Rusillin topped up Pen’s glass again, with an encouragement to drink pointed with assorted toasts. Pen remembered that Drovo had been at a drunken party with his friends when they’d been recruited in Greenwell, though he had defended his choice with vigor even after he’d sobered up. Could a man be made dead drunk and drafted into mercenary service the way the king of Darthaca had once been rumored to press sailors during one of his wars? Surely it would be easier to run away from a mercenary company than from a ship at sea. He wet his lips and smiled cautiously through the toasts.
Rusillin then inquired genially about Pen’s accidental acquisition of Desdemona. Pen told the tale, again; the repetition was beginning to seem more like the memory of a memory than the thing itself. Clee was very interested in the details of his swoon, which Pen on the whole was unable to supply. Growing a touch morose, perhaps with the wine, Pen dwelt on his broken betrothal.
“Does the pretty Preita await you?” asked Rusillin.
“I doubt it,” sighed Pen. “Her parents were no doubt entertaining better offers for her hand by the time I rode out of town.”
“Mm, sad.”
Clee made to refill his glass in consolation, frowning to find no room. “And has the demon awoken within you?”
“A little,” Pen confessed, reluctant to recount such lunatic experiences before this company. And he could hardly describe Ruchia’s book to Clee, deep in Tigney’s confidences.
“So it survived the abrupt transfer all intact?” said Rusillin.
“Oh, yes. Seems to have.”
Clee pressed more meat upon him which Pen, stuffed, was compelled to refuse. “I can hardly hold any more of your abundant hospitality, my lord,” he apologized.
“It was the least I could do. I have one more indulgence to offer.”
Rusillin went to the sideboard, and came back with three goblets fashioned of the pale green glass of the district, passing them around with his own hands like a very superior butler. They proved filled with a golden liqueur scented of flowers. Pen had thought such things were served in smaller vessels, but the lord of Martenden seemed not a man to stint his table.
“Try this cordial. It is distilled by a woman in our own village.” Rusillin saluted Pen with his glass, and sipped, as did Clee.
Pen lifted his own goblet in grateful return toast. As he set it to his lips, a voice inside his head began, Penric, Penric, Pen, pen, penpenpen Pen! Pen! It sounded as panting and effortful as someone breaking through a brick wall with a sledgehammer. His eyes widened, and he smiled in concealment of his confusion.
Desdemona . . . ? What? he tried back.
Take only a small sip, and hold it in your mouth. Don’t swallow. Be ready to spit it into your napkin.
Not knowing what else to do, or why, he did as instructed. The cordial was on the whole pleasant, very sweet and complex, but with a bitter undertaste.
Aha. Syrup of poppies only. We can handle that. Drink, then, but very slowly. Do not betray your knowledge.
Why not?
Because we want to see what transpires.
Ruchia, Pen recalled, had been a spy. Trusted agent. Who sailed troubled waters, whatever they were, aside from a prime example of Tigney’s maddening vagueness. Pen felt he had embarked all unknowing into a very strange storm.
The liquid in his mouth acquired an even nastier taste, and Desdemona whispered, against the evidence of Pen’s senses, Good. It is made safe. Now swallow.
Pen gulped, and managed, without choking much, to say “Most interesting. It smells of chamomile blossoms.”
“Yes, I believe that is one of the ingredients, though the goodwife guards her recipe even from me. Chamomile is said to be very soothing.” Rusillin sipped from his own goblet with evident pleasure, and regarded Pen benignly. When not laced with syrup of poppies, the stuff was evidently a deal more palatable.
The conversation grew more desultory as Pen slowly drank. The two brothers were now watching him with all the attention of a cat or a dog, spoiled by tidbits at the table, tracking every morsel their master ate, waiting to pounce on a prize. When Pen yawned, not really feigned after the meal and all that untainted wine, they swayed with it. Pen’s body grew warm, though the room was cool as the lake-light from the slit windows faded to gray and shadows of evening encroached, and he undid the collar of his tunic.
Finishing his glass, Pen remarked, “Very soothing indeed, my lord.”
