Even after she was Duchess of Altamont, Rancitor expected her to stay in Ghastain, and since Alicia’s own plans depended on Rancitor, she spent a lot of time at court. She didn’t like him at all, really. He was rather like Hulix, though more like Mirami. He liked her, however, and he liked the man-woman games she taught him to play. And now, of course, he was old enough to play them with others, for which she was thankful. The things she had taught him to enjoy gave her no pleasure. It was of no matter. The games had bought her Altamont. The games would buy her other things. Meantime, Rancitor’s quarters were probably the safest place she could be in Ghastain. The servants brought his food there and she shared it with him, only pretending to eat or drink when at table with others. If she bought something herself, in the market, then she could eat it. She wore gloves most of the time, because some poisons entered through the skin. She sneaked into the servant’s bathhouse at night, never bathing in the one reserved for the women of the court. She kept the curtains pulled shut in the room she used. She opened doors and drawers with a metal hook concealed in her sleeve, for poisoned needles could be positioned in places where people might put their fingers. Often she covered her own hair with a wig made of other people’s hair. One of the things the Old Dark Man had taught her was never to underestimate enmity. Anyone could arouse enmity. Beautiful women were not exempt.
Rancitor’s quarters, however, where their games had been played, were undoubtedly safe. Mirami had no wish to destroy Rancitor until after King Gahls was dead, and possibly not even then. “It’s often better, my dear, to be the one who props the crown, rather than the one who wears it.”
Mirami had begun to say that she wanted to live as long as the Old Dark Man had lived. The Old Dark Man had claimed to be a hundred and fifty years old: a century more than Mirami had lived already. What would she do with all that time once the king had swallowed up all the lands of Norland? What would amuse her then? Alicia had wondered this many times and the only answer that seemed satisfactory was the conquest of Tingawa. That had to be it. Mirami had said the Tingawans would be killed, so she must have been planning to take the army of Ghastain—King Gahls called his army the army of Ghastain—across the sea to the fabled lands. Mirami would do what Ghastain had been unable to do! Probably that was it. Mirami planned, in time, to conquer the far west. Except that Mirami would not have the time.
In a few days, Alicia would have to obey her mother’s summons. She would go the way the archers had gone, taking them with her. By that time, Mirami’s friend Chamfray ought to be at the point of death, but it could not possibly be blamed on Alicia. Mirami didn’t know anything at all about the fatal-cloud machine.
Precious Wind spent two days idling in and around the Vulture Tower, careful always to sleep far enough away from it to avoid surprise. Staying near the tower allowed her an unforeseen opportunity. Precious Wind had always been fond of wolves, possibly because they had always seemed if not fond, then certainly tolerant of her. The experience with the men who had followed her and ended up killing themselves, thereby attracting wolves, had not been totally new to her. In Tingawa, as a child, she had befriended a wolf pack living in a mountainous territory at the edge of the huge continent that extended for thousands of miles westward through dozens of other territories and kingdoms. When she came to Norland, she had hoped to learn whether these Norland wolves were similarly inclined toward friendship. Though she had spent years in Norland, there had been no opportunity until now, for Justinian’s stockmen and their huge hounds kept wolves well away from Woldsgard.
The previous night she had heard their howls approaching. They were closer tonight. Very possibly they had scented her horse. She put the gelding in the stable of the tower and shut the sturdy door. She was growing fond of the beast and did not want him troubled. She rubbed his shoulder and told him to relax and ignore anything he might hear. Then she stood inside the open door of the tower and waited.
The pack leader entered the clearing in which the tower sat, looked around it, saw her. He made a quick, breathy sound, a kind of whuff, not surprise, not fear. He was saying, “I see you. We see you.”
Precious Wind replied in kind. “I see you, too.” Then she sat down on the step of the tower and ostentatiously licked her hand, paw.
The pack leader approached. Behind him she saw ten or a dozen pairs of eyes peering from among the trees. They stayed where they were except for one big-footed, big-eared youngster who half staggered out of the trees toward his father, who promptly turned and bit him. The pup yipped and went back where he belonged. The pack leader came closer, sniffing.
Precious Wind rose, went slowly into the tower, and tugged something out onto the doorstep. Wild pig, fresh, shot that day, first arrow from her bow. She had been a bit worried about that. She was woefully out of practice.
She pulled the carcass into the clearing and sat down on the step again. The pack leader circled it, half circled her, circled the pig again. The youngster came out of the forest again and sat there, head cocked. His mother came to crouch beside him. Other shadowy forms squeezed out of the forest, halfway, a quarter. Eyes didn’t blink. Precious Wind took out her knife, went to the carcass and cut a piece of meat, tossed it to the youngster. His mother pounced on it, put her feet on it, sniffed suspiciously. Finally she licked it. The pack leader put his nose to the place she had cut, licked the blood, turned, made the same whuff as before, giving the pack permission.
