Norton, Andre - Anthology (22 page)

 
          
 
"What do you want with them, then? You're
as stout and strong a lad as I've seen in a good while."

 
          
 
"My friend Sammy's sick. They're for
him."

 
          
 
Dory gasped. She drew a deep breath.
"George," she said quietly, "have you given berries like these
to Sammy before now?"

 
          
 
"I have," he answered proudly.
"That's why he's going to get better. He used to sneeze all the
time."

 
          
 
"How do you get them to him?"

 
          
 
"I climb up the tree outside his
bedchamber window. I'm a real good climber."

 
          
 
"So I see." Dory grew grave.
"George, I want you to listen carefully to what I say. It's true that
Ambrose's berries can help make people well, but only those ailing from certain
diseases and only when they receive the correct kind of berry, usually in very
small amounts. That might be a single one or even less than that, normally
mixed with other Special things. It takes years and years of study for a person
to learn how to use such ingredients properly. If Sammy ate even part of what
was in that purse after all he's had before, we probably wouldn't have him with
us any more."

 
          
 
George gulped. His face screwed up as he
started to cry.

 
          
 
Dory gently stroked his hair. "He'll be
fine now, once you explain what's happened."

 
          
 
"Explain?"

 
          
 
"Go straight to Sammy's house and tell
Doctor Solomon and Scholar Martin what you've done. That should be information
enough for them to be able to set your friend to rights." That and the
actual berries Jasmine would have delivered there by now, but she thought it
best not to mention the cat's seemingly remarkable abilities.

 
          
 
"They'll yell," he said doubtfully.

 
          
 
"Maybe," the woman conceded.
"They're both scared about Sammy, and that can make people talk hard, but
you still have to go. George, you were brave and strong to get medicine that
you thought would make Sammy better. Now you must be even braver and stronger
to really help him."

 
          
 
He hesitated only a few moments. "I'll
go," he said at last.

 
          
 
"Good lad! Run now. Don't waste any time
getting there."

 
          
 
"I won't." Even as he spoke, the boy
wheeled about and raced out of the alley, a small, determined figure prepared
to do and endure what he must to aid his friend.

 
          
 
Dory's head lowered. A fine little fellow. I
hope we did right in sending him off to Solomon's house instead of home, but
his story should be a big help.

 
          
 
She sighed. I'm so ashamed, Trouble. I wronged
Scholar Ambrose terribly. If I'd said anything . . . Great Lord, the harm I
could have done!

 
          
 
The cat was about to reply but hissed instead.
Someone comes!

 
          
 
Even as he spoke, a cloaked figure turned the
left corner into the alley. "Young woman, what are you doing snooping
around my property at this hour of night?"

 
          
 
Ambrose the scholar! Dory flushed with shame,
but despite her guilt, her head came up at the tone of his voice. "This is
a public street," she responded, "and I'm here to avert disaster."
Quickly, she described her adventure of the evening, omitting only the little
boy's name to spare him and his family further embarrassment, that and the fact
that she had been keeping her neighbor under watch.

 
          
 
The man said nothing for several long seconds.
His head lowered. "A terrible tragedy so narrowly prevented. I've warned
the neighborhood youth time and again about the dangers of my plantings, but I
suppose this one was just too young to really understand."

 
          
 
"You're not to blame, sir."

 
          
 
Dory might have said more, but there was a
nagging at her inner mind, the feeling that something was wrong about all this.

 
          
 
Her eyes and mouth hardened as she realized
what it was. Ambrose was to blame. He might not have put George up to taking
those berries—in all likelihood, he had not—but he had known full well what was
going on once the deadly process had begun.

 
          
 
It could not be otherwise. Sammy's illness had
been widely discussed throughout the square and those around it since the
mysterious sickness had begun. The botanist had to have heard of it, and the
symptoms were specific enough to have aroused immediate suspicion in a man of
his knowledge and experience.

 
          
 
As for the rest, he might not have actually
witnessed the young culprit in action, but he had seen evidence of his
presence. Ambrose tended all his gardens carefully, and a small boy
burglarizing a berry patch in the dead of night could not have hidden or
removed every sign of his presence. He probably would not have thought to try.

 
          
 
Above all else, especially as the season
advanced and the crop began to diminish. Ambrose could not have missed the fact
that he was losing fruit. Given the nature of those berries, the potential
hazard they represented, how could any man of conscience and reason not raise
an alarm over their disappearance? The fact that he had not in itself condemned
Ambrose.

 
          
 
More did as well, a memory that chilled her
heart. This creature before her had not merely allowed the poisoning of
Solomon's child to continue. He had willed that it should do so. Ambrose the
scholar? He would better and more fittingly be titled Ambrose the monster.

