King's Blood Four

  Move things, slightly. I tried to lift a paving stone and felt only a dull ache. No, this too was a small Talent.

  Well, it was one which might be helpful.

  The gardener was a pawn, he had no Talent. He was a little angry, but unsuspicious. So, let the man have the help he had been promised. Let the gardener have his boy. I slipped into a niche of the wall where it extended out over the moat into a privy used by the servants of the courtyard, and the grooms. No one had noticed me. The guardsmen had begun a straggling procession toward the kitchens; the remaining ones were looking away toward the hills. I took one leaf of the herb, only one, and bit down on it as I thought about a boy, a vacant-eyed boy, a boy dressed only in a dirty shirt, a brown-legged boy with greasy, brownish hair and no-colored eyes, an unremarkable boy with a gap in his teeth. I thought of the boy, the boy, how he would feel about helping the gardener, harder work than he liked, but they told him to help or no food, so he'd help, damn them all anyways.

  The boy put Grimpt's boots and clothing down the privy, belted Peter's shirt tightly around his slim waist and stepped out of the privy and into the garden where he stood sullenly at the gardener's elbow.

  "They told me off to help you, " he said.

  "Oh, they did, did they? Well, it's about time.

  Promised me help this morning, they did, and not a sign of it.

  You take that barrow, there, and go fill it up at the dung heap. Dig down good, now, you understand. I don't want any fresh. I want old stuff that's all rotten down.

  And be quick about it. " As the boy turned away, the man asked, "And what's your name?"

  "What's it matter?" the boy muttered.

  "What's it matter? Well, it don't matter. But I got to call you something, don't I? Can't go around yelling

  'boy' or I'd have half the young ones in the place buggering around. I need something to lay a tongue to... "

  "Name's Swallow, " the boy said. "Y'can call me

  Swall; they mostly do. "

  10

  Swallow

  Swallow had a dirty face and could spit through the gap in his teeth. There had been a boy once at Mertyn's

  House who could do that; Peter had envied him.

  Swallow had lice in his hair, or at least he scratched as though he did, and an evil, empty-headed leer. When the gardener received a noon meal, Swallow received one as well, a large bowl of meat and grain and root vegetables, the same again at night with the addition of a mug of bitter beer and a lump of cheese the size of his fist.

  The gardener had a hut beside the fortress wall, near the kitchen gardens. The cooks had a place near the kitchen. Others had cubbies and corners here and there, closets and niches hidden in the thick walls behind tapestries. Swallow found a place in the hay loft above the stables, a good enough place, both warm and dry. He was to every intent and eye invisible. No one in the place noticed him, and no one in the place except the gardener could have said who he was or how long he had been there. Swallow was one of them, the pawns, the unconsidered. When, in the middle of the afternoon, there was a great tumult in the castle with men running to and fro and a confused trumpeting of voices as a search for Grimpt was conducted, no one thought of

  Swallow. No one spoke to him, or asked him anything.

  Swallow watched them running about, his mouth hanging open and his face vacant, but they did not see him.

  All night long while Swallow slept burrowed deep in the warm hay, the castle hummed with men coming and going, wagons rumbling toward and away from the sound of axes in the forest. He may have wakened briefly at the noise, but went to sleep at once again. Swallow had worked hard all day. What was this confusion to him?

  Thus he could be completely surprised the next morning when he listened to the whispers of the guardsmen as they ate their first meal in the early sunlight of the yard.

  "The Prisoner is gone, they say. Gone right out of his clothes. Nothing left of him at all. "

  "And Grimpt gone, too? Filthy sot. I'll believe that when bunwits lay eggs. "

  'No. It's true. He's gone right enough. They've searched every corner for him. It's said now he went down the privy and over the moat. "

  "Down the privy. Ay. That's the place for old

  Grimpt, right enough. "

  "They found his boots in the moat. Fished them out. "

  "What's it all about? Do they say Grimpt took the prisoner with him?"

  "No. There's talk of a Great Game coming. The prisoner was taken out by Powers, by a Wizard, they say. Or burned up in his clothes by a Firedrake. "

  "The clothes 'ud burn, too. "

  "They say not. "

  "Ah, well. They'll say anything. "

  The gardener had been listening also, came to himself and shut his mouth with an audible snap, caught

  Swallow by an arm and spun him around. "Enough of this loll-bagging about. Great Game or no, there's lawn to level, and we'd best at it. "

  Swallow spent the better part of the day rolling a heavy cylinder of stone over clipped grass, muttering the whole time to anyone within ear shot. The gardener wasn't listening, but Swallow let no opportunity for complaint pass by. Huld came through the garden at noon, his face drawn and tired. He did not notice the, boy. Swallow saw Huld but kept his eyes resolutely upon the stone roller. It was not his business to draw the attention of Demons. Mandor, too, came into the garden, but by that time Swallow was having his lunch in the courtyard, almost out of sight around the corner of the iron gate. Mandor saw nothing. His eyes were fixed and glazed, and there was dried foam upon the corners of his mouth. Swallow looked up from his bowl to see adoration upon the faces around him. His own face became adoring at once, and he did not start eating again until those around him did so.

