“Phew! Are you sure this goo is still good, Wizard Fenworth? It smells like it turned.”
“Turned? Confound it, girl, it smells like the admit root it comes from. Admitriol is supposed to stink, or it wouldn’t do any good. The ointment will foster the healing of all those shattered vessels carrying blood, and the smell should bring our patient around. When he starts complaining that he can’t breathe through the stench, we’ll know he’s out of the woods.”
Fenworth stroked Rayn’s back. Tipper divided her attention between smoothing the smelly medicine onto Bealomondore’s battered head and watching the wizard work with her dragon.
“Librettowit, Hollee,” he called, “look for tincture of trussell. I shall need two types of torleo, the red and the blue. Of course there is the yellow, but that is for aching feet, and our patient isn’t awake to tell us the state of his feet. And Librettowit, didn’t we pack croomulite? Yes, yes, I’m sure we did. See if you can’t find that as well.”
The Grawl advanced through the forest with as much stealth as usual, but he had tuned out his awareness of his surroundings. Images of the old man plagued him. The sword had sprung from the ground of its own accord. No, the wizard had seized the sword with his magic.
Where had he come from? He hadn’t been with the others when The Grawl watched their clumsy escape from the boat stop. He hadn’t shown up to aid in the fight against the attackers. This morning The Grawl had not bothered to check on the progress of the emerlindian’s lost comrades.
To be taken by surprise was humiliating. To be vanquished by mere words was unthinkable.
Something about the authority in the old man’s voice had sent a tremor of terror coursing through his veins. Now that he was out of the o’rant wizard’s sight, it seemed implausible that he, The Grawl, had reacted so.
There hadn’t really been fire in the wizard’s eyes. The air around them had not turned frigid. The Grawl had not felt panic, no sensation of being trapped, no quailing before a person of greater force than himself. It was all nonsense.
Before, he’d been content to allow the old man to exist.
Now, The Grawl would subdue this wizard.
But first he would go home. His arsenal would provide him with the edge he needed.
He stopped in a clearing no more than six feet across. From a state of complete stillness, he tested his surroundings. What animals hid in the vicinity? What animals had passed this way recently? What could threaten his secret? Nothing.
The Grawl used a thumb and forefinger to pull an object from his inside pocket and then placed the flat box of silver in the palm of his hand. He stroked it, smiling at its beauty, at the secret.
He banished every movement, every thought, even the pleasure he enjoyed as the device beckoned him to use it. He once more took stock of his surroundings, checked for intruders, and derived satisfaction from knowing he was alone except for the base animals of the woods.
He opened the silver box like a book. From its center, a flood of lights in strings poured over the edges, pooled on the leaf-covered ground, then began to grow upward. A framework became visible, a large archway. The lights played around the exterior while the image of the other side of the small clearing shimmered as if The Grawl looked through pebbled glass.
When the structure stabilized, no longer stretching and no longer swaying, The Grawl closed the box and tossed it through the center. It did not land on the other side among the leaves. Without hesitation, The Grawl walked forward, straight through his gateway.
On the other side, he stood in an enclosed garden, one barricaded with an eight-foot wall all around. He leaned over and picked up the silver box, opened it, and waited for the structure he’d just unleashed to dissipate. The same strings of light that had poured out of the device now flowed in. When the silver enclosed the last vestige of his secret, he shut the lid, savoring the sound of the click that secured his special prize.
Nighttime, always nighttime, when he arrived home. He strode to the locked entry to this secluded area of his estate. Again he listened, and again he heard nothing to interfere with his progress. He didn’t go through the wooden door but leaped with a single action to the top of the brick wall. He dropped soundlessly to the other side, then strolled through the formal paths of a manicured garden to a two-story mansion. He slipped behind a hedge to a corner where a tower rose another story over the rest of the building. Scaling the network of oubotis ivy, he entered a window at the top.
He immediately pulled on the servants’ bell.
A tinny voice responded. “Yes sir?”
“A bath in my bedroom and a meal.”
“Yes sir.”
The Grawl trod the circular stairs without a sound. He entered his chambers and removed his soiled clothes in a dressing room lined with elegant clothing of silks and brocades. He heard the servants deliver the tub, then fill it with hot water. When they had retreated, he walked into the room and lowered his body into water too hot for any other creature to tolerate. He leaned his massive back against the side of the tub and allowed himself to relax.
He would look at his beautiful things, wear the fancy clothes, deposit his ill-gotten gains in the vault in the cellar, and perhaps spend some time stacking coins of gold. He would contemplate the control he had over this domain. He’d allow the pleasure of knowing that his strength grew greater with every gold coin he acquired, with every piece of art. He ruled here as well as in the woods. Two distinct worlds. One Grawl.
Then he would return to the forest in Chiril and kill a wizard.
27
Searching out the Truth
Groddenmitersay sat across the room from Verrin Schope and his lovely wife, Lady Peg. A merchant couple had joined them for dinner that night, and the tumanhofer commander of Odidoddex’s tactical force wanted to hear the conversation. Unfortunately, no empty spaces existed at a table nearby.
