Delain battened down for the coming storm, and everyone waited.
97
Ben and Naomi took turns running beside the sledge. They reached the Peyna farm at two o'clock that Sunday afternoon--at about the same time Dennis was stirring awake on his mattress of royal napkins and Peter was beginning his meager lunch.
Naomi looked beautiful indeed--the flush of her exercise had colored her tanned cheeks the pretty dusky red of autumn roses. As the sledge pulled into Peyna's yard, the dogs barking wildly, she turned her laughing face to Ben.
"A record run, by the gods!" she cried. "We've made it three--no, four!--hours earlier than I would have believed when we left! And not one dog has burst its heart! Aiy, Frisky! Aiy! Good dog!"
Frisky, a huge black-and-white Anduan husky with gray-green eyes, was at the head of the tether. She was jumping in the air, straining against the traces. Naomi unhooked her and danced with her in the snow. It was a curious waltz, both graceful and barbaric. Dog and mistress seemed to laugh at each other in a powerful shared affection. Some of the other dogs were lying down on their sides now, panting hard, obviously exhausted, but neither Frisky nor Naomi seemed even slightly winded.
"Aiy, Frisky! Aiy, my love! Good dog! You've led a famous chase!"
"But for what?" Ben asked glumly.
She released Frisky's paws and turned to him, angry . . . but the dejection on his face robbed her of her anger. He was looking toward the house. She followed his gaze and understood. They were here, yes, but where was here? An empty farmhouse, that was all. What in the world had they come so far and so fast for? The house would have been just as empty an hour . . . two hours . . . four hours from now. Peyna and Aden were in the north, Dennis somewhere in the depths of the castle. Or in a prison cell or a coffin awaiting burial, if he had been caught.
She went to Ben and put a hesitant hand on his shoulder. "Don't feel so bad," she said. "We've done all we could do."
"Have we?" he asked. "I wonder." He paused, and sighed deeply. He had taken off his knitted cap and his golden hair gleamed mellowly in the dull afternoon light. "I'm sorry, Naomi. I don't mean to snap at you. You and your dogs have done wonders. It's just that I feel we're very far from where we could give any real aid. I feel helpless."
She looked at him, sighed, and nodded.
"Well," he said, "let's go in. Maybe there'll be some sign of what we're to do next. We'll at least be out of the blow when it comes."
There were no clues inside. It was just a big, drafty, empty farmhouse that had been quit in a hurry. Ben prowled restlessly from room to room and found nothing at all. After an hour, he collapsed unhappily beside Naomi in the sitting room . . . in the very chair where Anders Peyna had sat when he listened to Dennis's incredible story.
"If only there was a way to track him," Ben said.
He looked up to see her staring at him, her eyes bright and round and full of excitement.
"There might be!" she said. "If the snow holds off--"
"What are you talking about?"
"Frisky!" she cried. "Don't you see? Frisky can track him! She has the keenest nose of any dog I've ever known!"
"The scent would be days old," he said, shaking his head. "Even the greatest tracking dog that ever lived could not . . ."
"Frisky may be the greatest tracking dog that ever lived," Naomi replied, laughing. "And tracking in winter's not like tracking in summer, Ben Staad. In summer, trace dies quickly . . . it rots, my da' says, and there are a hundred other traces to cover the one the dog seeks. Not just of other people and other animals, but of grasses and warm winds, even the smells that come on running water. But in the winter, trace lasts. If we had something that belonged to this Dennis . . . something that carried his scent . . ."
"What about the rest of your team?" Ben asked.
"I should open the shed over there"--she pointed at it--"and leave my bedroll in it. If I show them where it is and then free them, they'll be able to forage for their own food--rabbits and such--and they'll also know where to come for shelter."
"They won't follow us?"
"Not if they're told not to."
"You can do that?" He looked at her with some awe.
"No," Naomi said matter-of-factly. "I don't speak Dog. Nor does Frisky speak Human, but she understands it. If I tell Frisky, she'll tell the others. They'll hunt what they need, but they won't range far enough to lose the scent of my bedroll, not with the storm coming. And when it starts, they'll go to shelter. It won't matter if their bellies are hungry or full."
