Rodvard did not come back that evening, nor the next, and no word from
him of any kind. Lalette felt unhappy and listless after so long
indoors; above her she could hear from time to time Mme. Kaja’s
footsteps come and go, and when the door was opened, often one of her
pupils in song, flatted usually and more frequently than not, off key.
The boy Laduis soon held little more for her, and in any case with the
spring festival now rushing on so fast, had to be taken from his academy
to run errands for his mother, who now worked late every night. The
widow said the court had gone down to Sedad Vix, the doubled guards at
the city gates were withdrawn, and the provosts somewhat relaxing in
vigilance as to their search for the girl.
It might be safe to leave her refuge, if she had any place to go.
Surely, not to her mother’s, who would still be watched by Uncle
Bontembi the priest if by no other, and it seemed to Lalette there was
no friend of her own age near enough to be trusted, now that all the
world knew her for a witch. It was a box. For the present, one was able
to pay in some sort for food and shelter by labor on the festival
costumes, but that would soon be done. Ah, Rodvard, are you detained or
faithless—which? She wished him there before her for an explanation that
would also be the clue to her new life; and asked herself why a
partnership of half an hour and not altogether of her own will, should
bind her for life. Hold him she thought she could, and though hating the
dependency into which she was thrown, hating the bond that made
dependency her only resort, there was nothing to do but go see Dr.
Remigorius, knowing that man hated her, and through him, try to find her
lover. Oh, if I could ever be my own, not my mother’s nor any his, she
wished desperately, and though not a word of this was put into voice,
the widow seemed to know her whole mind when Lalette said she thought it
might be worth going forth on festival eve to seek tidings.
“Of course. You will want the mask of the Kjermanash princess, the one
that Laduis calls Sunimaa. I will let you take it.”
Nothing more was said at this time, nor until the afternoon of the
festival eve itself, with horns and whistles already blowing in the
street, though the sun had not yet touched the arm of spring, when the
widow helped her into the fur-tipped robe, surveyed her all round, and
bade farewell with a smile (which Lalette thought a trifle sad). “If all
does not go as you would wish, return here. You may at all times come in
the name of the God of love.”
It was just falling twilight when Lalette felt stones under her feet
again and breathed deep the fine air of spring. Someone had hung a pair
of colored lanterns at the gate of the Street Cossao, one of them with a
broken pane in its side, through which the candle within shed its beam
on a group of three or four premature revellers gathered round a bottle.
They hallooed to Lalette and began to follow her along the boulevard on
uneasy legs, but gave it up when she saw a hired carriage come past
empty and hailed it as if to mount. When she did not after all enter his
vehicle, the carriage-master swore at her, but want of money to pay left
her without choice.
At the market-place tables had been set out and musicians on a stand
surrounded with flowers and green branches were already intoning the
volalelle, but only three or four couples were dancing. There were some
murmurs of appreciation for her costume from those sitting; none called
nor gave her any sign. It was a poor district; she knew she must look by
the half too lordly, and that was as well.
Some way farther along, a group all masked was holding a procession from
a side-street behind a hand-drum, and laughingly begged her to join, but
she pulled loose. The sound of bells began to hang over the gay din that
rose from the city, and Lalette hurried, feeling more than ever out of
protection and alone. The street where Remigorius had his shop was wider
than her memory of it. Someone had affixed an absurd green paper ribbon
to the neck of the stuffed lizard over the door, but all seemed dark
within.
There was no answer when Lalette pulled at the bell. Her heart plunged
down into dreadful syncope—Oh, what will I do without money if he is not
there nor anyone? Not go back to that woman of strange gods, no. She
rang again, twice, to make her insistence clear, and as someone down the
street greeted guests with a glad shout of welcome, the door cracked
open and a voice said that the doctor was abroad, not even in Netznegon
City, but there was another medic around the corner and two stories
aloft.
“Oh,” said Lalette, “it is not for the curative that I wished him. I
desire to find a friend of his and mine—Rodvard Bergelin.”
Door came fully open. In the rapidly fading light the girl found herself
looking at a young man whose chin and slanting eyes betrayed Zigraner
origin. As always with that race, the smile was an effort to ingratiate,
but there was something unpleasant about it. “Are you—?”
“Lalette Asterhax. Yes.”
“Demoiselle, will you come in? The doctor has left me to keep his place
for all that concerns the Sons of the New Day, since matters have
reached such a crisis with what has been discovered at the conference of
court.”
Lalette followed him (with dreadful certainty clutching at her heart
that this was the key, then, of so much she had failed to understand;
Rodvard was an intimate of that gang of murderous conspirators and so
must these others be.) The Zigraner indicated a stool in the shop and
struck a light. “You permit that I introduce myself? I am Gaidu Pyax. Of
Rodvard you should not be concerned. He is doing good work, and the High
Center has forwarded to ours its praise of him.”
(I am planets and centuries away from the man who has chosen me, she
thought. How can I say it? What shall I ask?) “There was no word.”
The Zigraner frowned. “The sub-leader of your center doubtless told you
of the plot against Baron Brunivar, the regent prospective? It was
Rodvard who uncovered it.”
“Oh.” (The conversation was going to stop.) She cried desperately; “I
thought he would be back with me for the festival.”
“And you have so lovely a costume, demoiselle. Duty bears hard on us.”
His smile changed to a little bark of a laugh. “But be tranquil for him;
he will sport high with the court at Sedad Vix.” The tongue of Gaidu
Pyax came out and made a circle round his lips; he glanced where the
clock ticked against the wall and darted his eye around quickly. “I will
see you home, or if you will—it is only—that is—would you care to see
how we Zigraners keep festival?”
Outside the dark was almost full; the bells were all chiming in chorus
and Rodvard at Sedad Vix. (I have no home, she thought, and he has sent
no word.) “It would be pleasant.” (For one must do something.)
Pyax leaped to his feet, his mouth all twisted with joy. “Come, let us
go at once. I do not wish to be late for the light.” He ran into the
rear room with blundering, skipping steps, tripping at the doorsill.
Lalette heard him stumble and then, in a break of the street-noises, how
a voice in that rear room growled at him heavily. (Remigorius is there
after all, she thought, and maybe Rodvard; they are lying to me.) Pyax’
high-pitched voice said; “I don’t care if she is a witch. She’s going
to—” and was cut off by the long bellow of a horn blown nearby, and he
was back, his face somewhat abashed.
He did not lock the door. In the street the festival was now full-met,
with lights tossing along and the horns blown from every window under
the steady bells. Gaidu Pyax wore only a simple eye-mask and his voice
had a lilt of excitement. Lalette (knew it was because how all his
family would boast of having a true Dossolan girl to keep festival with,
but she) said;
“I thought you told me that Doctor Remigorius was abroad.”
In the flickering light, his eyes were sidelong. “He is; he truly is,
demoiselle.”
“Was that not his voice I heard in the rear room?”
“Oh, no, that was one of our people for whom the provosts are searching,
and it is your fault in a way, because he had to eliminate the doorman
at Rodvard’s house, who recognized you—” How much further he would have
carried the useless lie she did not know or care, for at that moment a
girl in a passing group threw a scent-ball that struck him in the face.