“I shall tell the goodwife how much you enjoyed it,” Rusillin promised, and took the glass away again to the sideboard where, his back to the room, he refilled it.
Clumsy, opined Desdemona. I suspect poisoning guests is not in his usual line. Though I suppose greater subtlety would be wasted on you.
And why was she an expert? Pen had no trouble producing a frog-eyed goggle as Rusillin handed him a second glass. Its undertaste was even more bitter than the first.
They’re not taking any chances, are they? mused Desdemona, as the stuff turned vile in his mouth.
Now what should I do? asked Pen, starting to panic. I’m going to throw up soon.
Keep playing along. You may now start to feign a drunken stupor. I’m sure you’ve witnessed such things.
Not only witnessed, but experienced, if only the once. Wine-sickness, like a hanging, had been a salutary lesson he’d taken to heart at a young age.
“You could use this cordial as a bedtime composer,” Pen remarked, letting his speech slur.
“Truly,” said Clee, sipping along with him from a glass in which the level had barely dropped.
Pen yawned again, more widely. “Sorry, m’lor’,” he muttered, and let his head fall, pillowed on his arms. Silence fell around the table.
Bastard’s tears, he demanded of Desdemona, now what?
Stay limp. If they think their ploy effective, they will not bother to bind you. A considering pause. Not that bindings are any great impediment, but why make extra work for us?
Rusillin’s voice finally came, “Is he out? Check his eyes.”
Clee lifted Pen’s head, painfully by the hair, and pulled back an eyelid. Pen suppressed a yelp and tried to make his eyes roll up.
“Not wholly,” Clee judged, accurately, “but I expect this will do.” He took a fraught breath. “Are you ready?”
“Yes. Let’s get the business over with.”
Between them, they lifted Pen from his chair and supported him, an arm dragged over each brotherly shoulder.
“Ha,” huffed Clee. “Lord Cowherd is not as light as he looks.”
“These wiry types can fool you, sometimes,” Rusillin observed. “I was beginning to think he was never going to fall over.”
For conspirators, they didn’t sound very passionate, Pen thought. Or even very excited. He felt a bit indignant about that. The fright was all on his part. He let his eyes slit open.
Together, they manhandled him out onto the gallery, now deeply shadowed with the evening though the sky was still pale, only the first stars showing. Down a back stair. Past the level of the courtyard, and down a darker, narrower stair, the walls partly dressed stone, partly seeming carved out of the living rock. While Clee supported Pen’s half-limp form, Rusillin lifted a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked a stout wooden door. They dragged Pen through, and Rusillin turned and locked it again.
Shouldn’t we be trying to escape? Pen asked urgently.
Soon. There are two of them. The chance must be good, or it is likely to be wasted.
There were two of him, too, Pen thought, or perhaps thirteen depending on if you counted the lioness and the mare, but he still felt outnumbered. He felt outnumbered just by Rusillin.
Pen wasn’t sure if they’d brought him to a cellar, a storeroom, an armory, or a dungeon. The long chamber seemed to partake of all those descriptions. The roof was supported with pillared arches of stone, graceful enough for a minor Darthacan temple. High on the lakeside wall, a line of thin, iron-barred windows like half-moons let in the last of the sil
very twilight. A bundle of pikes rested off the floor in a pair of wooden cradles. Barrels and crates were stacked all around, but along one wall lay a pile of old straw, with several sets of ugly manacles hanging down. That the irons were unpeopled and rusty was not all that reassuring.
The brothers dragged Pen to the far end of the chamber and let him down, rather gently, to the cold rock floor. He twitched and half rolled, and caught a glimpse of the nearby water gate. From this side, it was a stone ramp down to a broad, low arch above the lake, which lapped gently at its base. A barred portcullis, raised at present, protected the opening in the thick walls, and a further set of heavy doors were pulled back. On the ramp, a skiff was drawn up half out of the water, its oars shipped. Faint reflections rippled on the curving roof of the chamber.
