He dropped into a broad chair and she came and plumped herself into his lap. Sometime later, she sat up and looked serious. “Is there something new bothering you? Have you learned anything today?”
“No.” He rose and walked to the narrow window, to stare out over the city, whose noise reached their tower suite in a muted hum, before he answered.
“But I saw a fresh head of one of the river monsters on a spike. Old Jabbrah the guard said that the things are much more numerous and more dangerous in recent years. Could be the Unclean are behind it. Nothing there they couldn’t handle in some dirty way or other. That’s not the real problem, though, at least not at the moment. What bothers me is the increasing feel that there is something at work right here, under our noses. I even felt suspicious of that young ape Amibale for a second. But there’s something going on and I can’t find it, despite all I’ve learned.”
“A lot of it is probably nerves, plus having to wear what you think of as silly costumes and be on display all the time. Though,” she added, “if you were a local, you wouldn’t jib at being suspicious of Amibale. He’s a young brat; but after all, he is also next to me in the royal succession, you know. My father has a lot of plans for him, if we can ever get him to grow up a little. Thank goodness, he doesn’t take after his mother. The father was a bit dumb—cousin Karimbale, that is. But Fuala—whew!”
“What was her problem?” Hiero asked idly, still staring down over the distant streets. “I mean, she’s dead, isn’t she? And the father, too?”
“Very,” was the dry answer. “A lover, one of many, stabbed her while in the ducal bed. He was pulled between two mad hoppers until he came apart. Lese majeste and all that. Frankly, my father was relieved. She never came to court much. Too many eyes. But I remember her well. God knows, she was really beautiful, but there was something purely evil about her. She spent lots of time off alone somewhere in the forest when she was down south, and she used to take Amibale off with her for weeks at a time with almost no attendants except some scary jungle folk who were her family’s personal pets. She may have been just a nasty slut, but I never trusted her, nor did Dad. He always felt she had political ambitions. She really ran the duchy, and that fool of a husband did whatever she said. Some of her punishments for slaves were drastic. No, Fuala was not nice. Amibale is far better off with her dead. If she is dead.”
“You just said she was very dead indeed. What kind of a remark was that, may I ask?”
It was Luchare’s turn to look away, and Hiero realized with some amusement that she was actually embarrassed.
“More than a few people thought she was a witch, and of course they can’t be killed, except in special ways.” Luchare turned to look him in the eye. “If you must know, she made my skin crawl. I’m not afraid of very much, but I was terrified of her. Of course she’s dead, but she radiated such intensity, along with so much nastiness, all as smooth as ice, that she, well, she still makes me nervous, that’s all. Karimbale died a month after she did. They said it was disease,” she added with seeming inconsequence.
“Well,” her husband said soothingly, “we all have a few people who get our backs up. And speaking of getting backs up, I had better see to that inspection of the guard detachment, or the southern traders’ delegation will have theirs up when I’m late to receive them in audience with your father. See you back here at dress-up-and-be-a-fool time.”
She threw a pillow at him as he went out the door.
The ball was indeed a thing of splendor and color such as Hiero could never have imagined. The Great Hall was lighted with lanterns and cressets and filled with a thousand fragrances. His azure and gold robes and hood were drab compared with most of the costumes. The king was all in purple and white, with a blaze of great gems. Luchare was sheathed in emerald green, almost without jewels, save for the great bracelet of the tree women flashing on one bare, dark arm; a green half-mask accentuated her lovely face. The priests of the Church Universal attended in their magnificent robes, since this was a state occasion to be blessed. And clad, masked, and jeweled in the colors of the rainbow, the nobility of the realm spun and wheeled to the beat of the drums and horns playing the exotic southern music. The women were no more colorful than the men.
Hiero had little opportunity to do more than gain a general impression. He was leaning against a marble pillar, studying the scene in real wonder, when an upper servant touched his arm.
“Pardon, your Highness, but there is an urgent message. You are wanted in the hall at once. It’s from one of your guardsmen, I gather.”
Wondering what this might mean, Hiero followed the man, whose face was vaguely familiar. As he left the vast ballroom, he sent a thought to Luchare. She was out in the middle of the floor, apparently being dutifully attentive to some well-connected idiot whose family controlled something important.
A message from some guard, my love, supposed to be urgent. Back soon.
There was a sense of laughter and warm love in her answer. Take your time, but not too long, love. There are five fat ladies you must dance with before you can really leave—all for the honor of the kingdom!
He grinned and followed the man through a door into a small side room off the main hall, his mind still on Luchare. He was suddenly conscious of quick movement to his right, but he had no time to turn. Then the blow struck his head, and his consciousness departed.
II. A MAN ALONE
For a long time, there was no real waking period, but there were impressions—impressions which Hiero knew were real and not the stuff of nightmares.
Faces swam before his blurred vision. There was the face of Joseato peering down at him, while he lay strapped to a bench in some dim room in the rabbit warren of the palace vaults, a place half-glimpsed through pain and the agony of his aching head. The face was no longer that of the harassed functionary, but something older and colder, the eyes gleaming with mockery and triumph. Hiero realized that he had never really seen Joseato’s eyes before and cursed himself in some far corner of his mind. Out of the familiar face glared the gaze of the Unclean!
Hiero writhed frantically against the bonds which held him fast. The movement brought another face into view, and horror stilled his struggles. It was the face of Amibale Aeo, and from the young eyes came the same blaze of pure evil, with something else added to it; Amibale was quite mad, the madness mixed with the malign blasphemy which was the essence of the Unclean. Memory flickered across Hiero’s tormented mind. She was a witch, the dulled memory said, fighting the constant pain. She took him on trips to the jungle.
He felt a fresh stab in his arm and saw that Joseato held a glass tube capped with a bloody needle aloft.
“We can kill him later,” came a harsh whisper. “Not now. The chances are that the princess would know and act. They are sure in the North that he can talk to her mind. But if she feels no death, only silence, that gives us time. They say this kills the mind powers, but they warn us to be wary; he is strange and powerful. He must die, but away—far away. Distance lowers the mind touch. Even he cannot reach over long distances—not yet. He must stay drugged. Then he will be silent until he dies. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes. Quite well.” The beardless face grimaced, and the ghastly eyes still shone from the young, unlined face. “I will get him away. Go back to the ball. I will follow shortly. Both of us should not be away. Leave this to me. One of my caravans leaves for the west at dawn and…”