The Last Knight, page 20
Her face went scarlet from collar to hairline. “The potion sometimes makes them sick. Cramps, nausea. It’s a small price to pay for magic, but they don’t understand. I know what I’m doing. It’s safe. I swear it.”
“If you know ’tis safe, why don’t you take the potion?”
“Because one of the ingredients is argot.” The color in her face was fading. “No woman who might be pregnant should take it, and in magica form, no woman who might still bear children should ever take it. I’m looking for a substitute, but argot has—”
“And if I die, you’ll just dissect me to find out what went wrong and try again?”
“It might be hard to find another subject. Normal folk don’t line up to volunteer for this.” A smile touched her lips. “And I don’t often capture indebted men who are trying to kill me. But I won’t kill you, Sir Michael. In a few days I’ll be ready. I’ll give you a Gift beyond imagining. And then you’ll understand.”
She left, bolting the door and taking the funnel with her. Her workroom must be nearby for her to have fetched it so quickly. I wished she’d left the sickening thing so I could smash it. If I got out of this, I’d have to apologize to Father. He was right—there were worse things than being Rupert’s steward.
I lay down on the edge of the bed, braced both feet against the post, and worked it back and forth, trying to ignore the way my stomach quivered. The thought that she might succeed horrified me—but it wasn’t likely. Even her loyal Hackle didn’t believe she’d increased the simple ones’ magic. How could he condone what she was doing? Be a part of it? And Sir Herbert must have condoned it, too; it had obviously been going on for years before his death. Had he agreed to take the potions? Was that why she claimed she hadn’t killed him?
But how could she be so sure it wouldn’t kill me? Truth be told, I was more afraid that she’d succeed than I was of dying.
She wouldn’t succeed. Magic and intelligence couldn’t exist together. I was sure of it. But then, I’d been sure of Fisk, too.
’Twas not easy to work the post while crying with fear, but I managed.
CHAPTER 15
Fisk
It took me nine cursed days to get back to Cory Port—almost a day just to get out of Uddersfield. I had to get rid of the roan. I could imagine nothing more conspicuous than riding into town, in a new identity, on a horse that half the town probably knew, and which might have been reported stolen. I found a mark going north, and charged him almost as much as I’d paid for the beast.
I also took the time to write four letters. The first two, almost identical, went to Sir Michael’s father and Lord Dorian, describing what we’d found, what had happened to Sir Michael, and my plan to get him out. I sent them east with a traveling bookseller, who was known to be a reliable mail carrier. By the time they reached their destination it would all be over, but if I failed, I wanted someone to know where I was, in case they felt like mixing a little rescue with their vengeance.
The third letter went to the town council of Uddersfield, and it focused less on Sir Michael and myself (though I certainly mentioned us) than Lady Ceciel’s plan to lower Cory Port’s harbor fees. Would they allow a multiple murderess to plot with the local lord to steal funds that should rightly go to their fine town? Knowing town councils, it would take them several weeks to decide what to do—but they might get moving before Lord Dorian, who would have to go to the High Liege.
The fourth letter went to Willard’s wife, telling her what had happened, and that he intended to make his way home to her—after all, I had promised.
I finally set out from Uddersfield on foot. I know of no better way to discover whether someone is following you than to move so slowly they overrun you. Not to mention the fact that I’d need every roundel in my purse.
I slept in a barn without the farmer’s knowledge, which saved half an hour’s haggling and a few coins—and curse what Sir Michael would think of it.
Arriving in Kempton, I sought out an herbalist. A decent woman, she flatly refused to fill my order until I told her the whole story of why I wanted it…and she still had qualms.
She soothed them by charging me the most outrageous sum you ever heard of. (She was a decent woman, not a stupid one.) I spent the next few days hanging around her workroom, learning how to sound like an herbalist—the patter, the catchphrases, and just enough knowledge to fool a layman. I might have to fool an expert, but that’s actually easier. With a layman, you have to know more than they do—with an expert all you have to do is ask knowledgeable-sounding questions, show interest in their answer, and then make comments like “So you have no reservations about any part of this process?” Experts are easy.