  Late" in the afternoon two Armigers rode in, bringing with them two pawns and a Healer. Swallow watched them ride in, as did everyone else in the place, his mouth open, his fingers busy scratching himself. The Healer was escorted into the castle, and the pawns were told to stand by the wall until they were summoned. It seemed to Swallow that they looked almost familiar, and he turned away to continue his work as Peter said to him softly, "Swallow, that is my friend Yarrel and my friend

  Chance. " Hearing the voice from within frightened

  Swallow, and it was a long moment before Peter could fight his way to the surface again.

  "There is more to this business than I thought, " I said to myself. I had created a reality, a half-person who grew more real with each passing hour, more real than myself. And yet, to be safe, it had to be so. Swallow had to be more real than Peter, without any thoughts which would attract attention. I sank below the surface of me, thinking of myself as a fish. .

  Fish, fish. I could set a hook into this fish, a hook which would pull it up to the surface when it was needed but would let it swim down into the darkness otherwise.

  A hook. The faces of my friends, the names of Mertyn and Himaggery and Windlow. These would be my looks. When these pulled, I would rise to peek above the water only to sink again quickly out of sight. I imagined the hook, barbed, silver, tough as steel. I set it deep into Peter and let him go.

  Along toward evening a very beautiful woman and a

  Herald rode into Bannerwell escorted by guardsmen.

  Swallow saw them, though they did not see Swallow.

  The beautiful woman demanded an audience with

  Prince Mandor, and she spoke of Silkhands. The hook set and Peter rose. I said to Swallow, "When night falls, get up into those vines along the side of the hall and find a window. " Then I went away again. Swallow listened.

  He heard me, but showed no signs of having done so.

  He went on his gap-toothed way, spitting and scratching and slobbering over his food as though the evening bowl had been the last he would ever receive, then off to his hay loft to fail into empty sleep.

  When the moon had risen, and the place was quiet except for the pacing of the guardsmen upon the battlements, Swallow woke.
and sneaked through black shadow into the vines on the castle wall, century old vines with trunks thick as his body. He was hidden within them as he climbed, empty-headed, high above the paved courtyard into a night land of roofs and across silvered slates to a high window which looked down into the great hall. He picked out pieces of bent lead to make a gap in that window larger, pulling out fragments of glass, softly, softly, a thief in the night. Then he could see and hear what went on below.

  Silkhands was there, and Peter rose to that hook, fished up out of liquid darkness to watch and listen.

  "I have come, Prince Mandor, because the Wizard

  Himaggery has traced a young friend of his here, Peter, former student of King Mertyn at Mertyn's House. You knew him there. " It was not precisely a question. I heard Mandor's gargle and wondered how Silkhands understood it. Then I found that if I listened, without looking at him, letting the sound enter my ears without judging it, I, too could almost understand it. Almost it was the voice of someone I had once cared for... But

  Silkhands went on, "The Wizard, Himaggery, believes that the boy may not have come to Bannerwell of his own will. He sends me to ascertain whether he is well. "

  "Oh, he is well. Quite well. He is not here just now, gone off for a day or two on a hunting expedition. He'll undoubtedly be back within a few days. You are welcome to wait for him, Healer. You need not worry about Peter. He's well taken care of. "

  If Silkhands had spoken with the Elator who saw me in the dungeons, she knew Mandor lied. If she had spoken with that Elator then she would not have come to

  Bannerwell with this transparent story, for she would know that Mandor's Demons would Read her. No. She knew I was in Bannerwell, but she did not know under what conditions. She did not know exactly where I was, or she would not have dared come to ask for me in such innocence.

  Another voice floated up to the high window from which I watched, silvery sweet and deadly. "Oh, Sister, why do you tell such lies? You know that you were not sent for any such reason. The Wizard cares nothing for the boy, nothing. If he has sent you, it is for some treacherous purpose of his own. "

  It was Dazzle. I peered down to see her standing against a tapestry, posed there like a statue. Her pose was almost exactly the one which Mandor had assumed when I first saw him in his rooms, profile limned against a background, pale, graceful hands displayed to advantage. Mandor was regarding her with fixed attention.

  Silkhands had become as still as some small wild thing, surprised too much by a predator to move. When she spoke, her voice was tight with strain.

  "The Wizard cares much for Peter, Dazzle. As he has cared for you, and for Borold, and for all who have come to the Bright Demesne. The Prince needs only have his Gamesmen Read my thought to know I do not lie... "

  "Or to know you have found some way to hide a lie,

  Sister. I am of the opinion that the Wizard is clever enough to have found such a way. He is very clever, and ambitious... " She cast a lingering look at Mandor, turning away from him so that the look came over her shoulder. It was all pose, pose, pose, each posture more perfect than the last. Only I could see the horror of her skull's head, her ravaged features confronting that other skull's head across the room. Mandor did not see.