 
          
 
He was watching her narrowly. The sorceress
recognized her danger. One who could permit an innocent child in no way
connected with him to die would have no scruples at all about eliminating a
woman whose virtue he believed to be questionable, intact only for the sake of
expediency and a planned high sale later.

 
          
 
There is no torn smell, Trouble informed her.

 
          
 
No. I'm a threat now, not potential amusement.
She knew too much, had seen too much, even though she was controlled enough not
to reveal that she realized there was anything amiss. A careless remark or
formal testimony under oath could bring to light what Ambrose the scholar did not
want known.

 
          
 
He would realize that the business about the
child was out and that he could do no more than make a show of sorrow about it,
but he had other work afoot this night. Dory's bare feet rammed into her brogs,
the trousers hastily drawn on over her nightdress, her hair braided for sleep
all corroborated her tale. Her neighbor's garb bore different witness. All in
brack with a cowled, three-quarter cloak and boots soft soled for silence, he
was as a shadow slipping through the dark.

 
          
 
To what purpose? The only places open in town
at this hour were the taverns with their gaming rooms and the two brothels, but
Ambrose was not a habitue of either. His destination was within the town or
near it, for she heard no horse. A meeting, perhaps, with someone who did not
dare come to the house or who had transport to take them farther? Whatever the
answer, he had taken pains to conceal his plans for the evening, and if his
purpose were strong enough, dark enough, he would readily kill to preserve his
secret.

 
          
 
I've summoned Martin. He's on his way, Trouble
informed her. Mind speech traveled little farther than that of the voice, but
other cats were near. He had called to them, and they had carried his message.

 
          
 
She could die three times over before the master
sorcerer reached them, especially if he had to make excuses for his going.

 
          
 
Dory did not need her cat's warning hiss to
see the slight, almost infinitesimally slow movement beneath their foe's cloak.
She could just make out enough of a shape to see that it was too large and
wrong in form for an empty hand or fist.

 
          
 
It was no knife either. The woman gnawed on
her inner lip. If only she had her mirror!

 
          
 
It would have done no good anyway since she
could not see the object.

 
          
 
And what have you been studying besides botany
since last fall, twit?

 
          
 
Dory's eyes glowed. Her own hand twitched
slightly, as if nervously. The answering breeze was short-lived, just
sufficient to blow the screening cloak aside momentarily.

 
          
 
That was enough. Ambrose held a globe, no, a
narrow-necked flask. There were two flasks, rather, one inside the other. Both
were filled with pale liquid.

 
          
 
Her heart beat painfully. Vitriol? Did he plan
to fling it on her and kill her while she was disabled by pain and terror? Was
it something more directly deadly? Who knew what this poisoner of children
could do?

 
          
 
Trouble, get out of here, she commanded
sharply. Fast This was her business, human business. Human evil. Her little cat
must not suffer because his love for her kept him near her.

 
          
 
Rot, the tomcat responded curtly. Just see to
it that he doesn't use that stuff, and neither of us will have a problem.

 
          
 
But . . .

 
          
 
The flask, idiot kit! He's going to throw it!

 
          
 
Dory's will snapped out, flogged by fear and
anger. Even Ambrose's well-schooled features could not conceal his surprise and
fright when his hand abruptly froze, fingers grasping the neck of the vessel
with viselike force.

 
          
 
The sorceress' eyes were cold as glacier ice.
Trouble and she had known danger before, but that had been from a brutal,
ignorant drunk. This man was something different; evil, a blight on life and on
the clean face of their world.

 
          
 
Slowly, her will shifted a little. It was a
strain to hold him paralyzed like this, nor could she extend her control to
bind all his body for more than a few moments. There was a better way.

 
          
 
The air shimmered slightly between them and
settled once more. With a sigh of relief, she released the bonds on her enemy's
hand.

 
          
 
Her teacher arrived at that moment, sweeping
as silently as vapor around the corner into the alley. He noted what she had
done and nodded his approval but did not speak to her. He fixed his gaze on the
other man.

 
          
 
The whole incident had taken only moments,
however long it had seemed to Dory, no more time than would be required to draw
and release a couple of deep breaths. The botanist blinked in surprise, then
dismissed the vanished paralysis as the work of overwrought imagination. He
looked from Dory to Martin, his newly-freed fingers caressing his weapon.

 
          
 
"Give it over, Ambrose,” the master
sorcerer warned. "We have you. Even if you could escape, you wouldn't
enjoy life on the run. There's little romance in it but many missed and poor
meals and many a cold night spent under a dripping hedge."