“Let’s have a better light for this,” said Rusillin, and Clee pulled a tinderbox from his belt pouch and went to kneel by a row of part-used tallow candles set up along the edge of the ramp and shielded from drafts by coarse glass vases. Half-a-dozen smoky yellow lights soon sprang up, which, Pen realized, made hardly a difference to him. Another advantage lost to delay?
When Rusillin turned his back for a moment, going to rummage among his stores, Pen seized the chance to turn his head, but the only other item of interest in view was an old wool-stuffed mattress flopped on the floor nearby, a blanket and pillow piled at its foot. So why aren’t I laid on that? If it was where kindly kidnappers kept their victims while waiting to sell them on to some evil merchant rowing in from the lake, shouldn’t it be over by the manacles?
He forced himself to stay limp, if still slit-eyed, as the brothers came back to gaze down at him in a moment of contemplation.
“That was easy,” said Clee. “As you said, let him walk to us. Like a calf to the market.”
“Bit of an innocent, I’d say,” said Rusillin.
“Bit of a fool. Well, Lord Cowherd.” Clee prodded Pen with his toe. “Sorry about this, but needs must drive.”
“He’ll feel no pain. You, or I?” Rusillin held up a long, wicked war-knife, obtained from somewhere among the stored armaments. Its edge gleamed new-honed.
“It’s your trade. Probably your reward, if the demon jumps to you.”
“Those are the odds, correct? The demon always jumps to the strongest man in reach, you said.”
“So Tigney claims.”
“In that case, why it did not jump to one of those temple guards the sorceress trailed?”
“Can’t guess.” Clee shrugged. “He did say it was the most powerful demon he’d ever overseen in all his stable. You have to wonder why it jumped to the divine, back in her day.”
“It shall like its new home, I daresay,” said Rusillin tranquilly.
They’re not trying to kidnap me. They’re trying to kidnap Desdemona!
So Pen wasn’t the merchandise, from the robber lord’s point of view; he was just the wagon. I thought a demon could not kill and hope to survive?
Other way around, said Desdemona. A sorcerer cannot kill with magic and keep his demon. But he can certainly be killed, and lose it. If it jumps in time.
So was he to be summarily unbetrothed a second time, before he lost his life? He felt madly bereft in prospect. Surely a demon must prefer a powerful captain, who would lead it to the feast of all chaos on a battlefield, over, over clumsy Lord Cowherd. The epithet stung.
Not, said Desdemona tensely, if we scramble. Now, Pen.
As Rusillin’s thick fingers made to close on his throat, and the blade descended, candlelight flickering along its quite excessive length, Pen jerked and rolled away.
“Bastard’s teeth!” Rusillin swore. “I thought he was out. Clee, grab him!”
Pen pushed to his knees, then to his feet, as Clee made an oddly slow swung at him. He evaded the dedicat and looked for the door, but Rusillin was already in the way. He slashed at Pen’s belly, which barely twisted out of reach in time. Pen dodged around a pillar. Rusillin dodged the other way. Clee cut him off, seizing him around the shoulders. “Gah, he moves like a snake!”
Rusillin lunged.
As the blade approached Pen’s belly, a spiral of rust ran up its length; by the time the hilt rammed home, as slowly to Pen’s eye as a bead falling through honey, it had shattered into a thousand bright orange flecks that burst into the air like dandelion fluff, and about as lethal.
“What!” Pen and Rusillin both grunted, practically in unison.
Fire, said Desdemona cheerfully, takes many forms.
Clee still clutched him from behind. Pen wrenched away. Rusillin tossed away his hilt, grabbed up a pike, and swung it between Pen and his goal.
“Demon, capitulate!” cried Clee. “We offer you a better master! Tigney means to betray you to the Saint of Idau! I copied out the letter! Aid that fool you ride at your own peril!”
Desdemona, as excited as a hunting dog let loose upon its prey, seemed to hesitate, freezing within Pen.
Pen, backing away from both men, tried frantically to counter. “But which master? Have you thought it through? Whichever one of you she takes will fall helpless in a swoon, and the other can cut his throat again.” Could he divide his enemies?