  Dazzle did not see. Oh, Gamelords, I thought, they are using beguilement on one another, and neither sees what is there. She went on in that voice of poisonous sweetness, "Borold will bear me out. He, too, is of the same opinion. " As, of course, he was. Borold had no opinion Dazzle had not given him.

  "Well, " Mandor said, his voice cold and hard, "Time will undoubtedly make all plain. Until then, you will be my guest, Healer. And you, Priestess. Both. If there is some Game at large in the countryside, we would not want to risk your lovely lives by letting you leave these protecting walls untimely. "

  From the height I saw Silkhands shiver. Dazzle only preened, posed, ran long fingers through her hair. "As

  , you will, Prince Mandor. I appreciate such hospitality, as would anyone who had come for any honest reason... "

  Mandor gestured to servants who led them both away, each in a different direction. I watched the way

  Silkhands went. I might need to find her later.

  Then Mandor was joined by Huld, and the two of them spoke together while I still listened.

  "Have the guardsmen found Divulger? Any sign of him?"

  "Only the boots in the moat, Lord. There is no discernible reason he should have made off with the boy. "

  "Oh, don't be a fool, Huld. He didn't make off with the boy. He killed the boy. That's why he fled, in fear of his life. "

  "We've found no body. "

  "When the moat is drained, the body may appear.

  Or, he may have hidden it deep, Huld, in the Caves of

  Bannerwell. If you wanted to hide a body, or yourself, what better place than the tombs and catacombs of

  Bannerwell. Things lost there may never be found again... "

  I sneaked away across the slates, summoning Swallow back and telling him to do this and that and then another thing. Which he did. He went to the kitchens and sat about within hearing of the cooks and stewards until one entered the place saying that the Healer in the corner rooms on the third floor had had no evening meal and needed food. There was tsking from the cooks, kind words about Healers in general, and vying between two sufferers as to which of them should take the meal to her when it was ready. Enough.

  The two pawns who had come with her were still in the courtyard, crouched along the wall. Swallow slouched toward them, spoke to the guard nearby.

  "They c'n sleep in the stable hay along of me if they'd mind to... " The guard ignored him. He had not been told to watch these two inconsiderable creatures.

  Swallow kicked at Chance's boots. "Softer there than here, and you c'n bring your things. "

  The two rose and followed him to the loft to lay themselves wearily down, with many grunts and sighs.

  Swallow sat in the dark away from them, letting the sight of their faces fish Peter up out of the dark waters to whisper, "Yarrel. Yarrel, listen to me. It's Peter. "

  He sat up, staring wildly about. "Peter? Where are

  . you?'

  'Shhh. I am here in the shadow. "

  "Come out here, into the moonlight. We expected to find you in the dungeons. " I did not move, and he said warily, "Is this some trickery?"

  I was very tired. I did not want to use any more of

  Windlow's herb, there was so little left. At that moment

  I could not remember the "how" of changing back, and

  I was too tired to try. Instead I said, "No trick, Yarrel.

  Listen, you and I stood on the parapet of Mertyn's

  House and saw a Demon and two Tragamors riding to

  Festival. You said the horses came from Bannerwell, remember? You said it to me. No one would know of that but us. "

  "A Demon might have Read it, " he said coldly.

  "Oh, a Demon might, but wouldn't. Think of something to ask me, then... "

  "I ask you one thing only. Come into the light!"

  Sighing, I moved forward. He seized me roughly by the shoulder and shook me. "You. You are not Peter. "

  It was Chance who said, "Yarrel. Look at his eyes, his face. This is Peter right enough. " Evidently even in my weariness, I had let my own form come forward a little, my own face. Still, Chance had been very quick. I wondered at that moment whether he had not known all along who my mother was, whether he had not perhaps expected something of the kind. The thought was driven away by Yarrel's chilly, hostile voice.

  "Shifter. You're a Shifter. "

  I slumped down, head on knees. He who had been my friend for so long was now so unfriendly. "I am the son of Mavin Manyshaped, " I confessed. "She is full sister to Mertyn. I was told this by Huld, thalan to Mandor, as

  Mertyn is to me. He Read it in Mertyn's mind at Festival time. " There were tears running down my legs, tears from tiredness. "Oh, Yarrel, I would ra
ther have been a pawn in a quiet place, but that isn't what I am... "

  Chance reached forward to stroke my arm, and I intercepted a stern look he directed at Yarrel. "Well, lad, if there has to be a Talent, why not a biggun, that's what

  I say. If you're going to make a noise, might as well make it with a trumpet as with a pot-lid, right?"