All three of them were waiting, with that man of Count Cleudi’s—the
olive-skinned one with such intense eyes—what was his name? Lalette
curtsied; Uncle Bontembi smiled. Said Cleudi; “Mathurin, the baskets. I
commenced to think we should miss the pleasure of your company tonight,
charming Demoiselle Lalette, and my heart was desolated.”
“Oh,” she said, (thinking—what if they knew?). “But here is Uncle
Bontembi who will tell you that to be desolate of heart is to serve evil
and not true religion, since God wishes us to be happy; for since he has
created us in his image, it must be an image of delight.”
“You reason like an angel, Demoiselle Lalette; permit that I salute
you.” She moved just enough to make his kiss fall on her cheek. Dame
Leonalda simpered, but there was, flick and gone again, a frown across
Cleudi’s high-cheekboned face. “What a lovely color your daughter has!”
Mathurin laid out the table with napkins which he unfolded from the
baskets. There were oysters packed in snow; bubbling wine; a pastry of
truffles and pike-livers; small artichokes pickled entire, peaches that
must have come from the south, since it was only peach-blossom time in
Dossola; white bread; a ham enriched with spices; honeyed small
sweetmeats of dwarf fruit. (If he were only more to me and less for
himself, thought Lalette, he might be possible; for he does not stint.)
They sat down with herself and her mother opposite each other and the
two men at the sides of the table, so small that knees touched. Mathurin
the servant stood beside her chair, but flitted round to give to the
rest as occasion demanded. Cleudi discoursed—a thousand things, eating
with his left hand and letting his right now and again drop to touch the
fabric over Lalette’s leg, which, laughing with talk and wine, she did
not deny him. (An aura, like a perfume of virility and desire and
pleasure, emanated from him; Lalette felt as though she were swaying
slightly in her seat.)
“Lalette Asterhax; the name has fifteen letters,” said Cleudi, “and the
sum of one and five is six, which fails by one the mystical number of
seven. Look also, how you may take it by another route, L being the
twelfth letter of the alphabet, so that to it, there is added one for A,
another twelve for the second L and so on, the sum of all being
eighty-seven.” (He has prepared this in advance, she thought.) “Being
itself summed up again this eighty-seven is fifteen, so it is evident
that you will be incomplete and thus lacking in happiness, until united
with a man who can supply the missing figures.”
“I am not sure that the Church would approve your doctrine,” said Uncle
Bontembi. He had moved his chair around to place his arm over the back
of Dame Leonalda’s, and she had thrown her head back to rest on the arm.
“You are clearly wrong, my friend,” said Cleudi. “The Church itself
takes cognizance of the power of numbers, which are the sign-manual of
enlistment under God against evil, rather than being the protection
itself, as some ignorant persons would make them. Look, does not the
Church in Dossola have seven Episcopals? Are there not seven varieties
of angels, and is it not dulcet to make seven prayers within the period?
Whereas it is the heretical followers of the Prophet who deny the value
of numbers.”
“Then,” said Lalette, “I must never complete myself by union with you;
for you have five letters and the seven of my first name being added to
them, make twelve, which is three by your manner of computation, and an
evil omen.”
Cleudi laughed. “All, divine Lalette, your reasoning is unreason.” He
poured more wine. “For it is clear that man and woman are each
incomplete by themselves, not to be completed until they are united;
else we were not so formed. Now such union is manifestly to the pleasure
of God, since he arranged it thus, so that if anything prevent true
union, it must be contrary to the ordinance of God. Is this not exact,
Uncle Bontembi?”
Through Dame Leonalda’s giggle the priest smiled, his face curling in
wrinkles around the fat. “Your lordship lacks only the oath and a drop
of oil in the palm to be an Episcopal. I resign in your favor my chance
of preferment.”