Rusillin grinned horribly, swinging his pike around. “I think not. If it jumps to me, Clee still cannot take my lands nor my command, so his risks are doubled. If it jumps to him, well, I am just as pleased to skip the risks, and have a loyal sorcerer secretly in my service, whose rewards will be rich.”
“You can’t imagine we were so stupid as not to work that out in advance,” chided Clee, also grabbing a pike and getting between Pen and the door. Together, both men strove to back him up, jabbing and feinting and allowing him no escape. They seemed ruffled, but not enraged. It felt very strange to be murdered so indifferently. Rusillin, Pen thought, would be just this cold and level-headed in battle, perhaps had been.
Surely any Bastard’s demon must prefer so potent a soldier.
“What,” jeered Desdemona aloud, “and have to look at your ugly face in every mirror till we found a way to throw you off? The Bastard my Master spare us that!”
“Des, don’t bait them!” yelped Pen, horrified.
Clee blinked in confusion, but held his block. Rusillin’s brawny arms drew back his heavy pike, preparing for a lethal lunge.
Pen set their hair on fire.
Clee dropped his pike and yelled. Rusillin, made of sterner stuff, tried to complete his lunge first, his pike’s hooked blade banging and scraping into the stone wall where Pen had been an instant before.
Every trouser tie, buckle, and toggle on both men’s clothing worked loose at once. Rusillin’s next lunge was much impeded by his trousers falling down around his thighs, catching him up; Pen swore Desdemona giggled. As both men staggered around beating out the flames on their heads and tripping over their clothing, she cried, Make for the water gate!
Pen ran down the ramp, tried to push off the skiff, which didn’t budge, saw Rusillin out of the corner of his eye hopping furiously toward him, and shot through the low archway. The water splashed cold around his ankles, calves, thighs, crotch, aaah! He wailed, “But Des, I can’t swim!” as his next step landed on nothing, and he plunged over into a drop-off as steep and sudden as the castle wall’s rise above him.
That’s all right, said Desdemona smugly. Umelan can. Let her guide you.
Umelan made it known in a violent surge of revulsion that she was not used to waters this cold, nor a body so lean and unbuoyant, but somehow Pen floundered to the surface and began a dog’s paddle out into the growing darkness. He blinked water out of his eyes and swiveled his head, looking for the direction to shore.
Make for the opposite bank, Desdemona advised. Rusillin will be sure to have men out searching the nearer one for you before long.
“I can’t swim that far!” Pen gasped.
If you relax and slow down, you will find that you can.
Pen kept paddling. Gradually, his strokes lengthened, and his trailing
legs found a rhythm like a frog’s which, if they did not propel him much, at least did not impede him. His frantic gasping steadied.
Until he heard Clee’s voice, too close behind him: “There he is! I can see his hair in the water.”
Pen turned to find the shadowy silhouette of the skiff putting out from the water gate. Two men, it seemed, could shift its weight where one man could not. The oars creaked and screeched in their locks as Rusillin pulled mightily. Could Rusillin beat Pen down with an oar and drown him? Hook him with a pike, and drag him back to the castle like some long, unwieldy fish?
Now, that wasn’t bright, murmured Desdemona happily. Pen’s body warmed in pulsing waves, in the cold water.
Clee, standing to peer toward Pen, a pike gripped in his hands like a harpoon, swore in surprise as his foot went through the bottom of the boat. He lost his hold on the weapon, which sank, weighted by its big steel blade. The oarlocks worked loose, and the oars skittered along the thwarts; Rusillin cursed. The skiff settled sluggishly.
Over the high castle walls, a voice floated up in a frightened bellow: “Fire! FIRE!” Other voices took up the chorus.
Rusillin looked out into the darkness after his retreating prize, back over his shoulder at his other threatened treasure, and, using one oar as a paddle, began to turn his water-weighted craft around.
“Rusi,” said Clee in an alarmed voice, “I can’t swim either!”
“Then you’d better grab that oar and get to work,” Rusillin snarled. “The other fool will drown in this cold soon enough.”
At that point, it was really redundant for Rusillin’s oar blade to snap off as he dug it into the water.