Goblin Moon (37 page)

The room filled with the stench of sizzling flesh,
and the prisoner clenched his teeth against the pain. A cry of
agony ripped out of him, and the spell slipped, revealing his own
face, pale and anguished.

“Pointless heroics,” said Mr. Jagst, as he removed
the poker, and motioned the sailor to tip the chair forward,
allowing his lordship to assume a more dignified position. “Did you
really think your concentration would not fail you?”

“I thought I would try it,” Francis Skelbrooke
replied, as steadily as he could.

Mr. Jagst regarded him briefly. “You were obviously
sent here in order to spy on me. But who sent you? Will it be
necessary for me to apply the poker again, or will you tell me who
you are working for?”

“It won’t be necessary at all,” said Skelbrooke.
Beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. “I work for no one and
nobody sent me. I am an adventurer and an inveterate meddler.” He
managed a weak smile. “I do these things to obtain a thrill. But I
feel that I have had quite enough excitement for one evening, and I
would be obliged if you would allow me to depart.”

“Though you are a trifle eager to provide this
information, nevertheless I am inclined to believe you. It is in
line,” said Jagst, “with what I have already learned about you. But
of course I cannot possibly allow you to go, at least, not in the
way that I suppose you mean.”

He paused, as if waiting for Skelbrooke to ask for
further enlightenment, but his lordship was silent, not giving him
the satisfaction.

Mr. Jagst smiled broadly and told him, anyway. “I am
informed, Lord Skelbrooke, that you are something of a poet. For
that reason, I have an idea that you will appreciate the poetic
irony of your fate. There is a ship sailing for Ynde with the
morning tide. You will be on that ship, part of the consignment I
have promised to traders in the East.

“You are a very pretty fellow,” Mr. Jagst added,
shaking his head. “And a few years past, would have certainly found
favor with our eastern clients, but you are just a bit old now, to
serve as a catamite. No, it seems more likely you will end up as a
eunuch in a harem . . . a turn of events which our friend Lord
Krogan would surely appreciate.”

Skelbrooke awoke with an aching head and his left
foot still agonizingly on fire. He lay in a dim, rolling place, on
a bed of straw, the only light a few pale beams that came in
through an over-head grating about a dozen yards away.

With an effort, he pulled himself up into a sitting
position. Though his head spun after the crack it had received
before leaving the Jewelbox, he knew that was not the cause of the
rolling motion or the vibration. He was in the hold of a ship. He
heard the slap of waves against the hull and guessed that the
vibration came from a mast overhead. Jagst had made good on the
first part of his threat, and Lord Skelbrooke was on his way to
Ynde.

The straw that made up his bed was damp, and the hold
reeked of bilge and other, less immediately identifiable, odors. He
wrinkled his nose distastefully. Somewhere, not very far off, he
could hear chickens clucking and pigs grunting.

“Had a lovely sleep, did you?” said a voice in the
darkness. A shadowy figure near the grating moved his way, and his
lordship could just make out the features of one of the sailors
from the brothel. “Must of been a good one—you was out all last
night and most of today. Was a time there, we thought you was a
dead ‘un.”

“Thank you,” said Skelbrooke, between his teeth. “I
believe I am tolerably well rested. But it seems that no one has
bandaged my foot, or returned my stockings or my boots. I wonder:
is there a chirurgeon on board this ship?”

The sailor hooted derisively. “You’re a high and
mighty one, demanding to see a doctor.”

“I assume . . .” said Skelbrooke, with a great
effort, “that as I am still alive, I am accounted of some value.
That value will be substantially diminished if this wound goes bad
and I lose the foot.”

The sailor shrugged. “That may be. You’re a sharp one
you are. But we ain’t got no doctor. I could send the quartermaster
down. He usually sees to them things, but I warn you: his hand’s
inclined to be a bit shaky when he’s using the knife.”

At the word “knife” Skelbrooke flinched. “Never mind,
then, I thank you.”

There were manacles on his wrists, joined together by
a stout chain, which was joined to a longer chain and fastened to a
beam by an iron ring. He leaned against the beam for support. “I
have some training as a physician, and would prefer to treat
myself. Could you possibly provide me with a length of clean cloth,
and whatever salves and medicaments the quartermaster is accustomed
to use?”

