Ice and Shadow (10 page)

Swinging her feet to the floor was an exhausting effort. She did not even dare to try to stand, but instead fell to her hands and knees and crawled toward that bench. She raised her dead-weight hands and somehow forced the fingers to close upon the sides of the flagon, pulling it toward her, tipping it so that its contents did splash, not only into her gaping mouth, but across her chin and down the front of her dress. The moisture in her mouth brought her farther out of the daze. She sat on the floor, the flagon still between her hands, and looked about.

The room was small with a single window, across which was a screen of bars. The walls were stone. The bed from which she had crawled lacked any ornament and beside it, on another bed, lay Ludorica.

The Princess’s cloak trailed half off her, her face was flushed, and she breathed with a puffing sound, clear to hear now that Roane had time to note it. Even as the off-world girl watched, she stirred, flinging out her arm as if to ward off some danger in a none-too-pleasant dream. And she murmured words Roane could not distinguish.

The small beds and the bench on which the flagon had stood were the only furnishings. There was a door opposite the beds. It had metal banding across it and a lock plate as large as Roane’s palm. She had no doubts that if she managed to reach it she would find it securely fastened. There was no question that they were prisoners. But of whom and where?

Carefully she put the flagon back on the bench and struggled to her feet. Her head swam and she closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. From the bench she lurched in the direction of the window, bringing up against that opening. But at least she kept her feet.

What she saw below was a courtyard with a wall around it, a solid gate fastened by a bar. Beyond that wall showed the green tops of trees, and yet farther away were rises of heights not unlike those about Hitherhow. Hope glimmered in her. If they were in that country she could find her way back to camp.

“Hot—thirsty—” The murmur from the bed brought Roane around, holding to the wall for support as she moved.

The Princess struggled up. She was pulling at the lacing of her bodice as if to loosen it. The delicate lace of her collar was crumpled and her fine dress smeared with dust and badly creased.

Roane preserved her balance as best she could, made for the bench, and then to the bedside with the flagon. She held it with both hands for the Princess to drink.

Ludorica drank, sucking with the same desperate need Roane had known. And when she signified she had had enough, there was very little left.

Now the Princess surveyed the room. Her eyes fixed upon the window and she wriggled off the bed, wavered to the wall, and inched her way to that opening, catching the bars with her hands. Roane joined her.

“Do you know where we are?”

Ludorica did not look around as she answered.

“As to where we are exactly I cannot say. But that peak”—she loosed her right hand to point—“I know. It is within a half league of Hitherhow. And I think we must be on some minor stead—perhaps Famslaw—so it is Reddick after all.”

“You mean this is his land?”

“Land of close kin. But how—” Then she gave a little gasp. “Look there!”

At one side of the courtyard very close to the wall was a coach with a brilliant device painted on its door. It had carefully curtained windows, and although there were no harnessed duocorns and no coachman, Roane was certain it was the one which had brought them here.

“The coach—” she began.

“Of course! But that symbol—on its door—”

Roane could not understand the importance of that but the Princess was continuing:

“That is Lord Imbert’s own! No coach with that on it would be stopped at the border. That was how they got us across.”

“Wait—” Roane’s memory stirred. She thought back to the dusky courtyard at Gastonhow, when Lord Imbert had handed them into what was to become a prison. She had seen the door in the lantern light; there had been no design then—or else it had been covered in some manner. “That was not on the door before.”

“What does it matter? It served its purpose.”

From somewhere over their heads there was a sharp call, which was answered by a horn note. And that fanfare was answered in turn by activity. Men appeared in the courtyard. They wore green or gray and fell into two lines at attention while two of their number ran to draw the gate bar.

“How dare he?” demanded Ludorica.

“What is it?”

The Princess turned a flushed face to Roane. Her eyes were wide and there was about her such an aura of barely leashed anger that Roane was glad it was not she who had aroused that emotion in her companion.

“That is the royal call! No one but those of the Blood dare use it. It is my call—
mine
—by birth alone. I am heiress to Reveny—there is no other!”