“But I’ll resign no chance of preferment.” Cleudi reached to squeeze
Lalette’s hand, where it lay on the table. “A stroke of fortune. I
happened to fall in with His Grace the Chancellor only this morning. He
spoke of the difficulty in finance, which is such that—would you believe
it?—there is even some question whether Her Majesty will be able to take
her summer holiday in the mountains.”
Dame Leonalda raised her head. “Oh, oh, the disgrace!” she sighed.
“I do not see the stroke of fortune,” said Lalette simply.
“A disgrace, yes,” said Cleudi, his mobile face for a moment morose.
“But I was happily able to suggest to His Grace that the matter of taxes
be placed in the hands of the lords of court, themselves to be taxed an
amount equal to that due from their seignories, and they to collect it
within their estates.”
“Again—the stroke of fortune?” said Lalette, not much interested, as she
dipped a finger in the wine and drew arabesques on the table-napkin in
the damp.
“His Grace was so much charmed with my plan that he offered me a place
in the service, with the directorate of the lottery, so that I now am
happy enough to be no more a Tritulaccan, but Dossolan by service of
adoption.” He lifted his glass to Lalette. “I shall drink to your grey
eyes, and you to my fortune.”
The glasses touched. “I do wish you good fortune,” she said.
“What better fortune could there be than to have you attend with me the
first opera-ball of the season, and make the drawing of the lottery as
its queen?”
Said Uncle Bontembi, in a voice as rich as though he were addressing a
congregation; “Spring is the season most calculated to show forth the
victory of God over evil and the beginning of new growth and happiness.
Not only do we celebrate the return of the sun, but the rejection of
darkness, as the former Prince and false Prophet.” Lalette did not look
at him.
“I will send a costumer to make you one of the new puffed bodices
in—yes, I think it must be red for your coloring . . .” began Cleudi,
and then stopped, his eyes seeming to jut from their sockets, as he
stared at the wet design under Lalette’s finger. Her own gaze focussed,
and suddenly she felt tired and very old and not wine-struck any more,
for without thinking at all she had traced the witch-patterns her mother
taught her long ago, and now they were smoking gently on the
table-cloth.
“Witchery!” croaked the Count, but recovered faster than the shock
itself, and slid in one motion to his feet, with an ironical bow.
“Madame, my congratulations on your skill in deception, which should
take you far. You and your precious mother made me believe you pure.”
“Yes, witchery.” She was up, too. “It would have been the same in all
cases. I don’t want your filthy costume and your filthy scudi. Now, go!”
Before he could sign himself, she splashed him with a spray of the
dazzling drops from her fingertips. “Go, in the name of Trustemus and
Vaton, before I bid you go in such a manner you can never rest again.”
Off to one side Lalette heard her mother sob; Cleudi’s face took on a
look of dogged blankness. Without another word he let his hands drop
loose to his side, trotted to the door and through it. Cried Uncle
Bontembi; “We’ll see to her later. I must release him,” and rushed
after, his fingers fumbling in his robe for the holy oil, his flesh
sagging in grey bags above his jowls.
Lalette sat down slowly, (her mind devoid of any thought save a kind of
regretful calm now she had done it), as her mother raised a face where
tears had streaked the powder. “Oh, Lalette, how could you—” (the girl
felt a wild flutter of being trapped again), but both had forgotten the
servant Mathurin, who stepped forward to grip urgently at Lalette’s
elbow. “Rodvard Bergelin?” he demanded, and she recoiled from the temper
of his face, then remembered her new-won power, and touched his hand
lightly as though to brush it away, saying:
“And what business of yours if it was?”
“He is the only one can save you. The Blue Star, quickly! Cleudi will
never forgive you. He’ll have you before the Court of Deacons; he’ll—”
He ran round the table to Dame Leonalda. “Madame, where is the Blue
Star? It belongs to your daughter, and she must leave on the moment. You
will not know her if she has the torturers to deal with.”
The older woman only collapsed into a passion of alcoholic sobbing, head
on arms across the table. “I suppose I must trust you,” said Lalette. “I
think I know where it is.”
