Scent of Magic (4 page)

“This is not to be spoken of—”

Willadene nodded. Perhaps it was the property of that body (she still found it hard to believe Halwice's assurance he was not dead) loosened when she had dragged him behind the curtain.

“Now, listen with care, girl, and prove you have that within you which is needed. The watch will come—they should be here very soon now. What you found here was a trap—for me—for that one inside. So I can well believe that the district Reeve's own guard will visit us. You have come to get spices for Jacoba as always. Measure out the proper ones in the usual amounts—”

The woman gripped the counter with both hands again as the girl drew a small square of discarded paper from a shelf under that counter, smoothed it out on the surface above, and took down a box close at hand. Carefully she used the small scoop within and shook what looked like the usual amount of condiments onto the paper.

She had just time enough to slide that box back into place when she heard, from the street outside, the tramp of heavy boots drilled into unison of step. Halwice had been right! That was surely the Reeve's guard. Willadene rounded the counter to face the Herbmistress. She felt a growing need to hold on to the polished wood for support even as Halwice was doing.

If Jacoba had reported her already as a runaway she would speedily be taken. Her only hope was that the inn lay in another section of the town and that the Reeve who had jurisdiction in that quarter would not have been able to already pass the news to his peers.

There was a man in the doorway but Halwice did not look to him; instead she was scowling at Willadene.

“Tell Jacoba that there is no herb on earth which will
make her slop worth the eating. Her account is already high—when does she plan to pay?”

Willadene, so conscious of the man who was now nearly at her shoulder, fought to control her voice.

“Mistress, I be but the cook maid. The inn mistress does not tell me anything save go and get spice for the meat. Please, mistress"—she hunched herself together as if she already feared the smack of Jacoba's cane across her bony shoulders—"let me have what she has asked for—she is already angered.”

“Who are you!” The voice in her ear was harsh, the hand which fell on her shoulder to pull her around was heavy enough to bruise.

Willadene did not have to call on any power of acting; she was already frightened enough. The man who jammed her back against the counter was of the guard right enough. His mail shirt, his helm shadowing the upper part of his broad face on which a mustache bristled fiercely, were more than warning—rather perhaps dire disaster.

“She is the cook maid for the Wanderers Inn"—Halwice's voice was as calm as if they were exchanging some pleasantries concerning a fine day—"she was sent here for spices—”

Willadene dared not stir. The man glanced only briefly at the Herbmistress; his eyes were sweeping swiftly about the shop, while two of his fellows crowded in behind him.

Again Halwice spoke. “I am known well to the Reeve; also I have a seat on the Guild Council. Why do you come into my shop in this fashion? Do I not supply His Highness himself and all others of noted families—?” Her voice was growing heated, as might that of any honest shopkeeper so used. “My taxes are paid—given into the hands of the Reeve himself. I have offended no one and abide by the guild laws—”

The leader of the guard looked to her again. He indicated with a thumb the curtained doorway to the inner room.

“What lies there, mistress?” His voice was not quite as aggressive as it had been.

“My living quarters and beyond that the garden where I grow some of my stock. Look for yourself. But what do you hunt? I am indeed an honest woman and as such am not to be used in this manner. Be sure I shall report to the Reeve—”

The leader continued to stare at her.

“There has been information laid against this shop— against you,” he repeated stolidly. “It was given to us on good authority that a rogue we seek would be found here dead—killed, mistress"—now his mustache seemed to rise straight out from the roots like the bristles of a boar— “by an evil potion.”

Halwice drew herself up, her features set. “What kind of a talemonger's fashion is this? Do you see a dead man? Look you—look well!”

Willadene's heart was beating so she was sure it would soon shake her body, for Halwice was actually pointing to the curtain of the second room.

“But listen well, Sergeant. Do you, or any of these clumsy followers of yours, do any damage to my wares I shall not take it only in complaint to the Reeve but to His Highness himself. Look you there—” She pointed to where a glass bottle fashioned only large enough to fit perhaps into the palm of Willadene's hand and in the form of a rose, rested under a glass dome. “That is Breath of Roses for the High Lady Mahart. Know you the cost of that? It is worth more than half your year's pay with the lady's displeasure into the bargain?”

“Our information"—but the girl noted he was eyeing that bottle warily and had moved several steps away from its vicinity—"came from a source which does not rumor monger. Since you yourself bid us do so—we look.”

He brushed by and swept the curtain roughly aside. Willadene stared down at the top of the counter, at that packet of spice she was supposed to be buying, and waited
for the sergeant to make his find. Only, he did not but came tramping back to the shop room in just a moment or two. Perhaps Halwice's warning had had its effect.