The gates opened and once more the call sounded close and loud, as the trumpeter himself rode through. Over his tunic he wore a loose-sleeved coat stiff with metallic lacing, one half red, one yellow. Behind him came a second rider wearing a yellow uniform tunic, his hat hiding his face. But the breath came out of the Princess in a furious hiss.

“Reddick! And he rides behind the heir’s own herald! Treachery, black treachery!” Her hands closed and wrung upon the bars as if she would pluck them out of their stone setting and hurl them spear-fashion at her cousin.

CHAPTER 10

ROANE PRESSED AGAINST
the iron-barred door, her ear laid to its surface, but she heard only the pounding of her own heart. She longed for one of the snoop devices of stellar civilization. Even time she could not measure, but she thought it had been a long interval since they had come for the Princess, leaving her here alone.

Ludorica had gone willingly, apparently only too eager to face her kinsman-jailer, as if that royal trumpet had carried her in flaming anger over the border of caution. Roane had been startled by that response, since she had looked upon the Princess as able to keep a cool head.

Only this was no quarrel of hers. Since Ludorica had left, Roane was able to see the whole situation in proper proportion. She had only one duty, to get out of this strongbox and back to camp. And the Princess had given her that mountain as a guide.

However, there was escape from this room, the keep itself, to negotiate first. Without any tools but a stunner and a beamer, how could she do it? For a second time she knelt on the floor to examine the lock. This type was archaically simple, of course. She could force it if she had proper tools. But there was nothing useful in her precious belt, nothing in this masquerade on her back (the clothes she had enjoyed so much when she put them on, now crumpled and soiled, made her impatient for her coverall). Her cloak and the Princess’s lay on the bed. Roane went back to run her hands over fur and fabric—and so discovered that Ludorica’s hood had a stiff support to hold the fur in place.

Roane picked at the seam, finally, with her teeth, breaking the threads at one end. She pushed and pulled until she held a length of wire. With this in hand she returned to the door.

The sun which had awakened her was gone from this side of the keep, and the hills were throwing long, dusky shadows out to clutch at the walls. Her jailers had brought her a plate of bread and dried meat when they had taken away the Princess, and she had eaten all of that. They had not been near her since.

Roane crouched, listening. Sounds at last. But not from beyond the door—rather in the courtyard. She ran to the window. Duocorns saddled and ready. Four men—seven mounts. Lanterns were lit to banish the dusk.

Out of a portal immediately below her issued a party of three. One was Reddick, by his uniform, and he came with one hand around the Princess’s wrist, though she moved without a struggle toward the waiting mounts. The other man was dressed in dark colors and had a cloak collar up about his throat, a peaked hood pulled over his head.

He held his hands at breast level stiffly before him and between them something glinted in the lantern light.

When they came to the duocorns, he swung around to face the Princess. What he held so carefully he raised to eye level before her. And at the same time Roane caught faintly his voice intoning words she could not distinguish.

Reddick boosted the Princess into the saddle, where she sat quietly. But the reins of her duocorn he kept in his own hand. And as the gate bar was withdrawn and they rode out he continued to lead the Princess’s mount. Then the gate closed behind them.

Roane could only guess at the meaning of what she had seen. It was apparent that they had the Princess under some kind of control. She had seen too many like scenes in the past. But how they had achieved that (save that it must have something to do with the object the man held) she did not know. At any rate, their going left Roane on her own, to make her break for freedom.

Waiting was always hard. She kicked and pulled at her hampering skirts as she paced back and forth. These would be a hazard to her. Perhaps somewhere in this pile of stone she could find more suitable clothing.

She had no lamp and as soon as the dusk was thick enough, she knelt again at the door to begin her delicate manipulation with the wire. A job such as this needed patience. She had to keep her mind and hands under control as she worked. But at last there was a click and she edged the barrier open a little at a time, relieved to see there was no show of light on the other side. She slipped through and shut the heavy door carefully behind her. This was a narrow hall with two other doors. Beyond was a stairhead. Even as she stood listening, able now to hear muted noises made by other inhabitants, the click of approaching footsteps rang an alarm in her mind.

