This Scepter'd Isle Page 36

  A five-foot-tall badger approached. Aside from his size and his hands—one of which held a tray with a bottle and a glass on it—he seemed to be an ordinary badger, black with white stripes and short powerful arms and legs. The kitsune stepped ahead and something passed from the kitsune's hand to that of the badger.

  "Gate to the Bazaar what you want?" the badger asked Denoriel, casting a suspicious glance at the kitsune.

  "Yes, thank you," Denoriel replied. "If you would be so kind."

  The badger gestured at them to follow and wove his way among the tables, stopping about midway to deposit the bottle and glass. Denoriel saw that the walls at the sides of the room were undercut so that there were booths sheltered from the light of the torches in the deep shadows. Surely at the very back of one of them eyes gleamed just above the table and a dark form seemed to hang down from the booth ceiling. Some light from the suspended candelabra showed a very fair Sidhe sitting at the table to the front of that booth.

  "Want to watch out for the boy," the badger said.

  "He has King Oberon's mark," Denoriel pointed out. "Surely that will be protection enough."

  "From those who come from Underhill." The badger snickered. "The Bazaar of the Bizarre didn't get its name for nothing. That's the fair attended by those who come from other worlds, and mortals who are strong enough in sorcery to find their way. Some of the otherworlders care nothing for King Oberon's commands."

  Denoriel shrugged. "If they are forced to obey the rule of the Bazaar and commit no violence, I can hold my own."

  "But can the boy?" the badger persisted. "Some of the inducements that will be offered to him will be hard to resist."

  "Well, Harry?" Denoriel looked down at the boy who was still holding his hand.

  "I don't believe I will be tempted after . . . after . . . I have my duty, after all."

  The boy's eyes widened as he heard the words that came from his lips and he clutched tighter at Denoriel's hand. Lady Aeron stretched her neck forward from where she walked behind him and lipped at his hair comfortingly.

  "Ah, duty." The badger chuckled. "Mortals and their duty. Duty brings them Underhill and duty gets them into trouble here. Never heard of duty keeping a mortal out of trouble."

  "Harry means he must return to the mortal world," Denoriel said.

  As he spoke they came to the back of the chamber, which was closed by double wooden doors, rather like those of a barn in the mortal world. The doors opened as they neared.

  "Good luck," the badger said, pointing across the backyard at what seemed to be the roots of an enormous tree.

  Six roots stood out of the ground, each as large as a mighty tree trunk, joining together some ten or twelve feet above the ground. Both Denoriel and Harry stared upward at the colossus, which reared out of sight into a silvery twilight sky.

  "Where's the funny sun?" Harry asked.

  Denoriel shook his head. "It may be that those doors we passed are a Gate in themselves. I don't know."

  He was speaking slowly, examining the openings between the great roots. They were designed, he saw, to admit only one being at a time. Lady Aeron and Miralys could go separately; they would arrive anywhere they wanted to arrive when they wanted. The kitsune could presumably take care of himself, and in any case Denoriel felt no responsibility for him; however, Denoriel was damned if he was going to allow Harry to step through that Gate himself. He bent his knees.

  "Up on my back, Harry," he said. "I'm not taking any chance on a Gate whisking you away."

  The boy giggled, then obediently climbed up on Denoriel's back. Even through the pouch and the spells and all the clothing, Denoriel could feel the cold ache of that accursed cross. He thought with relief that Harry could now take it off whenever they were together. Oberon's mark would protect Harry from the Sidhe.

  He stepped between two of the roots, but had no time to seek the power points. The faint shiver of dislocation passed through him immediately, and he found himself under a wooden arch with a decorative curved trelliswork that spelled out bazaar. Harry slipped down from his back but intelligently took his hand.

  On each side of the arch, attached, brightly colored banners waved. Directly in front of the archway was a large sign so placed that no one emerging from the Gate could possibly avoid seeing it. In fact one had to walk several steps right or left to pass the notice.

  The words, in beautifully calligraphed Elven, said, no spells, no drawn weapons, no violence and below those words on pain of permanent removal.