“Well,” the Herbmistress demanded, “where is your dead man? Look in the garden if you must—there is no recent delving to be seen there. Make very sure I shall enter on the Reeve's record my answer to this charge and the disturbance of my trade. Why should a dead man be found in
my
shop? I have taken oath before the altar of the Star and been examined by the High Priestess, who can detect any evil through her powers. She has proclaimed me free of all dealing which can cause ill to anyone. Do you dare to dispute that judgment?

“If there came one by night to seize my wares—where then could he sell them? And do I not have an alarm bell justified by the city laws to ring if any attempts to do this? Who heard my bell—where is there any intruder— have I made complaint?”

Her voice became harder and harder as she bombarded him with this string of questions. The man's full cheeks were blazing red and his two followers had retreated to the front door, keeping an eye to either side as if fearful of unwittingly causing some damage. That the sergeant was angry was plain. Willadene could almost feel the heat of his wrath. However, his own eyes told him there was nothing out of the ordinary to see in the shop. And certainly Halwice's free expression of influence both with the Reeve of this section and even the Duke himself sank home. She would not give such warnings unless she could back them up.

“I shall make my report, mistress.” He was obviously trying to save face by putting a tone of warning into that.

“Do—and be about your rightful business and let me get about mine,” she replied sharply.

He did go—several steps behind the members of his squad, who were now in the street. When they could no longer be seen through the small panes of the window
Halwice turned to the girl. She had already drawn another square of paper from a pile under the counter and was folding it together.

“Good, they have gone west. Now, listen well. Take this as if you were indeed on the errand you were supposed to go on. Once you are outside the door, go the opposite way—east. You know where Doctor Dobblier's house is?”

Willadene nodded.

“Follow the alley at its back and come down to the fence about my garden. Count to five the boards as you pass them and then press on the next two; they will open for you. Knock three times on the back door.”

Willadene drew a deep breath. “Then I am to come back?” she half whispered.

Halwice looked at her measuringly. “Have you not wanted to?”

“Yes, oh, yes!”

“Then be quick about it. We have much which is to be done.”

And Willadene sped through the street door as if she expected to meet some sharp punishment for being late about her errand.

Mahart’s life, which she had once likened to that of a state prisoner, altered in a hurry. Though she noted that she was still kept from any close contact with the High Lady Saylana’s courtiers, she began to be visited more and more by Vazul, who brought a number of ladies of an earlier generation to be presented and spend some hours of stilted conversation and very formal manners in her private sitting room.

She knew that she was an object of curiosity to most of them, and, though she squirmed inside, she made herself become outwardly unperturbed by the stares from behind the shadows of fans—measuring stares.

Zuta was always present and, at the end of such trials of public life, was only too ready to discuss each visitor—sometimes exceeding the boundaries of what was supposed to be suitable for a young girl to hear. Such revelations were to Mahart like the stories she had read in books but had never before really associated with living persons.

Her wardrobe doubled and the sewing maids were daily busied. She had to spend tedious hours standing as one or another of them encircled the hem of a shirt, marking it for stitching.

Though Zuta continued to urge brighter colors and
richer materials on her, Mahart kept to those shades in which she felt the most comfortable—paler colors in ranges of greens, rose, and creams. And she discouraged much embroidery or heavy trimmings of fur and metallic thread.

She was early made aware of the reason for all this glory, being rained unasked upon her, by Vazul, who, upon one early morning visit, was followed by one in the uniform of a bodyguard, who carried a good-sized chest. With the air of a showman about to astound his audience, the Chancellor unlocked it and threw back its lid, to disclose a treasury of jewelry. It seemed to blaze almost as brightly as a lamp, and Mahart stared at it, queerly repelled. There was too much of it—surely it could not be real. However, Vazul quickly assured her that these were the ducal jewels of state, not belonging to any one member of the family but kept as legacies to be worn on occasions of high state.

One such occasion was about to be proclaimed. For years—since the plague, in fact—there had never been a ducal court held, one in which the daughters and heirs of the noble houses first made their meeting with their overlord. Uttobric considered such affairs a waste of valuable time, since the preparation for such occupied most of the castle inhabitants for several weeks; in addition, he was never sure of such meetings with nobility he did not altogether trust.

However, it was not Uttobric this time who was to be the center of pomp. He had announced that, since the High Lady Mahart was of suitable age, her initiation into her duties would begin with such an event.

Between Vazul and Zuta, Mahart had to submit to being coached for such an affair. This would be worse than entertaining all the elder women at her teas. The audience watching her for any misstep would be avidly intent. Thus she set herself to learn a role she had no desire to play but which appeared to be part of her uncertain heritage.

“The High Lady Saylana will be present,” Zuta announced. “She will occupy the lower seat. It is Your Grace who enters first, and she must curtsey—though not as low, of course, before she seats herself. She will have at least three of her favorite ladies with her, and they will stand on the lowest step of the dais to the far right.