The sailor thought that over, then he shrugged again.
“That’s for the First Mate to say. Right now, I brung your
breakfast.” He deposited a mug, a bowl, and a piece of biscuit down
on the damp straw.

Skelbrooke shook his head wearily. The motion of the
ship did not much bother him, but the pain in his head, and
especially the throbbing torment of his foot, made his stomach feel
weak. He closed his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts. His
situation could hardly be worse. He was on his way to a fate which
did not bear thinking about, and he had no idea how to save
himself.

“You don’t eat it now, the rats’ll get it,” said the
sailor. He moved back through the shadows in the direction of the
light. “You might want to keep them weak and feeble-like. They get
too big, they might eat you alive.”

On consideration, his lordship decided he might try
the food. He opened his eyes and examined what the sailor offered
him. The mug was half full of water—fortunately fresh—the bowl
contained the burned scrapings from the bottom of a stewpot. The
biscuit smelled so vile and tasted so unwholesome, he immediately
spat out the first mouthful.

Yet if he was going to find a way to win his freedom
and avoid castration, he would require all his resources of mind
and body. With a grim resolution, he ate the stew and swallowed the
water. Neither sat well on his stomach.

Chapter
31

Containing a great deal of Conversation.

The gardens at the Wichtelberg boasted few flowers,
for they had been originally designed by dwarves. Follies,
pavilions, and gazebos there were in plenty,; fountains, reflecting
pools, and tiny meandering streams. There was an occasional expanse
of green lawn checkered with stone pathways, and a number of
sculptured hedges; such flowers as there were had been rooted in
marble urns. These were gardens of water and stone, not gardens
devoted to growing things.

To explore the grounds of the Wichtelberg took Sera
and Elsie several days. The gardens, alone, were as full of
surprises as they were of stone. To one side of the mansion,
opposite the lake, there was an enormous iron cage, dome-shaped and
arising about two stories, which served as an aviary, where
Sebastian the indigo ape was allowed to run free. Beyond that there
was brief expanse of manicured turf, and then a sort of orchard,
with statues of onyx and green bronze serving in place of fruit
trees.

By starting at the lake and moving upstream along the
brook which fed it, the girls arrived at the entrance of a cave,
which led them to a vast, torch-lit grotto under the house, and a
complex of underground waterways. From the grotto, a long flight of
damp stone steps led back up to the interior of the mansion.

There was also the wood begging to be explored (it
yielded a little ruined chapel), and farther on an open meadow. The
girls took long morning walks, then spent the hot afternoons with
the Duchess and her gentlemen guests in the cool marble salons of
the mansion, or picnicking in the gardens in the shade of the
house.

Elsie was flourishing, so full of energy and good
spirits, Sera could hardly believe she was the same girl who had
been a pale and nervous invalid only weeks before. Whether it was
the country air, or the Jarl’s magnetic treatments, or merely this
respite from the ministrations of her other physicians, remained to
be seen, but however it came about, Elsie grew in strength and
vigor with every passing day.

As for Sera: her attitude more nearly approached
resignation. Though pleased by Elsie’s progress, she was not
certain she trusted these changes. Besides, Jarl Skogsrå was always
so much in evidence, up at the house and in the gardens, tending to
monopolize Elsie’s time and attention. It pained Sera to see the
attachment growing between her cousin and the Jarl, but she had
long since voiced all her objections and now found herself without
anything new to say.

About ten days after their arrival, deciding that her
houseguests were growing a little stale of each other’s company,
the Duchess arranged a more elaborate al fresco luncheon in the
gardens, and invited the country gentry.

It was a fine day, and the Duke’s neighbors arrived
in great numbers, to feast on crab cakes and lobster patties;
lark’s tongues and boiled snails; whole roasted peacock and swans;
cold soup flavored with fennel; pastries, cakes, chantillies, and
fruit ices; along with an assortment of the candied flowers which
the Duchess served on every occasion.

It apparently served the Duchess’s whim to bring Sera
into fashion; accordingly, she kept Sera by her and took pains to
introduce her “dear Miss Vorder” to each of her afternoon
guests.