I spent the evenings working my deck-cutting scam, with less restraint than usual. I drew some sullen looks from the losers, but no one beat me up. Fortunately I was leaving town soon.
The last thing I bought before leaving Kempton was a bottle of bleach. That night the walnut stain washed out, and over the next few days my hair became lighter and lighter. I didn’t think the guard I’d bribed would recall the dark-haired servant he’d turned away, but the dark-haired man who’d rented the roan in the middle of the night was more memorable.
I worked my way north on the back roads—not quite as fast as the main one, but they let me pick up some new clothes that were both shabby and flamboyant, a small cart with a donkey to pull it, a handful of ribbons, a few jugs of lilac water brewed by an old countrywoman, and finally a sign proclaiming my new name and profession:
MASTER MARION GELANTRY, RESTORER OF YOUTH, BEAUTY, AND ROMANCE TO WOMEN WHOSE FACES NO LONGER REFLECT THE EXQUISITE SPIRIT WITHIN.
In short, I was selling wrinkle cream.
I rolled into Cory Port and set up for business in front of an inn of the better sort. They sent a couple of muscular grooms to suggest I leave, which I did. I drifted down the social scale, ending on a corner between a high-class brothel and a wheelwright’s shop. The wheelwrights were amused by the show, and some of the girls bought cream—or I traded it to them, increasing my stock of fripperies. Then the lady of the house came out and shooed the girls away—much to the disappointment of the wheelwrights. She was about to shoo me away too, so I made my first real play—I sold her a vial of the real cream, the special cream, the one that worked, the one that was…magica.
Mistress Lucille knew the worth of magica skin cream—high-class prostitutes are the only kind who both need it and can pay for it. Magica skin cream really will take ten years off a woman’s apparent age…as long as she continues to use it. The effect wears off after about four days and the sudden return of all those wrinkles has a horrible effect on a woman’s self-esteem. But many women—and men—can’t resist looking so much younger, if only for a few days, weeks, as much as they can afford, and often more.
Mistress Lucille wasn’t sufficiently high class to buy much. She’d heard of magica skin cream, but she’d never expected to see it in this backwater port. I sold her a very small vial at cost, for the privilege of leaving my cart where it was and sleeping in her garden shed.
I was afraid she’d try to save it for a special occasion, but she didn’t. Over the next few days she looked younger and younger, and the news spread like wildfire.
I sold small pots to the richer townswomen, sorrowfully displaying my rapidly depleting stock. My prices started at outrageous and went up. Husbands began to eye me askance. The new sheriff’s wife was one of my customers.
Generally this was the point at which I’d have abandoned my donkey and cart and sneaked out of town with a nice fat purse—but this time, I had other plans. I began to mention, with great outward regret and some inward trepidation, that I couldn’t possibly sell the formula, not for any price. The next day, a couple of guards arrived to escort me to Craggan Keep.
The guards had been told to bring “my wares” with them, and since they weren’t sure what Lady Ceciel wanted, we took the donkey cart and the donkey, too. They let me drive up to the keep, but they watched closely to be sure I didn’t make a break for it.
Under ordinary circumstances (had I been fool enough to let matters reach this stage), I’d have been looking for a chance to escape. As it was, I congratulated myself—my plan was working. So why did I feel like I was climbing the platform steps to be sentenced? Michael had saved me from that and I was going to return the favor…if he lived.
I turned a bright smile on the guardsman to my left and commented on the beauty of the day. He sneered at me.
As we rode through the killing ground, I wondered again why she’d bothered to clear it. No keep could hold against a determined assault…. But she could hold out until help came from Lord Gerald, whose troops were quartered outside Uddersfield. I quelled a shiver. If Lord Gerald was that deep in her confidence, I’d been lucky to get out of Uddersfield alive.
