The Complete Morgaine (9 page)

Kasedre pouted. In such as he the moment was dangerous, but Morgaine continued to smile, bright and deadly, and full of promises. Kasedre bowed. Morgaine rose and bowed.

Vanye inclined himself again at Kasedre's feet, had a moment to see the look that Kasedre cast at Morgaine's back.

It was, he was glad to see, still awestruck.

 • • • 

Vanye was shaking with exhaustion when they reached the security of their upstairs room. He himself moved the chair before the door again, and sat down on the bed. Morgaine's cold hand touched his brow, seeking fever.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Well enough. Lady, you are mad to sample anything of his at table tonight.”

“It is not a pleasant prospect, I grant you that.” She took off the dragon sword and set it against the wall.

“You are playing with him,” said Vanye, “and he is mad.”

“He is accustomed to having his way,” said Morgaine. “The novelty of this experience may intrigue him utterly.”

And she set down in the other plain chair and folded her arms. “Rest,” she said. “I think we may both need it.”

He eased back on the bed, leaning his shoulder against the wall, and brooded over matters. “I am glad,” he said out of those thoughts, “that you did not ride on and leave me here senseless with fever as I was. I am grateful,
liyo.
”

She looked at him, gray eyes catwise and comfortable. “Then thee admits,” she said, “that there are some places worse to be
ilin
than in my service?”

The thought chilled him. “I do admit it,” he said. “This place being chief among them.”

She propped her feet upon her belongings: he lay down and shut his eyes and tried to rest. The hand throbbed. It was still slightly swollen. He would have gladly gone outside and packed snow about it, reckoning that of more value than Flis' poultices and compresses or Morgaine's
qujalin
treatments.

“The imp's knife was plague-ridden,” he said. Then, remembering: “Did you see them?”

“Who?”

“The boy—the girl—”

“Here?”

“In the downstairs corridor, after you passed.”

“I am not at all surprised.”

“Why do you endure this?” he asked. “Why did you not resist them bringing us here? You could have dealt with my injury yourself—and probably with them too.”

“You perhaps have an exaggerated idea of my capacities. I am not able to lift a sick man about, and argument did not seem profitable at the moment. When it does, I shall consider doing something. But you are charged with my safety, Nhi Vanye, and with protecting me. I do expect you to fulfill that obligation.”

He lifted his swollen hand. “That—is not within my capacity at the moment, if it comes to fighting our way out of here.”

“Ah. So you have answered your own first questions.” That was Morgaine at her most irritating. She settled again to waiting, then began instead to pace. She was very like a wild thing caged. She needed something for her hands, and there was nothing left. She went to the barred window and looked out and returned again.

She did that by turns for a very long time, sitting a while, pacing a while, driving him to frenzy, in which if he had not been in pain, he might also have risen and paced the room in sheer frustration. Had the woman ever been still, he wondered, or did she ever cease from what drove her? It was not simple restlessness at their confinement. It was the same thing that burned in her during their time on the road, as if they were well enough while moving, but any untoward delay fretted her beyond bearing.

It was as if death and the Witchfires were an appointment she was zealous to keep, and she resented every petty human interference in her mission.

The sunlight in the room decreased. Things became dim. When the furniture itself grew unclear, there came a rap on the door. Morgaine answered it. It was Flis.

“Master says come,” said Flis.

“We are coming,” said Morgaine. The girl delayed in the doorway, twisting her hands.

Then she fled.

“That one is no less addled than the rest,” Morgaine said. “But she is more pitiable.” She gathered up her sword, her other gear too, and concealed certain of her equipment within her robes. “Lest,” she said, “someone examine things while we are gone.”

“There is still the chance of running for the door,” he said. “
Liyo,
take it. I am stronger. There is no reason I cannot somehow ride.”

“Patience,” she urged him. “Besides, this man Kasedre is interesting.”

“He is also,” he said, “ruthless and a murderer.”

“There are Witchfires in Leth,” she said. “Living next to the Witchfires as the Witchfires seem to have become since I left—is not healthful. I should not care to stay here very long.”