Distracted by these attentions, Sera failed to keep a
close eye on Elsie, with the result that the two girls did not
speak together until late in the afternoon, when Sera was horrified
to discover her cousin drinking a second (or was it a third?) glass
of sweet wine.

“My dear, what
are
you
doing? Your head will ache and you will be miserable all
evening.”

“I never have headaches anymore!” said Elsie, with a
defiant toss of her head. “I wish you wouldn’t fuss so, Sera.
You’ve grown quite as bad as Mama!” And she strolled off on Jarl
Skogsrå’s arm, taking the wine-glass with her.

Sera was speechless. She had always regarded herself
as Elsie’s champion, the one who encouraged her to lead as normal a
life as possible. To be told that she fussed—worse, to be compared
with Clothilde Vorder and her odious smothering attentions—that was
a new and unpleasant experience.

“Miss Vorder, you look uncommonly warm. May I bring
you a glass of lemonade?” said a voice behind her. Turning, Sera
found Hermes Budge watching her with a sympathetic look in his calm
brown eyes.

“Mr. Budge,” she asked bluntly, “do you think me
overprotective of my cousin Elsie?”

“I do not,” said Mr. Budge. “But surely my opinion is
of little account, and it is what Miss Elsie herself thinks that
ought to concern you.”

Sera bit her lip. “You advise me, then, to hold my
tongue and allow my cousin to make her own mistakes?”

Mr. Budge permitted himself a faint smile. “Madam,
acquit me! I would never say anything so rude. But if I cannot
convince you to drink some lemonade, perhaps you will consent to
walk with me as far as the aviary.”’

“Perhaps I will,” said Sera, accepting his offer of
an arm to lean on. There was something reassuring about the tutor,
so solemn, so sensible, so wholesome. Though he was years older and
immeasurably better educated, he reminded her strongly of
Jedidiah.

“Mr. Budge,” said Sera, “you are an educated man
and—I believe—well traveled.” The tutor bowed an acknowledgement.
“I wonder if you might answer a question which has been puzzling me
of late?”

Mr. Budge bowed again. “It has recently been brought
to my attention—I believe that I knew it once, but had somehow
forgotten,” said Sera, “that the system of inheritance in foreign
countries is not the same as it is here in Waldermark. For
instance, Lord Vodni informs me that it is the custom in Ruska for
all the sons of a nobleman to inherit his title, though only the
eldest inherits his estate. Would you—would you happen to know if a
similar custom pertains in Nordmark?”

Mr. Budge shook his head. “No, I believe that
inheritance in Nordmark descends exactly as it does here, and
indeed in my native Imbria as well. A titled Nordic gentleman—let
us suppose him a jarl—might well be short of ready cash, but he
would almost certainly own a house and land—perhaps some heirloom
jewelry—which he had inherited along with the title but was
forbidden to sell.”

Sera could not repress a sigh of disappointment.
Cousin Clothilde was such a snob that even an encumbered estate,
when coupled with a title, would undoubtedly be enough to satisfy
her.
After all, Elsie had no need to marry
for money, but a grand house and the rank of Countess might serve
to gratify her mother’s ambitions.

“You would prefer it otherwise,” said Mr. Budge. “I
must presume that the gentleman in question is Jarl Skogsrå, whom
you wish to think impoverished and a fortune-hunter.”

Sera blushed. Were her motives truly that
transparent, or was Budge merely uncomfortably clever? “If Elsie
were your cousin, would you wish her to marry a man so vain and
selfish as Jarl Skogsrå?”

Mr. Budge, who was generally a thoughtful man,
answered promptly. “No, I would not. Believe me, Miss Vorder, I am
entirely sympathetic. Your cousin appears to blind herself to those
faults in the Jarl which to you and me appear so evident.
Therefore, you wish to produce something more substantial against
him. We both know that a well-born bachelor may maintain himself in
fine style, passing himself off as a man of wealth as well as rank,
living on credit for a long time before the tradesmen he frequents
become too demanding and his poverty becomes evident to all.
Indeed, it may well be so with Jarl Skogsrå.”