This time the great doors opened, and we clattered onto the cobbles of the courtyard. The keep was square, with round towers at each corner, and glass gleamed in what used to be shuttered arrow slits. The guard’s shout for the stableboys echoed off the stone. Could Michael hear it? Was he even here? He had been in her hands for thirteen days.
She wouldn’t do anything rash, I assured myself. Not until she knew it was safe, and she couldn’t be sure of that yet. Surely.
The patrol leader gathered up one vial of each product, a handful of ribbons, and all the tawdry jewelry. Then he and two of his cohorts marched me up the steps and into the keep.
It was the same vintage as Sir Bertram’s—Sir Herbert must have felt right at home. The bright, late-afternoon light did little to alleviate the gloom of the local gray granite and age-darkened wood. The banners that hung from the rafters were faded. We were climbing the steps to the gallery when I noticed large dark patches on the walls. Of course! She’d sold the tapestries. I had a fanciful notion that the keep missed them.
We traveled almost a hundred feet down the main hall to reach the stairs to the third floor—good architecture for defense. I was glad I planned to burgle the place rather than assault it. On the third floor they led me toward one of the corner towers. The burnt green smell of brewing herbs grew quite strong.
When the guard announced us the lady waited a moment before looking up, her attention fixed on a kettle sitting over a small firepot. She wrapped her apron around her hand and whisked the kettle off the flame and onto a trivet to cool. She looked tired, older than I remembered, but somewhere in the preoccupied face was a deep flame of…excitement? Passion? I had no time to pin it down—the need to act, to be the person I claimed I was, swept the thought to the back of my mind, where it wouldn’t trouble my performance.
I stepped forward and bowed, with a flourish. “Gentle lady, what a finely appointed workplace! We shall pass pleasant hours discussing our common craft, for I am Marion Gelantry, wholly at your service.”
Her lips twitched. My fake noble accent has that effect on those who are familiar with real nobles. Mind you, I can do a good noble accent too—these past weeks in Michael’s company had helped me perfect it. For now, I put on a disdainful face but let my nervousness show through.
“An herbalist are you, Master Gelantry?”
“Of a sort, fair lady. I specialize in the preparation of beauty enhancements for women less lovely than yourself.”
She snorted and motioned for the guard to lay his booty on her worktable, where she cleared a space for it. Every flat surface in the room was covered with herbal concoctions in some stage of preparation. The work looked orderly, but the room showed small, telltale signs of being overused: soot stains on the walls above the bracketed lamps, a pile of broken crockery in a corner bin, the number of empty and near-empty jars in the wall racks—all told of many hours working on…what? No way to know, unless she could be induced to tell me.
“Lady, may I inquire what aspect of the craft you are currently embracing?”
“No.” She uncapped a jar of wrinkle cream and rubbed it between her fingers. “Magica?” I remembered that she had no sensing Gift.
“Tragically, lady, ’tis not. I have sold all my magica cream, and you know how difficult and time-consuming it is to create. Why, ’tis a wonder I sell it at any price!”
She smiled. “I do know, and it’s actually quite easy. The reason…This is good!” She had just sniffed the old countrywoman’s lilac water.
“Made with the freshest of dew-wet lilacs, to adorn the fairest of the fair. I will gladly offer you that bottle as a tribute to your beauty.”
I smiled winningly, but she wasn’t buying. She capped the bottle.
“As I was about to say, the reason most herbalists don’t make it isn’t because it’s hard, but because it wastes magica that could be used in medicines. All it produces is an illusion that does nothing but harm in the long run. And we also don’t make it because it’s too much temptation in the hands of clever con men, Master Gelantry.”
“My lady, you wound me! I protest! I—”
“That being the case, give me one good reason I shouldn’t turn you over to the sheriff.”
If she wanted the sheriff to handle it, she wouldn’t have bothered to interview me. I hoped. “Mayhap ’cause I haven’t broken any law.” I let my accent start to fracture, as if my composure was dissolving. “There’s nothing says, to say, that you can’t sell magica beauty cream. I’m not a con artist, long as I don’t lie about the effects, and I didn’t. You won’t find one woman in town sayin’ I didn’t warn ’er it’d wear off after three or four days. ’Cause I did. I know the law.”