Kulson entered the room, and most people glanced up to watch the bisonbeck stroll over to the bar. He ordered food, and when the tender served him, he picked up his plate and brought it to Groddenmitersay’s table. He hesitated.
“Go ahead and sit,” Groddenmitersay said. “Everyone has figured out that we do business together. Let’s hope none have figured out what that business is.”
Kulson sat and shoveled a large spoonful of stew into his mouth before he spoke. “Now that The Grawl isn’t with us, they don’t pay as much attention to what we’re doing.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Kulson paused for a moment to look up at his superior. Groddenmitersay knew exactly what he was thinking. The bisonbeck wondered if the statement indicated that he and his men had neglected some duty.
They hadn’t, but they failed to see what was right before their eyes. Groddenmitersay glanced over at Verrin Schope’s table and then to the grand parrot, who sat on a perch the innkeeper kept at the bar just for his distinguished guest.
The captain followed his gaze, obviously unaware of the significance of these people. He went back to eating, perhaps chewing on a new idea as he ground beef and cabbage into pulp with his overlarge teeth.
The commander sighed. “Lady Peg’s father is King Yellat. Her husband is a genius, both artistically and in the sciences. Sir Beccaroon is a magistrate from the Indigo Forest. He is also a friend of Verrin Schope, even though they pretend not to be acquainted. If you would read the reports we send you, you would be more aware of the societal structure in Chiril.”
Frustration crossed the soldier’s face. He masked it fairly well, but Groddenmitersay knew the man did not enjoy dry reading. And he had no one in his unit who could intelligently read and summarize the reports.
Kulson despised The Grawl. Therefore, Kulson had been relieved when Groddenmitersay sent The Grawl away. The speatus had no idea that the beast was perhaps the most intelligent of all of Odidoddex’s agents. Groddenmitersay appreciated his intelligence and regarded this tool of war as a volatile entity. Few knew enough abou
t the beast to realize his complexity. No one felt comfortable, not even the commander, in his presence.
“Schope and the bird talk to each other,” Kulson said around a mouthful of food, “but they made it look like they met for the first time here.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure they did. But that is what alerts us to the fact that they are not … Rather, what they appear to be doing is merely a cover for what they are really doing.”
Kulson stopped chewing for a moment, then resumed. Groddenmitersay fought the urge to sigh again. Loudly. Pointedly. The man wouldn’t pick up the cues in any way.
“What does Verrin Schope do?” he asked, hoping to lead his captain carefully to a logical conclusion.
“He paints pictures.”
Before the bisonbeck could load his spoon again, Groddenmitersay fired off another question. “What does he do with the pictures?”
“He sends them to a shop in Ragar.”
“In Ragar? The capital? Where the Amber Palace is?”
Kulson hesitated, then nodded.
“And the king lives in the castle, and the king is his father-in-law, and the king is interested in what we are doing in his country.”
Kulson shook his head and used his spoon to gesture as he made his point. “The king doesn’t know about us. We’ve been very stealthy in our work. My men do a good job. And now that The Grawl isn’t around to stir up curiosity, we don’t attract much notice.”
The commander surveyed the room. Every so often one of the villagers stole a glance at the bisonbeck sitting among the collection of high races. They wouldn’t ban him from eating there, but they didn’t trust him.
Groddenmitersay sent The Grawl “away” because the beast would be more efficient without Kulson and his men. But The Grawl was also unpredictable. He only stayed on a job as long as it satisfied him. Having Kulson reporting on his performance had been necessary as long as the commander had stayed in Baardack.
“During the time I’ve been here,” said Groddenmitersay, “I’ve become suspicious of these three innocent people. I want you to rob the next transport to Ragar and steal the drawings. You will, of course, take other things of value so no one will suspect that it is Schope’s pictures we are after.”
“They’ll know it’s us. We can’t disguise the fact that we’re bisonbecks, and we’re the only bisonbecks in the area.”
Groddenmitersay almost smiled. The speatus had actually thought of a reasonable problem that might arise. But he had not come across a solution. Given the time to think about it, he would undoubtedly work out a way around the dilemma.
The commander decided not to wait. “First, don’t do it right outside of town. Second, don’t leave any witnesses.”
Kulson nodded and continued with his meal. Groddenmitersay lifted his tankard as a server went by. He needed a drink.
The pretty day would lure the lady from the inn. Odidoddex’s chief of tactics sat on a bench in front of the barbershop. He clutched a newspaper but didn’t read. The front of the inn held his interest. He waited for Lady Peg.
She often walked, sometimes with her husband and sometimes with the parrot. And sometimes alone.
Groddenmitersay hoped today she would happen to be alone. He wanted to talk to her. Typically it was the female in a group who could be easily confused and maneuvered. A little conversation, and he would have information concerning the real purpose of the threesome’s long stay in this obscure village.
He watched the open door at the inn. A flash of color signaled that the lady in question stood in the doorway. He recognized a dress he’d seen before. She had turned, possibly to speak to someone.
“Come on, Lady Peg,” whispered Groddenmitersay. “Take a stroll, but leave the others behind.”
In another moment, she stepped into the sunshine. The tumanhofer held his breath. Lady Peg pulled on her gloves and adjusted her hat, then proceeded down the street toward the village garden.