  Denoriel stared at the sign for a moment. A feeling, gut-deep, assured him that the threat was real; something would remove . . . remove? remove to where? . . . any being that cast a spell, drew a weapon, or committed violence. He sighed. Then what did the kitsune fear? Resolved to watch that sly little fox closely, Denoriel stepped around the sign. Just on the other side he saw the kitsune standing between Miralys and Lady Aeron.

  "Let's go," Matka Toimisto said, craning around Lady Aeron's shoulder to look. "The elvensteeds have generously offered to walk with us right to the entrance. I'll be safe once we're inside the Bazaar."

  So, Denoriel thought, the prohibitions against violence only apply inside the faire itself. In this . . . he looked around frowning at the huge area stretching out to his left in which an assortment of vehicles and animals that even he found straining his belief were tethered? bound? settled? Never mind, he would think about that later.

  "You're sure you were just talking to that girl?" he asked.

  The fox didn't answer, merely shook his head as if a fly were buzzing around it, but he was so obviously nervous that Denoriel took pity on him and started for the entrance. This was a narrow passage, blocked by another large sign on which two words in letters even larger than those of the previous warning appeared.

  caveat emptor!

  "Buyer beware?" Harry said.

  Denoriel looked down at him. "You can read the sign?"

  The boy blinked in surprise. "You know I can read!" he said indignantly. "And the Latin is very simple."

  "Latin? But it's in Elven," Denoriel began, and then laughed. "What a fool I am. Of course, the sign appears in whatever language the reader knows. And yes, the buyer must beware at these faires. The only thing a vendor can't do is hit you over the head and steal your purse. Every other form of stealing is acceptable."

  "Can I buy something?" the boy asked eagerly, ignoring both the sign and Denoriel's confirmation of its warning.

  As they moved to step around the sign, the elvensteeds backed off. Denoriel looked at the sign again. Below the CAVEAT EMPTOR were lines in smaller letters. "If you can't walk, hop, crawl, roll, slither, or whatever, on your own, you can't come in!"

  No transport inside the Bazaar. That seemed unfair to Denoriel. The elvensteeds were as much people as most residents Underhill and more so than many. Why should they be excluded just because they were generous enough to carry the Sidhe? He received a feeling of reassurance from Miralys and a touch of humor. He shrugged. It was true enough that the elvensteeds weren't interested in buying or selling. And then, looking back at the large area they had passed and seeing some of the beasts and vehicles there, he could understand the reason for the rule.

  Denoriel sighed, transferred Harry's hand to his gown, and removed the mortal-made saddle from Miralys. It was about all he had to trade with, except for the gold coins in his purse, and the Sidhe traders at least could make their own. Then with the boy's hand firmly clasped in his again and the saddle on his shoulder, he stepped around the sign . . . and realized the kitsune was gone.

  A flash of rage was followed by resignation. He should have expected it and the mischievous fox had at least got them to the Bazaar quickly and without trouble. Furhold was rarely evil, but its denizens were great ones for playing games.

  His suspicion was unjustified, however. Just beyond the passage into the Bazaar Matka Toimisto was waiting, backed against the wall that enclosed the faire, watching the movement of the motle
y crowd. Denoriel began a step in his direction and was caught short by Harry, who had retained a firm grip on his hand. The boy had stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape.

  CHAPTER 23

  Pasgen looked into the mirror one last time to assure himself that his disguise as Fagildo Otstargi (close, if little known, advisor to Thomas Cromwell, Cardinal Wolsey's steward and legal expert) was perfect. Despite the exotic name and the fact that Cromwell believed him to be a subtle and powerful magician, Master Otstargi showed no outward sign of his uncanny abilities. Not for him spangled robes or tall, conical hats. So garbed, no sensible man in political service would dare public association.

