our ability, but we do not know what resources they may have. There are indications that Her Grace has had contact with several from overseas during the last year. Each land has its men of secrets, and some remain secret save to him who uses them. But this means, Highness, that you must move swiftly.”
The Chancellor stood in the full light of the candle now. He was thin nearly to the point of emaciation, and his robe of crimson patterned on the breast with the ducal arms appeared nearly too heavy for him to support. His hair was cropped short as if he were a fighter, but his incurved cheeks were covered with a short-trimmed beard, while his pale gray eyes appeared to possess the same gleam as a sword blade showed. Only because he knew that Vazul would rise and fall with him, did the Duke trust him. The man had a wily mind, seemed sometimes almost able to read the future—at least light upon some of the perils lying in wait there.
“But if the Bat did not report—” the Duke now said slowly.
“How do I deduce that an alarm is sounding?” The Chancellor shrugged. “Because I know him as you should as well, Highness. He is the best of your eyes and ears, and there has never been any fault in the information which he has brought. We know that he crossed the border two days ago—he made touch with our man there. He should have reported at sunset last eve. Whatever chanced to delay him lies within your own realm, Highness, perhaps even here in Kronengred.”
Uttobric slammed the sword back in its sheath and returned,
his lips curved downward in sullen pout, to the chair he had earlier arisen from. With a wave of his hand he beckoned Vazul to another on the opposite side of the table.
But before the Chancellor joined him Vazul picked up a triple candle stand and lit all three candles so that there was enough light that each of them could well see the other.
“So we do not even know now whether the plan is feasible,” the Duke said, blinking in the glow of light. “He was to tell us how matters lay with Hawkner. What do we do now, approach the King openly with our suggestion? He may take it in one of his whimsical moods and think it a jest, an improper one.”
Uttobric squirmed in his chair. He had met King Hawkner on only two occasions—one his wedding—and both times he had felt overshadowed and almost a lackey awaiting the King's pleasure, though Kronen was
not
part of his kingdom—Oberstrand—and never had been.
Oddly enough, there was movement on one of the Chancellor's shoulders which continued down his right arm until, from under the heavy embroidery of his wide cuff, there appeared a sleek black head. So dark was the fur that covered it that one could only catch a gleam now and then of yellow reflecting the candlelight from two eyes above a narrow pointed snout. The Duke watched distastefully as the whole of Vazul's pet appeared—though the creature seemed more than just an animal and certainly its lithe, long-bodied shape, the very short legs sharply clawed, could not be seen anywhere else in Kronen that Uttobric knew of. He hated the creature, still something had always prevented him from ordering the Chancellor to at least keep the thing out of the ducal presence. It sat up now and licked down its chest.
The Duke made an effort to ignore it. Instead he returned to his querulous question of earlier.
“Do I go, hat in hand, and approach Hawkner through
Lord Perfer? Our ambassador is a fool, and we do not know how much he can be trusted.”
“Not quite yet.” Vazul was drawing his hand down the back of the creature. “Has Your Highness spoken with the Lady Mahart? She is certainly of an age to be thinking of marriage—of a handsome prince—”
“She chatters like a hoobird if I welcomed it,” snapped the Duke. “Possibly within a breath she would spill it all to that Lady Zuta and then it would be common knowledge.”
“Just so. However"—the Chancellor continued to stroke his pet—"I did not mean make free with the heart of the matter, merely speak to her of marriage. Who knows such a rumor might bring the Lady Saylana's attention and push her supporters out of their holes to your advantage.”
The Duke chewed a fingernail; his glance swept from the Chancellor to those piles of reports. Yes, if they could just stir the pot a little some useful steam might arise.
“Well enough,” he said. “That much can certainly be done. Summon Burris—one might as well get to the thing.”
The Chancellor arose and went to pull the bell rope which would bring the Duke's personal servant. He neither smiled nor displayed any change in feature. It was becoming very easy to bring Uttobric to his way of thinking—-but overconfidence was a sin.
The great bell's boom broke into the most pleasant of dreams. Mahart had never seen the world outside these ancient walls since she was a very small girl, but tonight she had skimmed away from her tower to a place she barely remembered when awake-—a great open field in which brilliant gems of flowers bent under a breeze which carried the scent of summer itself.
The scent of summer—her brows drew together in a faint frown of one seeking a memory. Of course! Now she squirmed free of the tangle of silk and velvet and sat
up. Her attention was on the small brazier which sat on the edge of her wide dressing table. No fragrant smoke threads arose upward from it now, but, as she stretched her arms wide, she felt she could purr like one of the guard cats who kept the castle free of vermin.
She was indeed a Herbmistress—that Halwice—to produce an incense which supplied such peaceful and comforting dreams. They said she was a mistress of scents so powerful that they could draw or repel another. Mahart's dissatisfied gaze went on to the array of fancifully fashioned bottles on that same dressing table. Many of those held rare fragrances from overseas—her father was very apt on Winter Turn day to present her with something new of that sort. It was as if in his mind a bottle of scent was an excellent substitute for the dolls of an earlier day— though he had actually continued to present those before someone, probably Vazul, had pointed out that she was at last grown up.
She did not ring for Julta, her maid. Rather, she freed herself from the cocoon of covers, thrust her feet into her waiting fur-lined slippers, and crossed to seat herself on the bench of the dressing table, bending at once to sniff at the last faint remains of the burnt incense.
The candles were hardly used and she snap-lighted them—all four—to lean forward a little to study her reflection in the wide mirror. Her hair was still night braided, but its dull brown shade was certainly not her best feature. She envied Zuta those sleek black strands that looked like lengths of satin. But—she was not too plain! For the first time Mahart allowed herself to believe that.
There were a number of powders and creams available. She knew that Zuta was zealous in using such, but she had hesitated to try, thinking always of the tittering of maids who
always
discussed the actions of their mistresses behind their backs, or even arousing amusement in Zuta, who would be entirely too kind to tell her the truth. What would she do without Zuta!
It seemed to Mahart that her companion lady was born knowing what Mahart had to learn. She could always say the right thing, do the gracious act, and had been quick when Mahart was younger to cover any awkwardness her mistress might cause. Though sometimes—sometimes Mahart wished that she still had Nurse.