Crossing their trail behind them could have been interpreted as a move to trap or encircle. Precious Wind moved to the side of the clearing opposite the one the wolves had come from. She stood by a tree while they ate. There was the usual baring of teeth, asserting of rights, the usual “this one eats first, that one last,” but the carcass was of a well-grown boar with meat enough for all of them. She’d found a whole piggery of wild ones north along the ridge, rooting up old crops from another of those abandoned farm places they’d found on the way to the abbey—old crops, reseeding themselves, turnips and parligs gone wild. Good pig food. She’d had to drag the carcass here. Horses not used in battle or hunting often objected to dead cargo. The horse had dragged it to the door, however, and she’d been able to roll the carcass into the tower.
While the pack was still eating, the pack leader broke away from the melee, licked his jowls, his paws, shook himself, came over where she was standing, cocked his head. She held out her hand. He sniffed it, made a sound in his throat. The female came over, sniffed in her turn, and was followed by every member of the pack, the big-eared young one last. There were two other young ones. Nine adults and the lead female’s latest litter of three. This was probably the pack that had disposed of Jenger, if, as she suspected, either Abasio or someone else had killed him. She hadn’t found a body, the archers hadn’t found a body. The only bones were scraps that could have been any kind of bone, pig, deer, no nice bulbous skull to identify a human. The archers had supposed Jenger to have ridden away, but the absence of a horse was meaningless. If a horse had been here, Abasio would have taken it when he left.
The following morning she returned to the abbey. All the way there, she saw shadowy forms inside the trees, keeping pace with her. They wanted to know where she was, where she might come from again. Meals didn’t usually come that easily; human friends seldom came at all.
When Precious Wind returned to the abbey, she went first to Wordswell, laying before him everything she had found at the tower. They opened the four message tubes and read the contents. Jenger, with the help of “our friend at the abbey,” was directed to abduct Xulai by any means possible. Jenger was directed to kill Bear or have him killed. Jenger was directed to kill any Tingawan he could lay hands on, with the help of “our friend at the abbey.” The last message, the one that had not been sent, they read together. “The Tingawan child has gone to Elsmere. I have one of her servants, not the driver we met. What do you want me to do with her?”
Precious Wind said, “The first three of these are in one hand
, that of the duchess: they were sent from Altamont to Jenger. The last one was no doubt to be sent from Jenger to Altamont. He didn’t send it. It may have been too late in the day. He may have intended to wait until morning, but something else happened. Obviously Xulai lied to him about who she was. When Jenger first saw her, she appeared to be a child.”
“A child? That explains it! That first night when I saw her, it was like looking at two people in the same body. I’ve seen that illusion before, but rarely.”
Precious Wind smiled, shaking her head. “She has always been . . . changeable. More so recently. Now, Elder Brother, if the prior has been sending messages to this Vulture Tower and to the Old Dark House, which Solo Winger can testify he has done, I think these messages from the Old Dark House make it clear the friend in the abbey referred to was the prior himself. These make it clear he was conspiring with the duchess to kill various members of the Tingawan group entrusted to the abbey by Justinian. Just as a matter of interest, Justinian recently sent funds here for the keep of his people. Did they come to you?”
“They were taken by Justinian’s messenger to our treasury, which is kept by an elder sister who is completely trustworthy. Receipts were given to the messenger, and copies of them were given to me.”
“I rejoice at hearing this. Now, some time ago Justinian sent three men carrying a substantial amount that was to be given to me and to Bear when we left here for Merhaven. Justinian did this because he did not want Bear to receive his reward much before he left, lest it be diminished in the intervening time. Do you know about this?”
“I do not. Our treasurer does not. Your friend, Bear, was inquiring about it.”
Precious Wind took out the little bag that held her valuables and retrieved the receipt Justinian had given her. Wordswell stared at it, teeth clenched.
“I never thought . . . the prior was that interested in . . . treasure. I thought he was most interested in power.”
“Money is a good way of creating power, Elder Brother. Your prior finds money useful. I can testify to the fact that the prior paid three men to follow me when I left a few days ago. Their instructions were to kill me.”
Wordswell’s face became drawn and gray in an instant, as though someone had knifed him and his blood had drained away. “He paid to have you killed.”
She nodded.
The old man sighed, shrank as though in pain, murmured beneath his breath before saying, “His position would not allow him ample funds to pay for something like that without his taking money from some unauthorized source. I presume you . . . evaded the men.”
Precious Wind thought it wisest to say very little about the incident. She shrugged. “People who do that sort of thing are violent by nature and tend to be quarrelsome. I thought their actions upon the road were somewhat suspicious. I hid myself and my horse where I could overhear them. They began to fight among themselves, and in their argument they mentioned the prior, the payment, and the fact that they would kill me. They also disputed as to who would have that pleasure, attacking one another violently. Having heard this, I simply avoided them and went in a different direction. However, I did see that they were wearing the livery of the abbey, and I haven’t seen them since I returned. It may be they are still out there looking for me, but it would be wise to find out what other men in the abbey might be accustomed to being sent on such errands.”
She waited until some color returned to his face before continuing. “You asked for proof of his misdeeds, and these notes are your proof. I myself fetched these notes from the Vulture Tower. I myself saw what was there. The Duke of Wold put this receipt in my hands. It would be wise if a few trustworthy elders knew what I have told you so you will not be alone in your knowledge.”