"And if we had something that belonged to this boy Dennis, you really believe Frisky could track him?"
"Aye."
Ben looked at her long and thoughtfully. Dennis had left this farm on Tuesday; it was now Sunday. He didn't believe any scent could last that long. But there was something in the house which would bear Dennis's scent, and perhaps even a fool's errand would be better than only sitting here. It was the pointless sitting more than anything else that grated on him, the hours ahead when things of grave importance might be happening elsewhere, while they sat and twiddled their thumbs here. Under other circumstances, the possibility of being snowbound with a girl as beautiful as Naomi would have delighted him, but not while a kingdom might be won and lost twenty miles to the east . . . and his best friend might be living or dying with only that confounded butler to help him.
"Well?" she asked eagerly. "What do you think?"
"I think it's crazy," he said, "but worth a try."
She grinned. "Do we have something with his scent strong upon it?"
"We do," he said, getting up. "Bring your dog in, Naomi, and lead her upstairs. To the attic."
98
Although most humans don't know it, scents are like colors to dogs. Faint scents have faint colors, like pastels washed out by time. Clear scents have clear colors. Some dogs have weak noses, and they read scents the way humans with poor eyes see colors, believing this delicate blue may actually be a gray, or that dark brown may actually be a black. Frisky's nose, on the other hand, was like the eyesight of a man with the gaze of a hawk, and the scent in the attic where Dennis had slept was very strong and very clear (it may have helped that Dennis had been some days without a bath). Frisky sniffed the hay, then sniffed the blanket THE GIRL held for her. She scented Arlen upon it, but disregarded the scent; it was weaker, and not at all the scent she had found on the hay. Arlen's smell was lemony and tired, and Frisky knew at once that it was the smell of an old man. Dennis's smell was more exciting and vital. To Frisky's nose, it was the electric blue of a summer lightning stroke.
She barked to show that she knew this smell and had put it safely away in her library of scents.
"All right, good girl," THE TALL BOY said. "Can you follow it?"
"She'll follow it," THE GIRL said confidently. "Let's go."
"It'll be dark in an hour."
"That's so," THE GIRL said, and then grinned. When THE GIRL grinned that way, Frisky thought her heart might just burst with love of her. "But it isn't her eyes that we want, is it?"
THE TALL-BOY smiled. "I guess not," he said. "You know, I must be crazy, but I think we're going to pick up these cards and play them."
"Course we are," she said. "Come on, Ben. Let's use what little daylight's left--it'll be dark soon enough."
Frisky, her nose full of that bright-blue scent, barked eagerly.
99
Peter's supper came promptly at six o'clock that Sunday night. The storm clouds hung heavy over Delain and the temperature had begun to drop, but the winds hadn't yet begun to blow and not a snowflake had fallen. On the far side of the Plaza, shivering in stolen cook-boy's whites, Dennis stood anxiously, drawn back into the deepest shadow he could find, staring at the single square of pale-yellow light at the top of the Needle--Peter's candle.
Peter, of course, knew nothing of Dennis's vigil--he was filled with the wonder of the idea that, live or die, this would be the last meal he would ever eat in this da
mned prison cell. It was just more tough, salty meat, half-rotted potatoes, and watery ale, but he would eat it all. For the last three weeks he had eaten little and had spent all the waking time he did not spend working at the tiny loom exercising, readying his body. Today, however, he had eaten everything brought to him. He would need all his strength tonight.
What will happen to me? he wondered again, sitting down at the little table and grasping the napkin that lay over his meal. Where exactly will I go? Who will take me in? Anyone? All men, it's said, must trust in the gods . . . but Peter, you are trusting so much it's ridiculous.
Stop. What'll be is what'll be. Now eat, and think no more of--
But that was where his restless thoughts broke off, because as he shook the napkin out, he felt a small stab, like the prick of a nettle.