“Believe me, you must. He is as cruel as a crocodile; would strew your
grave afterward with poems written by himself, but not till he has the
fullest pains from you. . . . Is it in that?”
Lalette had pulled aside her mother’s bed, beneath which lay the old
leather portmanteau with the bar-lock. Mathurin tried it once, twice; it
would not give. Before the girl could protest, he whipped a knife like a
steel tongue from beneath his jacket and expertly slashed around the
fastening. The portmanteau fell open on a collection of such small gauds
and bits of clothing as women treasure, Mathurin shovelling them onto
the floor with both hands until at the back he came on an old, old
wooden box, maybe a handsquare across, with a crack in the wood and a
thin slab of marble that might once have borne an inscription set in its
cover.
“That must be it,” said Lalette, “though I have seen it only outside the
case. I cannot be certain now.”
“Why?”
“A witchery is needed, and—”
“Get your cloak and what money you have. Rodvard lives in the Street of
the Weavers, the third house on the left as you turn in, the one with
the blue door. Do not wait; I must attend my master.”
3
ESCAPE
There was a moon to throw black shadows on passing cat and man;
Lalette’s little sharp heels clicked so loud on the pave that she almost
changed to tiptoe. The Street of the Weavers was known to her; at its
gate she had first met Rodvard, amid booths gay with bunting for the
autumn festival. He slapped her with a bladder then, and challenged her
to dance the volalelle among the reeling violins and sweet
recorders . . .
“Fair lady,” said a tentative voice. Not even looking round, she pulled
the hood closer and hurried her steps until those behind her sounded
irresolute and then died away.
One, two, three; moonlight showed a door that would be a worn blue by
day, clearly a pensionnario. Lalette caught her breath at the loud flat
rap of the knocker through the silent street, held it for a long minute
and was just wondering whether she dared strike again, when there was a
sound of fuzzy disturbance within, and a wicket window beside the door
came open on an ill-tempered face, with a long, drooping, dirty
moustache.
“What do you want?”
“I—I must speak with Rodvard Bergelin.”
“This is a respectable house. Speak with him in the morning.”
“It is—a matter of life and death—Oh, dear God!” as the wicket began to
close. “Here.” She reached in her purse and recklessly thrust at the
face one of the three silver spadas that were all the money she had in
the world (What will mother do tomorrow morning?). The face expressed a
sour satisfaction; an inarticulate grumble came out of it, which she
interpreted as a command to wait where she was. (The musicians’ booth
had been where the shadow of a turret split the corner in particular
shapes.)
A sound of footsteps approached the door from within and it opened upon
Rodvard yawning, hair awry, hose wrinkled at the knees, jacket flung
around unlaced.
“Lalette! What is it? Come in.”
The moustached face hung itself in the background. “She cannot come in
this house at night.”
“The parlor—”
“I say she cannot come in so late. This is a respectable house. Go down
to Losleib Street.”
Face closed the door; Rodvard, all anxious, came down the single step,
pulling his jacket together (with the fine brown hair curling on his
chest in the form of a many-pointed star). “What is it?”
“Can you help me? I do not want to be a burden, but there is trouble.
Truly, not meaning to, I set a witchery on Count Cleudi, and they said
he would have me arrested to the Court of Deacons.”
He was all wideawake and grave at once. “Is there no legalist or priest
you could—”
She stamped. “Would I come here, to your respectable house?”
“I did not mean—I only asked—forgive, this is to be thought on. . . .
Attention; I have heard of an inn by the north gate where provosts never
find anyone who pays. I will go with you.”
“I have hardly any money.”
Even in that uncandid light, she saw his face frown and alter, almost as
Cleudi’s had, another resemblance. (That is what he imagines I am like,
the quick thought crossed her mind, bitterer than the doorman’s
suspicion.) “Wait; I think I know where you’ll be safe for tonight, with
a friend of mine who is no friend of provosts or court lords, either.