Roane crossed to the doorway nearly facing that from which she had come. To her great relief, that yielded under her push so she could step within. A flash of the beamer showed her a room like that she had quitted. She turned to watch the hallway through a narrow crack.

The newcomer had reached the head of the stair, a man wearing the uniform of those who had ridden with Reddick. He carried in one hand a small tray on which rested a dish and another water flagon. A lantern swung in his other hand.

As he came to the door of her late prison, he put down the lantern, fumbled at his belt for a thong on which were strung several large keys. Roane aimed the stunner at his head and pressed the button. He crumpled to his knees without a cry, then slid forward on the floor.

Kicking angrily at her skirts, she ran to him. He was not too large to handle and she dragged him into the room. The flagon had fallen on the floor, most of its contents leaking into a pool, but she drank what was left and scooped up from the dish a round of coarse bread and meat, chewing as she went out, set the dishes inside, locked the door.

Then she sped back to the other room, where she had seen a promising heap of clothes, untidy on a chest. To get rid of these skirts and be able to move with ease again! The fit was bad; the owner of her new wardrobe was a much larger and heavier person. But she drew the jerkin tight about her with her precious belt inside, rolled up the sleeves, stuffed material torn from an underskirt in the toes of the boots to make them fit. There was one of those hood caps which let only her face show, and she pinned its laps under her chin. Her discarded clothing she thrust within the chest.

The lantern still stood beside the other door and she was vexed that she had forgotten it. Perhaps it would be wise to take it along. With stunner at the ready and the lantern in her other hand, Roane sped to the stairs and looked down. There was another hall below with dim lighting. And she could hear the sound of voices and smell cooking, though that odor was none too appetizing. Her good fortune had held so far. She could only gamble it would continue.

For all her efforts her boots sounded on the steps and she was alert to any movement below. If she had to leave by the huge barred gate—But surely there were easier ways than that! She would even dare the wall if she had to.

The lower hall led to an open archway. To her right there was a door, firmly closed, which she hoped opened on the courtyard. Roane blew out the lantern, set it on the floor, and went to that closed portal. With infinite care she slid the locking bar out of its hooks, fearing at any moment that some one of those in the room ahead beyond the arch would notice her.

Five men sat at a table eating, while another moved back and forth bringing fresh supplies of food and drink. Roane balanced the bar against her for a moment, then set it carefully against the wall and tugged at the door.

The fresh air of night met her, dispelling much of the fugginess of the hall. It took only a minute to slip through and close the door behind her. Now—She lingered in the shadow to survey the courtyard. That coach was still pulled close to the wall at her left. Beyond were stables—she could both smell them and hear the stamp of duocorns.

Though she studied the top of the wall and the tower behind her, she could not spot any watchman. But she dared not count that such a one did not exist. Her attention kept going back to the coach. If it were as close to the wall as it seemed, could she use it as a ladder to reach the top? But to get down the other side—She would need a rope. Harness—such as was still draped over the carriage shafts? She darted over to those.

To climb into the driver’s seat was easy enough. Roane hunkered on that, watching for any sentry on the walls. The bulk of the tower showed several faintly glowing windows, but the evening gloom was thick enough to hide the carriage roof.

Once more she slid to the ground and fingered the harness. The buckles were easy enough to loosen and reclasp, and by careful work (she made herself go slowly, to test the strength of what she did and for fear of noise) she had at last a length tougher than rope, which she thought would support her weight. With this coiled about her shoulder she again sought the seat of the carriage.

There was still a space to climb and the smooth wall offered no holds. For a moment Roane was baffled, and then she investigated the uses of her present perch. There was the cushioned seat, which could be upended to lean out against the wall. But, could she balance on the upper end of that?

The wall above—but of course! There was a standard-pole there, one of a pair, the other on the far side of the gate. No banner flew now, but it would provide anchorage if she could just throw—

Roane stood on the denuded seat of the carriage by the unsteady bridge of the cushion. She whirled the weighted end of the strap rope around her head and sent it flying. Up and out it went, to clang against the wall with a sound which, to Roane, was like a thunderclap. But it did dangle there, and it had encircled the pole above.