Frowning, he looked down and saw that a tiny bead of blood had seeped up on the ball of his right forefinger. Peter's first thought was of Flagg. In the fairy tales, it was always a needle that bore the poison. Perhaps he had been poisoned now, by Flagg. That was his first thought, and not such a silly one, at that. After all, Flagg had used poison before.
Peter picked the napkin up, saw a tiny folded object with black, smudgy marks on it . . . and flipped the napkin back down at once. His face remained calm and peaceful, giving away none of the wild excitement that had burst up inside him at the sight of the note pinned inside the napkin.
He glanced casually toward the door, suddenly afraid he would see one of the Lesser Warders--or Beson himself--staring suspiciously in at him. But there was no one. The prince had been a great object of curiosity when he first came to the Needle, stared at as avidly as a rare fish is stared at in a collector's tank--some of them had even smuggled their ladyloves up to look at the murdering monster (and they would have been imprisoned for it themselves, if they had been caught). But Peter was a model prisoner, and he had palled quickly. No one was looking at him now.
Peter forced himself to eat his entire meal, although he no longer wanted it. He wanted to take not the slightest chance of rousing suspicions--now more than ever. He had no idea who the note might be from, or what it might say, or why it had aroused such a fever in him. But for a note to come now, only hours before he planned to make his try to escape, seemed an omen. But of what?
When his meal was finally eaten, he glanced toward the door again, made sure the spyhole was closed, and walked to his bedroom with his napkin still held casually in one hand, almost as if he had forgotten that he held it at all. In the bedroom, he unpinned the note (his hands were trembling so badly he pricked himself again) and unfolded it. It was written closely on both sides in letters which were rusty and a bit childish, but readable enough. His glance went first to the signature . . . and his eyes widened. The note was signed Dennis--your Friend and Servant For-Ever.
"Dennis?" Peter muttered, so flabbergasted he was unaware that he had whispered aloud. "Dennis?"
He turned back then, and the letter's opening was enough to shock his heartbeat into a fast drumroll. The salutation was My King.
100
My King,
As you may Noe, for the last 5 Yeres I have Buttled in Service to your Brother, Thomas. In just this last Week I have found out that You did not Murther you Father Roland the Good. I Noe who Did, and Thomas Noes as Well. You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. I went to Peyna. Peyna has gone to join the Exiles with his Butler, Orlon. He has commanded I come to the Castle, and Rite to you this note. Peyna says that the Exiles may soon become Rebels and this must not Be. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. He commands that I be of Service to You, and my Da commanded it too, before He Dyed, and my Heart commands it, for our Famly has always served the King and you are the Right King. If you have a Plan, I will aid you in Any Way I can, even if it means my Death. As you read this, I am across the Platza in the shadows looking at the Needle where you are Pent Up. If you have a Plan, come I pray You and stand at the Window. If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night. Wave twyce if you will try this idea.
Your friend Ben is with the Exiles. Peyna said He would send Him. I Noe were He (Ben) will be. If You say I should fetch Him (Ben) I can, in a Day. Or perhaps Two if there is Snoe. I Noe that throwing down a Note might be Riskee, but I feel Time is short. Peyna feels the Same Way. I will be Watching and Praying.
Dennis
Your Friend and Servant For-Ever
101
It was a long time before Peter could put his whirling thoughts in order. His mind kept circling back to one question: What had Dennis seen to change his mind so radically and completely? What, in the names of all the gods, could it have been?
Little by little he came to realize that it didn't matter--Dennis had seen something, and that was enough.
Peyna. Dennis had gone to Peyna, and Peyna had sensed . . . well, the old fox had sensed something. He thinks you may have some sort of Plan, but what he Noes Not. Old fox indeed. He had not forgotten Peter's request for the dollhouse, and the napkins. He hadn't known exactly what those things meant, but he had sensed something in the wind. Aye, well and truly.
Then what was Peter to do?
Part of him--a very large part--wanted to go ahead just as he had planned. He had worked his courage up to this desperate adventure; now it was hard to let it go for nothing but more waiting. And there were the dreams, urging him on, as well.