  He nodded at the nondescript figure that nodded back at him from the mirror. His ears were round, his eyes a soft brown as was his hair, most of which was confined under a moss-green velvet cap. He had a well-trimmed mustache that grew down around his small pursed mouth into an equally neat goatee. His clothes were of fine cloth but muted color and very conservative style; his doublet the same moss green as his cap, his gown a darker green. A modest amount of slashing saved his doublet from being dowdy although the slashing showed only a glimpse of a very white and delicately embroidered shirt.

  Aside from the sword that was belted over his doublet under his gown, he wore no jewelry except the two rings on his left hand. Even they were subdued, dark stones that occasionally sparked a sharp glint of red or gold set cabochon in very simple gold settings. He was the picture of a wealthy man with no desire to call attention to himself.

  Such discretion should be a pleasant change for Cromwell, bound to the cardinal, who loved display. Even so, and although he was responding to a summons from Cromwell, Pasgen was not looking forward to this meeting. He was going to have to warn Cromwell that he must leave the sinking ship that Cardinal Wolsey had become and look out for himself.

  There was no further advice, no additional clever expedient that even a magician as skilled as Otstargi could suggest to save the man who had virtually ruled England for fifteen years. Unfortunately Cromwell did not yet see that Wolsey's time had run out. Cromwell believed that Wolsey had been very clever in managing King Henry's last demand to be freed from his marriage. The cardinal seemed to be obedient to the king, convincing the pope to allow the court examining the king's marriage to be held in England.

  However, the delay after delay in convening that court, which was supposed to give ample time for the king to grow disgusted with Mistress Boleyn's sharp tongue, had not worked as expected. Henry had grown impatient, but not with Mistress Anne, and the delays had been seized upon by Cardinal Wolsey's enemies.

  That party, headed by the dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, had long hinted to the king that Wolsey's loyalties were divided. Now they seemed to have proof that Wolsey did not really support Henry's purpose of divorcing his wife to marry Mistress Anne Boleyn. Look, they said, at how the cardinal was more fearful of offending the pope than eager to do the king's will.

  The dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk pointed out that the court summoned to examine the validity of Henry VIII's marriage was presided over by two cardinals—Wolsey and Campeggio. Campeggio was an old man and very sick. It had taken him months to make the trip from Rome, which most churchmen accomplished in six weeks and a messenger could do in less time. And when he had arrived, Campeggio had taken to his bed for another few weeks. Surely Wolsey, who had dominated everyone else, could have seen to it that the sick, old man gave the desired verdict—that Henry's marriage was null and void.

  Instead, proceedings had been dragged out for more than another three months, and then Wolsey had permitted Campeggio to adjourn the court, which virtually guaranteed that the case would be remanded to Rome. In Rome, still dominated by the influence of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, Henry's case was hopeless. Since Charles was Catherine of Aragon's nephew, he would never agree to any expedient that permitted King Henry to marry again.

  The Emperor looked forward to seeing Princess Mary on the throne of England, possibly married to a suitor he would provide, which would put England right into his hand. Charles was taking no chance that his cousin Mary would be superceded by a male born of some subsequent wife. The pope had his orders; Henry's marriage was not to be dissolved.

  Pasgen was as eager as Charles to see Mary on the throne, welcoming the Inquisition to England, but somewhat to his surprise Aurilia had convinced him that the Unseleighe Court could have their cake and eat it too. If they allowed the red-haired child to be born and abducted the babe, Mary would still rule, still set the fires of the Inquisition burning. Meanwhile, the babe could be raised at the Unseleighe Court, and they would control one of the most protean and inventive mortal minds that would exist for a hundred years.

  Contrary to everything they had tried to do before, now Pasgen needed to see that Anne climbed into King Henry's bed. It would be best, for his purposes, if she yielded her body without managing to seduce Henry into marriage. But to watch or influence either event, Pasgen needed to have access to the court.

  Until now his access had been through Cromwell and Wolsey, which had conveniently kept him well clear of Aleneil and her connection to Anne's family as well as FitzRoy and Denoriel. However Pasgen was sure Wolsey was about to lose his grip on the king and Pasgen did not want Cromwell to go down with his master.

