By Slanderous Tongues Read online

  And the mortals seemed to enjoy the torture of removing and replacing the garments several times a day at the slightest excuse.

  Fortunately no one had spilled anything on Denoriel during his wait in the queen’s hall, so that he did not need to change. For verisimilitude he had a wardrobe full of clothing in his bedchamber, but he rarely wore any of it. To dress in any of those garments, he would have to call one of the male servants to help him tie points and button buttons. And the Low Court Sidhe who cooked and cleaned the house all laughed so hard over the clothing that they weren’t much help. It was far easier to Gate Underhill and magic the clothes onto his body than to dress here in the World Above. Since none of the servants spoke more than a word of English, they could not betray him. And today he had a good excuse; none of the clothes stored here was in suitable colors for the half mourning that a foreign noble would be expected to wear. Not the black of full mourning. That would be presumptuous.

  Cropper was waiting in the corridor near the front door carrying Denoriel’s fur-lined cloak. The basket of wine bottles rested on the table with the salver for cards. Cropper put Denoriel’s cloak over his shoulders, opened the door for Denoriel, waited until his master had passed through, picked up the basket, and closed the door behind him. He waited for Denoriel to set out and followed him, a careful three steps to the rear.

  A few feet down the street, Denoriel was aware that Cropper had hesitated and fallen back a few steps. Denoriel did not turn his head to look, assuming something was in the man’s shoe, or a shoe had come loose. He did not want Cropper to feel he was being criticized, just slowed his pace a bit so the man could easily catch up.

  When they reached Cannon Row, Denoriel became aware of the inconvenience of finding a place when the man who actually knew where they were going, was behind him. He stopped, gestured Cropper forward and said to him, “Go ahead and make sure it will be convenient for Mistress Cecil to receive me—or Master Cecil if the mistress is not at home and he is.”

  Pasgen was enjoying himself studying this Unformed land, but he stopped dead as he felt the lindys under the wide collar of his shirt stiffen. He was dressed only for comfort and some protection against odd outcroppings of rock or twigs and thorns in a white silk shirt with full sleeves, close-fitting black velvet trousers, and soft, unpolished, knee-high leather boots. And because one never knew what might have been loosed by some lunatic or mischievous Sidhe in an Unformed land, he wore both silver sword and long knife.

  The lindys twitched. Pasgen tensed, hand raised to spell him to the Gate, although he realized that a spell in this place might be very dangerous. Nonetheless, if Rhoslyn was in trouble and needed him immediately any other danger was insignificant. But the lindys did not convulse. It did not even stiffen into rigidity, only lying still and tense. Pasgen dropped his hand, the slight glimmer of blue power fading from his fingers, and concentrated on sensing what information the lindys held.

  Rhoslyn’s construct could only warn her if he were in acute danger and help her Gate to wherever he was; he did not want to stress her with his tensions and anxieties. His lindys gave much more complete information. For a moment he closed his mind to the faint cries of fear and an only slightly louder roaring that had attracted his attention and concentrated on Rhoslyn. She was Gating, anxious but not threatened, ah, Vidal and Aurilia—Pasgen’s nose wrinkled—Aurilia using a truth spell.

  A thin smile stretched Pasgen’s lips for a moment. Doubtless Vidal wanted to know where he was. Since Rhoslyn did not know, she could answer with perfect truth. Nonetheless Pasgen set off in the direction of the Gate. He wanted to be near enough to Gate immediately if Vidal did more than question Rhoslyn.

  Pasgen could not see the Gate through the swirling mist, but when that little monster Elizabeth and her party had arrived he had felt her mark the Gate. Then he, too, had felt the difference of the power flow in the mist where the Gate was. Resentment flicked him because she, ignorant and untaught, had found magic that he, deep scholar of power, had never noticed.

  Then he smiled again. He could not envy what was inborn. She was some little prodigy of art and nature, that Elizabeth. He was really pleased that he had promised Rhoslyn to do her no harm. A double benefit to that: he would be able to study the puzzle of her power and indirectly to frustrate Vidal at the same time.

  A pleasant sensation of satisfaction rose in him as he neared the Gate, and he folded his legs and sat down on the invisible—ground? was it ground? The surface, anyway. He was now only a few long running steps from the Gate. He doubted Rhoslyn would need his support, but in case she did, he would not need to use magic to reach the Gate. And in this particular Unformed land he did not want to use magic unless it was a matter of life and death.