You would Noe the name of this Black Killer if I dared to Rite it, but I do Not. Peter knew just the same, of course, and it was that more than anything else that convinced him Dennis really had stumbled onto something. Peter felt that Flagg might soon awake to this new development--and he wanted to be gone before that happened.
Was a day too long to wait?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Peter was torn in an agony of indecision. Ben . . . Thomas . . . Flagg . . . Peyna . . . Dennis . . . they whirled in his brain like figures seen in a dream. What should he do?
In the end, it was the appearance of the note itself--not what was in it--that persuaded him. For it to come this way, pinned to a napkin on the very night he meant to try his rope made of napkins . . . it meant he should wait. But only for a night. Ben would not be able to help.
Could Dennis help him, though? What could he do?
And suddenly, in a flash of light, an idea came to him.
Peter had been sitting on his bed, hunched over the note, his brows furrowed. Now he straightened up, his eyes alight.
His eyes fell on the note again.
If You have something on which You can rite, then throe down a Note and I will try to retreeve It late this Night.
Yes, of course, he had something to write on. Not the napkin itself, because it might be missed. Not Dennis's note, either, because it was written on both sides, from side to side and top to bottom.
But Valera's parchment was not.
Peter went back into his sitting room. He glanced at the door and saw that the spyhole was closed. Dimly he could hear the warders at cards below. He crossed to the window and waved twice, hoping that Dennis was really out there somewhere, and could see him. He would just have to hope so.
Peter went back to the bedroom, pulled up the loose stone, and after some reaching and fumbling, retrieved the locket and the parchment. He turned the parchment over to the blank side . . . but what was he to do for ink?
After a moment the answer came to him. The same thing Valera had done, of course.
Peter worked at his thin straw mattress, and after some tugging opened a seam. The stuffing was of straw, and before long, he had found a number of good long stalks that would serve as pens. Then he opened the locket. It was in the shape of a heart, and the point at the bottom was sharp. Peter closed his eyes for a moment and said a brief prayer. Then he opened them and drew the point of the locket across his wrist. Blood welled up at once--much more than had come from
the pinprick earlier. He dipped the first straw in his blood and began to write.
102
Standing in the cold darkness across the Plaza, Dennis saw Peter's shape come to the small window at the top of the Needle. He saw Peter raise his arms over his head and cross them twice. There would be a message, then. It doubled--no, trebled--his risk, but he was glad.
He settled in to wait, feeling numbness slowly creep over his feet and kill the feeling in them. The wait seemed very long. The Crier called ten . . . then eleven . . . finally twelve o' the clock. The clouds had hidden the moon, but the air seemed strangely light--another sign of a coming storm.
He was beginning to think that Peter must have forgotten him, or changed his mind, when that shape came to the window again. Dennis straightened up, wincing at a pain in his neck, which had been cocked upward for the last four hours. He thought he saw something arc out . . . and then Peter's shape left the high window. A moment later, the light up there was extinguished.
Dennis looked left and right, saw no one, took all of his courage in his hands, and ran out into the Plaza. He knew perfectly well that there might be someone--a more alert Guard o' the Watch than last night's tuneless singer, for instance--whom he hadn't seen, but there was nothing to be done about that. He was also gruesomely aware of all the men and women who had been beheaded not far from here. What if their ghosts were still around, lurking--?
But thinking about such things did no good, and so he tried to put them from his mind. Of more immediate concern was just finding the thing that Peter had thrown. The area at the foot of the Needle below Peter's window was a featureless white snowfield.
Feeling horribly exposed, Dennis began to cast about like an inept hunting dog. He wasn't sure what he had seen glimmering in the air--it had been there only for a second--but it had looked solid. That made sense; Peter would not have thrown a piece of paper, which might have fluttered anywhere. But what, and where was it?
As the seconds ticked by, turning into minutes, Dennis began to feel more and more frantic. He dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl about, peering into footprints which had melted to the size of dragon prints earlier that day and which were now refreezing, hard and blue and shiny. Sweat coursed down his face. And he began to be deviled by a recurring idea--that a hand would fall on his shoulder, and when he turned he would see the grinning face of the King's magician inside his dark cowl.