She must move fast, reach that dangling end before the cushion bridge could turn under her feet. She poised and leaped, one end of the strap in her left hand, her right reaching for the other.

She had been correct in fearing the instability of the bridge; it gave way. But not before she had grasped the other end of the strap to which she clung. Fortunately, the cushion sank only a little, not so much that she was left hanging with her full weight on her outstretched arms. Bringing both ends of the strap together, Roane climbed, struggling over the edge, hardly believing she managed it without disaster.

To slide down the far side was much easier. And when a flick of her wrist brought the strap down to her, Roane coiled it around her body. She could still make out in the dusk the peak the Princess had said was a landmark. There was a road running in that direction, not one of the tree-and-brush-hidden lanes, but a clear cut through the forest. Her best move would be to keep to that, ready to take to cover if she met any other traveler.

The route was not too deeply rutted and the footing was secure enough. She set out with a ground-covering pace she had learned long ago. Now that she was out of that prison, she must plan ahead. To get back to camp, if the camp was still there, was, of course, the first step. If Uncle Offlas could learn what would happen—that the seekers of the Crown would be close to their find—

Roane’s thoughts veered. The Princess—where had she gone with Reddick and for what purpose? Surely Ludorica had been under some compulsion, though she had walked to her mount and had ridden out docilely enough.

Ludorica had her problems, but Roane had hers also. These were no longer the same. Again Roane was puzzled. Why had it been so important all the time she was with the Princess that Ludorica be helped in any manner Roane could devise? And now—why did she feel as if released from some tie?

Had all the imprudent and ill-considered (from the point of view of the Service) actions of the last few days come from the fact that she had been the Princess’s companion? And why, when that companionship had been broken had the strange influence of Reveny’s heiress gone? Was it something in her own temperament which made her more receptive to suggestion?

Roane had had enough training in forms of communication, briefing, and controls, as practiced by both men and machines, to know that such an influence might exist and that it could be part of the mystery of Clio. In some very old civilizations, even in the dim past of her own before it had left its native planet to pioneer a thousand other worlds, there had been ages when kings were also priests credited with divine powers by descent.

Suppose those who had set up the experiment on Clio had made use of such memories, giving the families they had selected to rule a mystique which bound their subjects to them? But then how could Reddick or other rebels find any followers, or dare themselves to go against such influences?

Those who had made Clio a testing ground for their theories would not want a stagnant society. Perhaps the influences would not affect those of equal rank, or would only hold for periods of time—say when a monarch was in dire danger. Or—she could supply a multitude of plausible answers.

But could she in turn use such suggestions to counter the accusations made against her by Uncle Offlas and the Service? Admittedly they would be glad to learn all they could about Clio. And if there was such an influence, a psycho-tech could verify that. But she would have to reach camp—and hope that native activity around it had not led Uncle Offlas to order withdrawal.

Roane now regretted most of all not bringing her com. Why had she not? Why, her thinking
must
have been influenced! To have been so afraid of being traced by her own people!

She shook her head. With every passing moment she was more and more unable to understand her own actions. The answer was, of course, that they must avoid the Clio natives in order to escape this influence set up to prove theories for men long dead.

The road she followed took a turn and then another. But never did it veer too far from her landmark and Roane kept to it. It did not seem to be traveled by night; at least she heard no sounds such as might be made by men, only those of wildlife, a crashing in the brush as if something ran from her. A full moon was rising and its silver light lay along the road.

Roane reached a place where there was a turn away from her landmark as the road angled sharply north, crossing a stream. But the running water could now be her guide. Perhaps at some seasons it was a full river, but at present it had shrunk so that sweeps of gravel and sand edged it on both sides. And she used the nearer bank for her new path. Twice she disturbed animals which had come to drink, one a quite large but seemingly timid beast which let out a mournful hooting cry as it plunged away. She kept her stunner ready in the event she met something more belligerent.