But I must get my cap and knife.”
She was quick enough dodging his kiss to make it seem she was only
missing the intention. He went round on his heel and up the stair, back
in a minute with the feathered cap he had worn that afternoon, and
properly belted with his knife. “This friend of mine is a Dr.
Remigorius, have you heard of him? A great man to roar at you like a
lion, but of good and generous heart. For the poor he has always a kind
word, and often physics them or delivers their children without ever
asking payment.”
They passed into the night city. “How did it happen?” questioned he at a
turning.
“In the beginning an accident—ah, do not ask me.” She gestured
impatient, then put the hand that did not hold his arm up to her face.
“And now I am a witch, and I swore I never would be.”
“It is my fault. I am sorry. Will you wed with me?” (The words were out;
he felt a thrill of peril run up his spine.)
“Do you wish—no you do not, I know it. Beside, how would we find a
priest who’d make a marriage without episcopal license—and for a witch?”
“But I do truly desire it. I swear—”
“Oh, spare me your false oaths. Since you ask forgiveness, I’ll forgive
anything but those.” She gripped his arm suddenly so hard it hurt. At
the corner of the next street was a watch of two, one with halberd and
helmet, the other sword and lantern, but the sight of late-walking
couples would be less than novel to them, they only gave a glance in
passing.
Rodvard brought her round another corner and before one of those houses
built with jutting overstoreys in the Zigraner fashion. Small-paned
windows were beside a door, where a stiff stuffed lizard hung to show
that someone within practiced the art medic. The bell tinkled crackedly;
Rodvard’s arm came nervous-tight around the girl. “It will turn to a
happy issue,” he said. “No harm can touch us, now we have—found each
other.” She did not try to draw from the warm sweet pressure, and it
endured until a second ring brought the man out, with a fine beard
ridiculously done up in a sleeping-bag to hold its shape, and a robe
like a priest’s hastily corded round him.
“This is the Demoiselle Asterhax,” said Rodvard. “Can you help her? She
has put a witchery on one of the court lords, Count Cleudi, and is
searched for by the provosts.”
Sleep fell from the older man’s eyes. “A witchery? The Tritulaccan
count? He has enough favor to be deadly if he will, and it would involve
me in the overthrow. . . . But I am sworn by the practice of the healing
art to refuse help to none who come in distress. Enter from the cold.”
Lalette caught a darkling glimpse of shelves lined with jars in glass or
stone as they passed through. Rodvard half stumbled against a stool and
they were at an inner door, where Dr. Remigorius said; “Halt,” struck
flint and steel to a candle and stood in its light beside the untidy
bed, pulling off his beard-bag. “Now you shall tell me a true tale of
how this came about,” he said, “for a physician must know the whole
nature of the disease he is to cure, ha, ha. Will the demoiselle sit?”
He swept the pile of his own garments from the only chair to the bed.
The wine in her limbs and the long double walk had left Lalette tired
and safe and not caring very much now. She sat down slowly. “It was only
that Count Cleudi came with some baskets of supper and was trying to
persuade me to go to the opera-ball with him, and I was toying with my
fingers in some spilled wine on the table. You know how one does—” she
made a little gesture of appeal. “I accidentally drew witch patterns and
when he saw what they were, he—he—he would have had me against my will,
so I witched him. That’s all.”
Not a line changed in Remigorius’ face. Said he; “I see—all but one
detail. What made you flee so fast by midnight to my friend Rodvard?
What do you know about this Count Cleudi?”
“It was his servant, a man named Mathurin, said I must instantly take my
mother’s Blue Star and go. Because he would have had me killed.”
She saw Rodvard flick up his eyebrows as he glanced at Remigorius. (The
expression round his mouth might have been triumph, which was
incomprehensible); her brow knit, but the doctor’s voice was smooth as
ice; “It is not your mother’s Blue Star, but your man’s, while he is
your lover, and I think this must be the case, or you would not have
witched this southern Count. You have Ser Rodvard’s bauble safe, then?”