“I shall be your chief lady—with your favor—” She paused and Mahart nodded quickly. “And it is best that you invite the Lady Famina of the House of Ranavice, which so far has not openly committed itself to sponsorship of either side of our old inheritance dispute. Then there is the Lady Geuverir of Krutz—her father is one who is very loyal to His Highness.

“With Your Grace’s permission, these two have been summoned this very day to be presented to you. You remember that Lady Honora.” Zuta smiled mischievously.

Mahart surely did and with a prick of irritation. The pompous dame had sailed into her presence several weeks ago, giving off very clearly that she was only doing her duty and the object of that duty was not to be highly considered.

“The Lady Honora is Lady Geuverir’s mother. And Lady Geuverir is said to have inherited certain traits of the maternal character.”

Mahart grinned. “Thank you kindly, Zuta, for your warning.”

She duly met her new attendants.

To Mahart’s taste they were overdressed, and she noted that the Lady Geuverir gave a sidewise look, which was not complimentary, at what she herself was wearing. On her the Lady Honora’s imperious features were certainly repeated. The Lady Famina was round cheeked and pearls of sweat on her forehead wet down her fringe of hair. When she spoke—only in answer to some direct question—she had a slight stammer.

Mahart’s own short experience of contact with the court had quickened her ability to sense some things, and she
was very much aware that High Lady Saylana’s attendants would far outshine these two. But she could count upon Zuta at least to catch eyes—unless they would all be centered on Mahart herself!

The court was indeed a trial. It was held, as had been usual, before the last bell in the late afternoon so that the great throne room was lighted not only by forests of candles in high, standing holders but also all by the westering sky through the windows at the meeting of wall and ceiling.

Mahart had refused nearly a third of the jeweled pieces urged upon her, but even so, a look into her mirror made her think of some little town girl tricked out far too much. Her cream satin gown was draped with a netting of pale gold in which was caught a heavy sprinkling of diamonds. A wide necklace of the same stones covered most of the skin displayed by the low-cut neckline, and a flashing tiara weighed on her head, making her uneasy about its safety. She continued to hold her head stiffly upward to assure that it would not slip.

The only part of what the maids and Zuta had done to her that she really enjoyed was the fragrance which had come from the most beautiful jeweled bottle she had in her collection—a recent gift from the Duke, fashioned like an open rose.

Somehow the fragrance stiffened her determination to make this indeed a court to be remembered as she led the way, with Zuta two steps behind, dressed in a shade of her favorite rose, and the other two ladies tricked out with flounces, ribbons, and gems enough to avert Mahart’s attention from them quickly.

She made her entrance at the stately pace she had practiced for so many hours in her room, acknowledging the deep bow of the Chancellor with a raise of her hand, which she then laid on his arm as he led her up the five steps to the ducal throne. For this hour she was the chosen
representative of their ruler, and the deference of those assembled in the room was rightly centered upon her.

The other chair, one step below her throne, was empty, but High Lady Saylana was already advancing with what seemed a lengthy train of followers. Most of them melted into the crowd of waiting courtiers, but she was escorted by a trio of mature and perfectly gowned beauties.

Saylana herself had chosen satin and netting also, but hers was moonlight gray and the stones caught in the overdress, rubies—like the bright-red eyes of forest animals. A choker of the same stones was clasped around her throat. Lapping a little over that were hints of flesh rolls. And there were wrinkles no cosmetic magic could hide about her mouth and at the corners of her eyes.

Those eyes were as bright and seemingly as fiery as the rubies. And she did not lower the head on which her hair was confined with jeweled bands. Her gaze holding steady and with the faintest of mocking smiles about her reddened lips, she sank into the deep court curtsey which Mahart readily recognized as being subtly insulting, her three ladies also sinking in a whirl of wide skirts behind her.

The whole affair was a wearying ordeal. At least twenty maidens of high blood were handed to the foot of the dais by one of the heralds, her name and house announced clearly. Mahart tried to manufacture smiles which were as close to welcoming and pleasant as possible and murmur correctly the name over the young lady who was bent in the awkward position of the lowest point of obedience.

She had to listen and remember those names, be sure that none was offended and slighted. Then that portion was finished, and the herald by the far door announced the heirs to be recognized.

Mahart had been able to ignore Saylana during this press of duties, but she was well aware now that the other stirred in her chair and was leaning forward a little.

No wonder—the first bedecked popinjay issued into place before Mahart was Barbric, Saylana’s son. He was
tall, but he carried himself awkwardly and had a slack mouth—certainly no prince to ride in a maid’s dreams. Nor did she like the way he eyed her as he straightened from his bow—as if she were some sort of prize for the winning. There were many tales circulating in the castle about Barbric, and none of them carried to Mahart by Zuta had been edifying. She was glad now to see him move on.