“Do you mean that the evil of the thing—of the fires—has made them what they are?”

“There are emanations,” she said, “which are not healthful. I do not myself know all that can be the result of them. I only know that I do not like the waste I saw about me when I rode out at Aenor-Pyvvn, and I like even less what I see in Leth. The men are more twisted than the trees.”

“You cannot warn these folk,” he protested. “They would as lief cut our throats as not if we cross them. And if you mean something else with them, some—”

“Have a care,” she said. “There is someone in the hall.”

Steps had paused. They moved on again, increasing in speed. Vanye swore softly. “This place is full of listeners.”

“We are surely the most interesting listening in the place,” she said. “Come, and let us go down to the hall. Or do you feel able? If truly not, I shall plead indisposition myself—it is a woman's privilege—and delay the business.”

In truth he faced the possibility of a long evening with the mad Leth with dread, not alone of the Leth, but because of the fever that still burned in his veins. He would rather try to ride now, now, while he had the strength. If trouble arose in the hall, he was not sure that he could help Morgaine or even himself.

In truth, he reckoned that among her weapons she had the means to help herself: it was her left-handed
ilin
that might not make it out.

“I could stay here,” he said.

“With
his
servants to attend you?” she asked. “You could not gracefully bar the door against them yourself, but no one thinks odd the things I do. Say that you are not fit and I will stay here and bar the door myself.”

“No,” he said. “I am fit enough. And you are probably right about the
servants.” He thought of Flis, who, if she entertained everyone in this loathsome hall with the same graces she plied with him, would probably be fevered herself, or carry some more ugly sickness. And he recalled the twins, who had slipped into the dark like a pair of the palace rats: for some reason they and their little knives inspired him with more terror than Myya archers had ever done. He could not strike at them as they deserved; that they were children still stayed his hand; and yet they had no scruples, and their daggers were razor-sharp—like rats, he thought again, like rats, whose sharp teeth made them fearsome despite their size. He dreaded even for Morgaine with the likes of them skittering about the halls and conniving together in the shadows.

She left. He walked at his proper distance half a pace behind Morgaine, equally for the sake of formality and for safety's sake. He had discovered one saw things that way, things that happened just after Morgaine had glanced away. He was only
ilin.
No one paid attention to a servant. And Kasedre's servants feared her. It was in their eyes. That was, in this hall, great tribute.

And even the bandits as they entered the hall watched her with caution in their hot eyes, a touch of ice, a cold wind over them. It was curious: there was more respect in the afterwave of her passing than the nonchalance they showed to her face.

A greater killer than any of them, he thought unworthily; they respected her for that.

But the Leth, the
uyin
that gathered at the high tables, watched her through polite smiles, and there was lust there too, no less than in the bandits' eyes, but cold and tempered with fear. Morgaine was supremely beautiful: Vanye kept that thought at a distance within himself—he was tempted to few liberties with the
qujal,
and that one last of all. But when he saw her in that hall, her pale head like a blaze of sun in that darkness, her slim form elegant in
tgihio
and bearing the dragon blade with the grace of one who could truly use it, an odd vision came to him: he saw like a fever-dream a nest of corruption with one gliding serpent among the scuttling lesser creatures—more evil than they, more deadly, and infinitely beautiful, reared up among them and hypnotizing with basilisk eyes, death dreaming death and smiling.

He shuddered at the vision and saw her bow to Kasedre, and performed his own obeisance without looking into the mad, pale face: he retreated to his place, and when they were served, he examined carefully and sniffed at the wine they were offered.

Morgaine drank; he wondered could her arts make her proof against drugs and poisons, or save him, who was not. For his part he drank sparingly, and waited long between drafts, toying with it merely, waiting for the least dizziness to follow: none did. If they were being poisoned, it was to be more subtle.

The dishes were various: they both ate the simple ones, and slowly. There
was an endless flow of wine, of which they both drank sparingly; and at last, at long last, Morgaine and Kasedre still smiling at each other, the last dish was carried out and servants pressed yet more wine on them.