(A faint perfume of suspicion—was it to herself or to this Blue Star
that he was offering kindness?) Lalette said; “I have it here,” and took
the box from under her cloak.
The doctor, gravely; “Then you will have the provosts much the hotter on
your trail, since the lords temporal and spiritual are not desirous to
have these things in hands they are not certain of. I think you must fly
from the city as fast as you can, perhaps even beyond the Queen’s writ,
up to Kjermanash. Not Mayern, because of the Prince and his prophecies.
But before that it would be well to provide this Blue Star with the
needed witchery and let Ser Rodvard bear it. When you are not easily
found, be sure they will set spies out for you, and with this tool you
may be sure of people you meet.”
Lalette frowned, but looked at Rodvard. “Is this your word also?”
“How could it be other? I think we may need the protection.”
“Very well.” She lifted one palm to her forehead. “This witching is, I
think, something that leaves one without force or will, and I have
performed one tonight. But I will do it. I would be private.”
“There is the shop. Do you require materials, demoiselle?”
“Only a little water—though wine would be better.”
Remigorius produced a bottle half-filled with wine from a tall cabinet
against the wall, lighted a candle-stub, and swung the shop-door open
with a bow. When it had closed behind her, Rodvard said; “I do not see
how, if she is to be taken instantly from the city, I can use this Blue
Star for our purpose.”
The doctor glanced sidelong and whipped a finger to his lips. “Tish!
Matter for the High Center. But who said you would go with her?” They
were quiet; a small sound, like the mewing of a kitten, came from the
shop, then it stopped, and Lalette came back in. The hood was on her
shoulders, and her face was white to the hair-roots; the wooden case
stood open in her hand, and in it, lying on a bed of white silk so old
it had faded to yellow, the Blue Star, the witch-stone, smaller than
might have been imagined, barely a finger-joint across, but seeming to
have depth, so that even in the candlelight all the sapphirean fires of
ocean and cold hell were in its heart.
Rodvard shivered slightly. Lalette said; “Open your jacket,” and when he
had done so, hung the jewel round his neck on its thin gold chain.
“Now I will tell you as I have been taught,” she said, “that while you
wear this jewel, you are of the witch-families, and can read the
thoughts of those in whose eyes you look keenly. But only while you are
my man and lover, for this power is yours through me. If you are
unfaithful to me, it will become for you only a piece of glass; and if
you do not give it up at once when I ask it back, there will lie upon
you and it a deadly witchery, so that you can never rest again.”
She came forward to take his face in both hands and kiss him on the
lips. The stone lay like a piece of ice against his bare chest. Rodvard
felt no different, unchanged, but as he looked deep into the girl’s eyes
before him, he knew without words but beyond any doubt that a black
shadow had closed round her mind, she would never witch him, she had
decided, but was hating all this and Remigorius and him too, for the
moment. He turned his head, the thought flashed away, and the doctor
said, with a twist at the corner of his lips:
“Now we will see if this star is a true marvel or only another of the
bogey-tales made up by the lords of court to keep men in submission.
Look in my eyes, Ser Rodvard, and tell me what I am thinking.”
Rodvard looked. “Why, why,” he said, “I do not altogether understand,
but it is as though you were saying in words that you would try on a
living person whether an infusion of squill in vinegar is useful in a
stoppage of the passages.” (It was not the complete thought, there was a
formless shadow at the back of his mind, something about a treason.)
Remigorius shook his head and turned from the gaze with pressed lips.
“God’s splendor! You are become a dangerous man, Ser Bergelin,” he said,
“or a cleverer one than I think.” Then; “I count the night more than
half gone, and you will need rest, having far to travel in the morning.
I leave you two my bed while I arrange for your journey.” He picked up
his clothes and bowed himself into the shop to dress. Rodvard and
Lalette were left alone.