  Cromwell was actually a human Pasgen enjoyed. He had a remarkably ingenious mind and could reason black into white. In addition he had a most captivating manner—even to a hired inferior, which was what Pasgen was pretending to be; Pasgen was well aware of the cruelty masked by the charm, but that only made Cromwell more attractive. Moreover Pasgen did not relish the idea of needing to establish a new "human" identity, so he had determined to save Cromwell from being destroyed with Wolsey if he possibly could.

  Fortunately Pasgen did not need to travel far; Cromwell was currently housed at York House in Whitehall, which was a short ride. He left the bedchamber, which he locked behind him, and went down the stairs. A servant bowed, his glazed eyes betraying that he was capable only of following specific orders. Pasgen told him to send for his horse and while he waited, mounted, and rode to his destination he again rehearsed in his mind what he would say to Cromwell.

  The first part of the interview went just as Pasgen expected, with Cromwell paling, denying, arguing, and slowly coming to recognize the horrible validity of Pasgen's prediction. He was driven at last to the feeble protest that the king could not be so ungrateful after all the years of Wolsey's devoted service.

  "Devoted to whom?" Pasgen asked rather nastily. "Undoubtedly the cardinal has managed the affairs of the realm reasonably well, but as much or more to his own benefit as to the king's." Pasgen's mouth twitched. "He is probably richer than the king—and Henry is aware of it. Moreover in this latest matter, he has failed most disastrously. You know, too, that in ruling in Henry's name the cardinal has made many enemies, enemies far more supportive of the king's desire than Cardinal Wolsey."

  "But the king and even Mistress Anne's father, Lord Rochford, were pacified over the adjournment of the divorce trial when the revenues of Durham were signed over to them." Cromwell knew, even as he made the argument, that it was a hollow one.

  "Yes, but that was before Wolsey's blindness to the true import of the treaty of Cambria and his deliberate misreading or misremembering of articles."

  "Because his spirit was so disordered over the king's displeasure." Cromwell rose from the chair he had been sitting in, opposite that he had invited Pasgen to use. "But that was in August. Why now?"

  "Have not Mistress Anne and her father been constantly in King Henry's company while the cardinal has been denied access to the court?"

  Cromwell paled at this reminder and sat down again. "Perhaps if I—"

  Pasgen shook his head. "It is too late to do anything except to save yourself. If I were you, I would go to the king with a tale—"

  "No!" Cromwell looked appalled and then suddenly less frightened and very thoughtful. "Betr
ay my master in his time of need?" he said slowly. "No, indeed."

  "Will it make it any better for Cardinal Wolsey if you are destroyed with him?" Pasgen snapped.

  "Certainly not." Cromwell's lips, which had been tight with tension, softened somewhat. "I will speak to the Cardinal as soon as he returns and see what arrangements can be made to mitigate the blow, if a blow must fall."

  Pasgen permitted a very faint hint of disbelief. "What arrangements will stand against King Henry's will?"

  "Oh, none," Cromwell agreed, "but this is England, and even the king cannot swallow Wolsey and his possessions without raising protest from the people."

  "But the people will be overjoyed to see Wolsey fall," Pasgen pointed out. "He is greatly hated. And though the people may protest, it is the king who rules."

  Cromwell made a disdainful gesture, but at the same time bit his lower lip. "That may be true, but no man in this land will like to see any other—even one much hated—stripped of his rights and possessions without some account of the reason therefore."

  Pasgen laughed. "Well, there are surely reasons enough to send Wolsey to the gallows, and the people more than willing to see him there and believe any ill of him. It is time to think of saving yourself by—"

  Cromwell shook his head. "Perhaps I cannot save his power, but great wealth can be used to good purpose aside from making a fine show to impress the mighty. And given time to recover, who knows what the cardinal can do?"

  Pasgen paused, and allowed his eyes to catch and hold Cromwell's for a moment, willing him to recall every moment when he had seen the king panting after Mistress Anne like a dog after a coy bitch. "I do not think even Wolsey's wealth will buy back the king's favor nor any time, no matter how long. Not unless Wolsey has been concealing a decree of annulment about his person."