My accent was pure city gutterling now, and her lips twitched again.
“But you’re also talking about selling the formula for your magica beauty cream. I’d like to see this formula, Master Gelantry, to be sure it’s as real as your product.”
I licked my lips nervously and glared at her. In the back of my mind I was still me, but in my heart I was a third-rate connie, defending himself against a wealthy lady with nothing but wit and guts. “I never said any such thing! I told ’em I couldn’t sell ’em the formula for any price! You can’t arrest me for that, and you know it, lady.”
Her eyes narrowed. The silence lengthened.
“You’re right,” she said finally. “You’ve broken no law.”
I’d been careful not to.
“But I’m not just the lady of this keep, I’m the baron.”
I tried to look appropriately surprised and alarmed. It was hard, because my heart was pounding with hope—my plan seemed to be working, for a change. Surely any baron would banish a troublemaker like me.
“It’s my duty to protect my people. I have duties to Lord Gerald and my neighbors.”
So my men will escort you to the border tomorrow. Come on, lady, say it.
“So I order you to leave Lord Gerald’s fiefdom as soon as may be. If you aren’t off his lands in two full days, well, I’m sure we can find something to arrest you for. Loitering, trespass, disrespect to authority…Benno, throw him out.”
“What? I mean, lady, have mercy!”
“I am being merciful.” She frowned. She was being merciful; that was the problem. If she threw me out now, instead of ordering her guards to escort me off Lord Gerald’s land in the morning…
“But…but it’s almost dark! S’pose I meet up with bandits? That cart’s all I got!”
“That cart, and the money you made over the last few days,” she said dryly.
“But the money’s in my cart!”
“Don’t worry, there are no bandits in the area. You and your cart will be quite safe.” She laid her wrist on a clay pot to judge its temperature and frowned thoughtfully. The guard grabbed my arm. I was losing her.
“Lady, wait, I…I haven’t told you everything.”
That got her attention. The guard stopped pulling at me.
“I…I made some enemies the last few days. I’ve been honest, but the price…some of the women…ah, curse it!” The nervous sweat on my face arose from a different fear, but she had no way of knowing that. I fed that fear into my voice as I went on, “Lady, let me stay here till morning. I could sleep in the kitchen. I’ll give you five bottles of that lilac water you liked, if you just let me stay the night. Please, lady…ten bottles?”
“All right.” Her eyes fell to the vial of lilac water. “If nothing else, it will get you out of here. You can sleep in the stable with your cart. Benno, put a guard on the stable door. We don’t want Master Gelantry’s ‘enemies’ to sneak in.”
The guard chuckled. I tried to look insulted, but the relief broke through. “Thanks, lady. Though you got a bargain. That’s the best lilac water this side of Crown City, and—”
She snorted, and gestured for the guard to lead me out. I went to the stables peacefully, my hands shaking with the narrowness of my escape. I’d been prepared to be locked in a dungeon cell, waiting for morning to be thrown off Lord Gerald’s land. I’d even thought they might take me to the sheriff…in the morning. Who’d have thought the murderous bitch would be merciful? It didn’t matter. I’d be inside the wall tonight, and that was all I needed. That, and a way to find Sir Michael, get him out, and delay pursuit until we were safely away.
But I was inside. My plan had worked.
In the stables I encountered Chanticleer and Tipple, comfortably housed in two big stalls. I didn’t stop to chat with them, for fear they’d give me away. I had a bad moment when Chanticleer poked his big head over the stall door and huffed at me, but he didn’t neigh, and no one heeded it.
The grooms pointed to a corner by the tack room, where they’d put my donkey cart, and told me to stay out of the way. But after a while I got up and wandered down the long row of stalls, stroking horses’ noses, and apologizing for not having any treats. I wanted the horses to become accustomed to me, so they wouldn’t get nervous when I roamed about tonight.