Groddenmitersay left his bench and took a path that would intersect Lady Peg’s. He pulled a dainty lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket. Allowing her to get a bit ahead of him, he then scurried to catch up.
“Madam?” he called. “Madam?”
Lady Peg stopped and turned, giving him a quizzical look.
He held out the handkerchief. “Did you drop this yesterday, Madam?”
She took it to examine. “What a fine piece of workmanship! My cousin does exquisite needlework like this.” She thrust the handkerchief into Groddenmitersay’s hand, turned, and walked away.
“But, Madam—”
Lady Peg faced him and raised one eyebrow.
“Forgive me,” said the tumanhofer. “I should introduce myself. I am Doremattris Groddenmitersay from Baardack.”
She nodded but did not give her name.
“I know I presume, but are you not the wife of the fascinating artist Verrin Schope?”
“Yes, I am, but I don’t know that I would call my husband fascinating. His art is fascinating, but he is more intriguing. The difference being that fascinating people fascinate one and intriguing people are more likely to intrigue. I daresay I find blooms fascinating because out of that tiny bud of color so many individual petals unfold. You know it is going to happen because it always does, but it is fascinating to watch all the same. However, my husband is intriguing because very often you don’t know what he is going to do next and you definitely don’t know why, even after he has done it and explained why.”
Groddenmitersay blinked as he tried to make sense of what she said. He had to engage her in conversation. A little flattery perhaps?
“Quite so, Lady Schope, quite so. How astute of you to define the ever-so-slight distinction between the two terms.” He held out the handkerchief once more. “May I return this to you? Since it is evidently your cousin’s work, I’m sure you don’t want to have mislaid it.”
“Oh, but I don’t own any of my cousin’s needlework. Whenever she sends me a piece, I straightaway give it to the mayor’s wife. She works with the poor, you know.”
Lady Peg turned to leave.
He determined not to let her get away. She obviously sought to confuse him, but he would bring her to the point of disclosing pertinent information.
Groddenmitersay hurried to catch up to her longer stride. “May I walk with you? I am interested in words, and you have an astonishing command of language.”
She raised her chin. “Normally a formal introduction would be called for, but I am merely going to walk through the village garden three-point-six times, and that is a very public place.”
Groddenmitersay bit his lower lip. Was this a code? Perhaps she thought he was one of the king’s men. “Three-point-six?”
“Yes, my intriguing husband informed me the other day that we did not actually complete the fourth turn and had only managed three-point-six rotations. This is because we left at a different gate and visited the pastry shop. He’s mathematical as well as intriguing.”
“Yes, I see. I’ve heard that you are King Yellat’s daughter. May I ask why the villagers refer to you as Lady Peg instead of Princess Peg?”
“You may.”
Groddenmitersay waited. She was toying with him, laughing as she played these word games.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Peg, why are you addressed thusly instead of with your title, Princess Peg?”
“Well, one reason would be that my mother and father don’t approve of me and so I am not Princess to them. My sister is also out of favor because she always said our parents were unreasonable in expecting me to conform.”
The tumanhofer congratulated himself. He had directed the conversation toward his goal.
“So you are unconventional?”
“Yes.” With a contented smile on her face, she bobbed her head.
“Perhaps you like danger and intrigue?”
“Oh, intrigue most definitely. Remember my husband. I do like him a lot. But danger I prefer to leave in my daughter’s hands. She’s mor
e suited to it, though Wizard Fenworth says she’s excitable.”
Groddenmitersay resisted rubbing his hands together in glee. Aha! A wizard. An interesting component complicating the scheme.
He needed to worm out a few more details. “So your daughter is involved in your escapades? How proud you must be of her.”
Lady Peg tilted her head and gave him a sideways glance. “Are you thinking of accolades, promenades, or balustrades? Because escapades are not exactly proper, and the royal family does not indulge in things that are not strictly correct. Even those in the family who have been cast out of the family but then returned. Accolades are common among royal circles. And I do enjoy a brisk promenade. And there are balustrades galore in the Amber Palace. But escapades are few and far between. I suppose you could say that escapades are questly by nature, and I do know family members who have participated in quests.”
The tumanhofer panted as they went through the gate to the square village garden. He had to walk quickly to keep up with her longer stride, and spewing all those words while practically racing down the street added to his breathless state. He’d barely made sense of what she’d said.
In truth, much of it hadn’t made sense. She was onto his game, most certainly. And the clever woman hoped to disarm him with chatter. Fortunately she slowed her pace once on the garden path.
The tumanhofer waited until his words would not be interspersed with gasps for air and then endeavored to restart the conversation with a new goal. “I imagine your house is a museum of fine art. I’ve noticed that your husband ships his paintings away. Do they go to your home to be hung?”
“Oh goodness, no! Who would want to live in a museum? I don’t even go into Verrin Schope’s library. That many books wanting you to take them down and read is discouraging. Even if you read one a day, it would take too long to read them all. Rather than disappoint those I wouldn’t get to, I don’t read any of them. That way none could feel slighted.”
“You believe the books have feelings?”