“Lady Morgaine,” begged Kasedre then, “you gave us a puzzle and promised us answers tonight.”

“Of Witchfires?”

Kasedre bustled about the table to sit near her, and waved an energetic hand at the harried, patch-robed scribe who had hovered constantly at his elbow this evening. “Write, write,” he said to the scribe, for in every hall of note there was an archivist who kept records properly and made an account of hall business.

“How interesting your Book would be to me,” murmured Morgaine, “with all the time I have missed of the affairs of men. Do give me this grace, my lord Kasedre—to borrow your Book for a moment.”

Oh mercy,
Vanye thought,
are we doomed to stay here a time more?
He had hoped that they could retreat, and he looked at the thickness of the book and at all the bored lordlings sitting about them flushed with wine, looking like beasts thirsting for the kill, and reckoned uneasily how long their patience would last.

“We would be honored,” replied Kasedre. It was probably the first time in years that anyone had bothered with the musty tome of Leth, replete as it must be with murderings and incest. The rumors were dark enough, though little news came out of Leth.

“Here,” said Morgaine, and took into her lap the moldering book of the scribe, while the poor old scholar—a most wretched old man and reeking of drink—sat at her brocaded knee and looked up at her, wrinkle browed and squinting. His eyes and nose ran. He blotted at both with his sleeve. She cracked the book, disturbing pages moldered together, handling the old pages reverently, separating them with her nail, folding them down properly as she sought the years she wanted.

Somewhere at the back of the hall some of the less erudite members of the banquet were engaged in riotous conversation. It sounded as if a gambling game were in progress. She ignored it entirely, although Kasedre seemed irritated by it; the lord Leth himself squatted down to hear her, hanging upon her long silence in awe. Her forefinger traced words. Vanye's view over her shoulder showed yellowed parchment and ink that had turned red-brown and faint. It was a wonder that one who lisped the language as uncertainly as she did could manage that ancient scrawl, but her lips moved as she thought the words.

“My dear old friend Edjnel,” she said softly. “Here is his death—what, murdered?” Kasedre craned his neck to see the word. “And his daughter—ah, little Linna—drowned upon the lakeshore. This is sad news. But Tohme did rule, surely—”

“My father,” interjected Kasedre, “was Tohme's son.” His eyes kept darting to her face anxiously, as if he found fear of her condemnation.

“When I remember Tohme,” she said, “he was playing at his mother's knee: the lady Aromwel, a most gracious, most lovely person. She was Chya. I rode to this hall upon a night . . .” She eased the fragile pages backward. “Yes, here, you see:

“. . .
came She even to Halle, bearing sad Tidings from the Road. Lorde Aralde
 . . .—brother to Edjnel and to my friend Lrie, who went with me to Irien, and died there—
Lorde Aralde had met with Mischance upon his faring in her Companie that attempted the Saving of Leth against the Darke, which advanceth out of
 . . . Well, well, this was another sad business, that of lord Aralde. He was a good man. Unlucky. An arrow out of the forest had him; and the wolves were on my trail by then . . .
herein she feared the Border were lost, that there would none rallye to the Saving of the Middle Realms, save only Chya and Leth, and they strippt of Men and sorely hurt. So gave she Farewell to Leth and left the Halle, much mourned
 . . . Well, that is neither here nor there. It touches me to think that I am missed at least in Leth.” Her fingers sought further pages. “Ah, here is news. My old friend Zri—he was counselor to Tiffwy, you know. Or do you not? Well . . .
Chye Zri has come to Leth, he being friend to the Kings of Koris.
” A feral grin was on her face, as if that mightily amused her. “Friend,”—she laughed softly—“aye, friend to Tiffwy's wife, and thereon hung a tale.”

Kasedre twisted with both hands at his sleeve, his poor fevered eyes shifting nervously from here to the book and back again. “Zri was highly honored here,” he said. “But he died.”