Cordstick stood to one side, leaning rather uncertainly against a stone pillar. He was standing because it was apparently too painful for him to sit, although it might have been a toss-up had there been a way to measure such things. He was splinted and bandaged from head to foot. The parts of his skin that were not under wrap were various shades of purple and blue with slashes of vivid red. His right eye was swollen shut and enlarged to the size of an egg. His hair was sticking straight up and here and there were quills sticking out of his body.
“What happened?” Cordstick repeated his master’s words as if he was not quite able to fathom them. “Besides the porcupine, the bog wump, the fire ants, the fall from the cliff, the beating at the hands of angry farmers, the dragging through the fields by the horse that threw me, and the encounter with the feral pigs? Besides being driven out of a dozen taverns and thrown out of a dozen more? Not a lot, really.”
“Well,” Laphroig said, an abrupt utterance that he apparently intended to say everything. “Well, we’ll see that you get double pay for your efforts. Now what did you find out?”
Cordstick shook his head. “I found out that I should never have left the castle and may never do so again. Certainly not without an armed escort. The world is a vicious place, my Lord.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. But what about the Princess? What have you found out about her?”
“Found out about her? Besides the fact that she’s still missing? Besides the fact that looking for her was perhaps the single most painful undertaking of my life?”
His voice was rising steadily, taking on a dangerously manic tone, and Laphroig took a step back despite himself. There was a wild glint in his scribe’s eyes, one he had never seen before.
“Stop this whining, Cordstick!” he ordered, trying to bring things under control. “Others have suffered in my cause, and you don’t hear them complaining.”
“That’s because they are all dead, my Lord! Which, by all rights, I should be, too!”
“Nonsense! You’ve just suffered a few superficial injuries. Now get on with it! You try my patience with your complaints. Leave all that for later. Tell me about the Princess!”
“Might I have a glass of wine, my Lord? From the flask that is not poisoned?”
Laphroig could hardly miss the irony in the wording of the request, but he chose to ignore it. At least until he got his report out of the man. It was beginning to look as if Cordstick might have outlived his usefulness and should be dispensed with before he did something ill advised. Like trying to strangle his master, for example, which his eyes suggested he was already thinking of doing.
He poured Cordstick a glass of the good wine and handed it to him. “Drink that down, and we’ll talk.”
His scribe took the glass with a shaking hand, guided it to his lips, and drained it in a single gulp. Then he held it out for a refill. Laphroig obliged, silently cursing his generosity. Cordstick drank that one down, too.
“My Lord,” he said, wiping his lips with his shirtsleeve, “I understand better now why those who do your bidding do so as spies and not openly. That is another mistake I will not make again.”
If you get the chance to make another mistake, an enraged Laphroig thought. Where does this dolt get the idea that he can criticize his Lord and master in this fashion? Where did this newfound audacity come from?
“Just tell me what you found out, please,” he urged in his gentlest, most reassuring voice, hiding every other emotion.
Cordstick straightened. Or at least, he made a failed attempt at it. “My Lord, there is nothing new on where the Princess has gone or what she is doing.” He held up one bandaged hand as Laphroig started to vent. “However, that is not to say that our efforts have been totally unsuccessful.”
Laphroig stared. “Exactly what does that mean?”
“It means that we know one more thing that we didn’t know before I set out to find the Princess, although I’m not sure it’s worth the price I had to pay to discover it. The Princess Mistaya has not disappeared for the reasons we thought. Nothing bad has happened to her. No abduction, no spiriting away, nothing like that. Apparently, she had a falling-out with her parents and left of her own volition. Because of the nature of the falling-out, it is thought she has no immediate intention of returning.”
Laphroig shrugged. “Forgive me, Cordstick, but I don’t see how that helps us.”
“It helps, my Lord, because she is seeking sanctuary with an understanding third party. Her grandfather, the River Master, turned her down. She must be looking elsewhere.” He paused. “Do you happen to know anyone who might be willing to grant her sanctuary, should I eventually find her and have a chance to speak with her?”
“Ah,” said Laphroig, the light beginning to dawn. “So you think she might come here to live?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Cordstick rubbed his bandaged hands and then winced. “If she agrees to let you act as her guardian, she becomes your ward and you gain legal status in determining her future. As her guardian, you will have ample opportunities to …” He trailed off, cleared his throat, and smiled. “To persuade her to your cause.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Laphroig sounded positively enthusiastic at the prospect. He began to pace, as if by doing so he were actually getting somewhere. “Well, then, we must find her right away before she has a change of heart!” He wheeled on Cordstick. “You must find her!”
“I must?” His scribe did not sound in the least convinced.
“Yes, of course! Who else can I depend upon?” He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “Who else, but my future Minister of State?”
Cordstick gave him a calculating look. “I was just about to hand in my resignation and retire to the countryside, my Lord.”
“No, no, we can’t have that sort of talk.” Laphroig was at his side instantly, patting him on his good shoulder. Gently, he walked him over to the window, where they could look out over the countryside together. “That sort of talk is for weaklings and quitters, not for future Ministers of State!”
His scribe frowned. “Would you care to put that in writing?”
Laphroig gritted his teeth. “I would be happy to do so.” He could always deny he’d written it.
“Witnessed by two nobles of the realm?”
The teeth gritting turned to teeth grinding. “Of course.” He could always have the nobles put to death.
“With copies to be sent to a personal designate for delivery to the King should anything unfortunate happen to me?”
“You are starting to irritate me, Cordstick!” Laphroig hissed. But he saw the look on the other’s face and quickly held up his hands. “All right, all right, whatever you say. Is there anything else you require?”
Cordstick was edging toward the doorway. “I will find the Princess, my Lord. You have my word. But this time I will require a personal guard so as to avoid all the unpleasantness of this past outing. I think perhaps fifty or sixty armed men would …”
He ducked through the doorway just as the brass candlestick Laphroig had flung flew past his head and crashed into the wall beyond. The padding of his limping feet could be heard receding into the distance.
Laphroig closed his eyes in an effort to calm himself, and he unclenched his teeth long enough to whisper, “Just find her, you idiot!”
THE VOICE IN THE SHADOWS
Mistaya returned to work in the Stacks the following morning and did not speak to Thom even once of the voice. She listened for it carefully, but the hours passed, and no one called out to her. The longer she waited, the more uncertain she became about what she had heard. Perhaps she had only imagined it after all. Perhaps the shadows and the overall creepiness of the Stacks had combined to make her think she was hearing a voice that wasn’t there.