As for the rest, they were just faces—one or two comely, the rest Mahart, used only to her father and Vazul, found childishly young.

The affair came to an end at last, and she must make her own exit, a little dubious about her long, wide skirt as she descended the steps. She had only to stumble to make Saylana’s attendance a pleasure instead of a duty.

Once she was back in her chamber Mahart spoke more sharply than she ever had to Julta.

“Rid me of this!” She was already tugging at the tiara which she was sure was what was making her head ache so. Then she had to stand patiently as they unwrapped her from jewels and dress. Here in her room where there were not so many other odors to conceal it—for it seemed to her the entire court had been doused in warring perfumes—she could smell again that refreshing rose scent.

All right: she had performed as her father and Vazul had wished—dared she ask a favor in return? Zuta had said the Herbmistress could be summoned to the castle. But, by the Star, she herself was deadly tired of these walls and the bindings her birth had put upon her!

By the Star. On her bench while they rebraided her hair into its usual fashion a thought struck her.

“Zuta,” she said eagerly, “have you ever been to the Abbey of the Star Sisters? I know that they welcome ones who seek answers—”

“Never, Your Grace. But—” she favored Mahart with a keen gaze “—several Duchesses and High Ladies in the past have sought them out.”

“So it is a permitted thing!” Mahart exclaimed. Why
had this idea never come to her before? “I think that I shall petition my father to allow me to do this. It would be well, since he seems to wish to shift some of his formal burdens onto me, that I make the acquaintance of one who is supposed to know all which passes—the Abbess of the Star.”

Vazul, his attendant creature wreathed around his neck like a second chain of office, bowed himself into the Duke’s presence. Somehow at this hour, since tasting the splendor of the full court display, the Chancellor secretly found his master even more meager and without presence.

“Well?” the Duke snapped even as his Chancellor straightened again. “How did it go? Did she make a fool of herself and are half the court now laughing behind their hands?”

Vazul allowed himself a small smile, one suggesting satisfaction.

“Her Grace, Highness, was all you could wish her to be. It passed as if she had done this duty many times before.”

The Duke stared at him under his eyebrows. “So—did those various eyes and ears you keep about pick up any comments later?”

“Only the most favorable ones, Highness. And in her court dress the High Lady looked truly at ease on the throne.”

The Duke shuffled some of those papers which always seemed to gather about him. “And that she-wolf—did she show?”

“The High Lady Saylana made her proper appearance, Highness. She acknowledged your daughter in the most correct fashion. However, among the scions of high birth presented Barbric was the first.”

“She would parade him like a new war horse, would she? I take it he has little resemblance to his sire?”

“None that could be ascertained during such presentation,
Highness.” Vazul stroked his pet. “He certainly does not present the appearance of a leader of valiant men.”

The Duke snorted. “If he can stick on a horse and wave a sword, she will have it he is his heroic father’s true son. Now—” he scrabbled among the papers until he found one which he held close to his weak eyes “—I see the Bat was helpful as usual. But what happened to him that delayed this report? Oh, sit down, man, you must have a story to offer for that.” He waved the Chancellor into another chair.

Vazul’s slight smile was gone. “I think, Highness,” he said slowly, “we have a Bat wearing other colors somewhere among us.”

The paper crunched between the Duke’s hands. “He was taken, then?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“There was an attempt which near succeeded. He has those who will give him cover when necessary. One such is a woman you know well—Halwice the Herbmistress. She herself has a network of informers who have served us very well in the past, for her products are not all of Kronengred, but much comes from abroad.

“The Bat was given a packet to deliver to her, and he knew, or believed that he did, the seal set on it. It gave him a reason for going undercover in her house until he could contact me. But that packet was tampered with.

“When she opened it he was struck as if dead and she made prisoner within a helpless body. Had it not been for chance, that an inn brat she had befriended came to her aid, she and the Bat would have been taken up by the Reeve’s guard.”

“
He
set the trap?” The Duke’s thin face flushed. “By the Star.” His fist thudded on the table. “City law or no city law I’ll have the fellow to rigorous question!”

Vazul was shaking his head. ‘‘The Reeve was but a tool himself. A message was sent him under a seal that he had reason to believe made a visit to the shop imperative—my seal—or a rough copy of it.

“However, from this we have learned something which is"—he paused—"unsettling. Somewhere there is one with herb knowledge, someone operating outside the sworn rules of the guild. Halwice has warned of such. Twice, if you remember, she detected foreign material among deliveries made to her. But this attack was stronger, she says, than anything she believed might be done. As one who works always among potions she has made herself immune to the known noxious materials which she might chance upon. Yet this struck her down as if she had no defense at all. And her wakening of the Bat was a lengthy and arduous task. One, she says frankly, she doubts she could have accomplished had it not been for the inn girl.”