“While you were away, I spoke to the abbot. He asked if I had proof.”
“Well, now we do. I will see the abbot next. Will you come with me?”
He nodded, voiceless.
They went to the abbot and laid before him the messages referring to “our friend at the abbey.”
The abbot sighed deeply. Lying was foreign to him. Subterfuge was foreign to him. He felt deeply troubled. “I have been a foolish old man, haven’t I?”
Precious Wind said, “No, sir, you have been trusting.”
“Things have been happening I should have known about, but I didn’t. Things happening to my brothers and sisters, without my knowledge. Wordswell has been telling me. I find it so hard to believe.”
“I know. But we will solve that problem.”
The abbot sighed. “A message came, while you were away. It said Xulai had gone back to Woldsgard under the care of Prince Orez.” He took it from his pocket and showed it to her.
Precious Wind knew Xulai had promised her father she would get to Tingawa as soon as possible. She considered it very unlikely that the message was true. Trust Abasio to keep stirring the pot, she thought with mild amusement. “Has the prior seen the message?”
“No. The loft keeper brought it directly to me.”
“May I have it?”
“If it is wise,” he whispered. “You can do what needs doing better than I.”
She put the message in her pocket. “It is wise. I’ll take care of it. Don’t be troubled, Eldest. For your information only, I don’t believe she’s returned to Woldsgard. The message was sent by the man who rescued her. He did it to confuse matters and to help him keep her safe.”
“What does your embassy want to do about Xulai?”
Though she regretted the necessity for it, guile came easily to Precious Wind.
“I am to stay here for a short while, awaiting developments, and then, if there are none, I am to go south through Elsmere, to Merhaven. In the meantime, however, Wordswell and I, some of our people from Wold, and the good trustworthy people of the abbey will solve this dilemma. Do not speak of it to anyone except those Wordswell suggests. Let us work on it.”
The abbot gave her a pitiful look. “I thought, perhaps, I should confront our prior. Explain to him that what he is doing is wrong, contrary to our beliefs!”
Precious Wind put steel into her voice. “Abbot, if you do that, you condemn Xulai to death! The man sent murderers after me, murderers after her. If you say anything to him about it, you ensure that next time he will be successful!”
“Murderers . . .” He turned ashen.
“Read those messages again! That is what the ‘friend at the abbey’ was expected to do. Murder.”
Wordswell said, “Put it out of your mind, Eldest Brother. She is right. The prior doesn’t need to be told what he’s doing. He knows very well what he is doing and he relishes it. Do not risk other lives in an effort to save his conscience. He has none. You have not yet been foolish, only too trusting. Do not now be foolish!” He turned to Precious Wind. “Show the abbot the receipt, Precious Wind. Read it, sir. The prior claims no knowledge of it. You realize the abbey must make this amount good?”
“Some of it may be found,” said Precious Wind. “Let’s not worry about that just now.”
The abbot had tears in his eyes. He bowed his head. “I will say nothing. I will say nothing. You have my word.”
Precious Wind retreated to the library with Wordswell. “Keep an eye on him,” she said. “His kindness may kill us all.”
“Not if we can get him moving on something to distract him; not if we can wind it up quickly.”
“The men who came with us from Woldsgard move in the same circles as the men who were sent after me. They’re all horsemen, workingmen; they drink beer, they talk, things are said that our men from Woldsgard can hear and remember.” She was quiet for a moment, thinking. “The prior believes if the abbot dies, he, the prior, will succeed to the abbacy without any trouble at all. I must leave it to you to see that particular thing does not happen. I understand you will need to speak with dozens of people. Do it as quickly as possible.”
“We have already begun—the abbot and I—to sort out some of the more . . . apparent pr
oblems such as our troop movements. Other meetings are scheduled. What are you going to do with the message the abbot gave you?”
“See that it reaches the prior and that he thinks he has seen it first. To do that, I will need to talk to your birdman.”
Together they went to the bird loft. Precious Wind gave Abasio’s misleading message to Solo Winger, who scanned it rapidly.
“Yeah. So? I sor it when it come and I guv it to abbot.”
“We’d like you to pretend it just came today. Let the prior see it.”
He fixed them with clever eyes. “So tha’s the way of it, hah? That chap with the wagon, he’s puttin’ down a smell trail.”
“In the wrong direction,” said Precious Wind. “If you don’t mind misleading the prior.”
“Oh, tha’s one clever, clever fellow I woun’t mind misleadin’ right over a cliff. You know the abbey armor is comin’ back from Netherfields?”
“I didn’t know,” Precious Wind said.
“Abbot sent a bird. Came up here hisself to do it. Armor’s t’come home. Says there’s not enuff food an’ stuff for them at Netherfields.”
“I should have told you,” said Wordswell apologetically. “Even though we didn’t have what the abbot considered to be conclusive proof, he and I have been doing what we can to sort out the worst of the mess. We’d heard from Woldsgard that the troops from Ghastain have gone on to Kamfels and that Hallad, Prince Orez, occupies Woldsgard, so the abbot recalled our men from Netherfields. He told them to go back to the southlands where the brigands are.”