  For as long as the lindys remained tense and unmoving, Pasgen concentrated on the telltale. Distantly, from time to time, he again heard some sounds and wondered whether it was merely the soughing of the movement of shifting power in this very strange place or whether something material was crying and roaring. Then the lindys relaxed; Pasgen could feel Rhoslyn’s satisfaction and was himself also satisfied.

  He made a mental note to visit the empty house to ask Rhoslyn what Vidal wanted as he rose to his feet, but the forefront of his attention was now given to his ears. Surely the sounds were real and separate. The timbre of the cries was very different from that of the roaring and surely there was occasionally a rhythm almost like speech in those cries. His head cocked to the side, listening, Pasgen began to walk toward the sounds.

  In mere moments they were more distinct and he no longer felt any doubt. One set of sounds was cries—almost Elven, almost human, but not quite either in pitch. And it was a set, one a higher, the other a slightly lower voice. The voices shrieked in unison and the roar sounded almost atop the cries. Without thought Pasgen began to run. Something? someone? was in deep trouble. Weirdly, the mist seemed to thin before him as if it were making a path.

  Ooof.

  The cry was thin and terrified, but Pasgen felt the impact of a slight but firmly solid body. Before he could make any response, a scream of agony rang out followed by a near deafening animal roar. And through the mist he glimpsed a tawny coat, a ragged mane. Pasgen drew sword and knife just as the mist curled away and disclosed a very genuine-looking lion just about to spring atop a vaguely Elven form.

  Pasgen shouted aloud.

  The lion lifted its head from its prey. Whatever … whoever had hit him, brushed his shoulder, running back toward the lion. Pasgen thrust it away with the elbow of his knife hand, away behind him, away from the lion. He had no idea why. The thin voice cried out again, despairingly. If he had a brain in his head, Pasgen thought, he would let the lion eat his meal and slip away while the creature was busy. But that would leave the lion loose in the mist, perhaps to leap on him when he was unaware.

  He remembered suddenly that Elizabeth had said she had asked the mist to create the lion to save her from some human abductors. She had thought it would frighten them, but it had killed them instead and then almost killed her. It was too dangerous, and she had brought with her help—Denoriel; that boy grown into a man now, that he and Rhoslyn had tried so often to abduct and Vidal had wanted so badly; and two Elven makers—all to try to destroy the lion. And he, all alone, was shouting to draw its attention.

  He succeeded.

  The lion tensed, its head lifting, quivering slightly as it prepared to leap at him. Pasgen’s sword rose to point at the lion; words of a spell of dissolution trembled on his lips—and were swallowed back. The Great Allmother alone knew what would happen if he spoke that spell without warding in this place. And even if it worked, Pasgen knew that the mist would not like it.

  Later, when he had caught his breath and had time to think, Pasgen wondered if he had gone utterly mad. At the time, he shouted again and leapt forward before the lion could. The creature reared up in surprise, exposing its throat and chest. Pasgen plunged forward another step and thrust his sword i
nto the beast’s throat.

  The blade went in to almost half its length, but there was no blood and an absolutely unweakened roar followed. Pasgen withdrew his sword, backed a single step, and slashed. He knew the gesture was utterly futile and would be his last, but he was so enraged at the thought that his life would end under the claws of a senseless beast that he had to strike out. To his intense astonishment, the sword went through the thick neck … and then the whole animal began to ravel away.

  He stood staring, watching the rich color fade from the fur, the coarse and tangled mane become wisps of colorless mist, the whole dissipate into a formless wave of motion.

  “Did you wish to be rid of it, mist?” he whispered, standing still, listening with every sense he had.

  Behind him there was an indrawn breath. Pasgen whirled around, sword ready, but there was nothing to fight. What stood behind him, protectively over the thing the lion had savaged, was weaponless, small and slight. It was not elven; it was not human, but … Pasgen swallowed. It had red hair, and though the body and features were those of an ill-made doll, it had a bright, inquisitive feeling about it.

  Pasgen blinked. Mist couldn’t have a will! Mist held power, but only as wood held fire. Had the mist been enchanted by Elizabeth as so many who dealt with her were? Had it made an Elizabeth for itself? Cold shimmied up and down his back. Was he going mad to have such a thought about a domain of unformed chaos?

  He closed his mind to those questions and took a step toward the recumbent thing. The red-haired doll stood directly in his path, upright as a stave, its indistinct features nonetheless forming a mask of determination. He became aware of the naked sword and knife in his hands and sheathed them. The rigidity of the ill-formed figure relaxed somewhat, but when Pasgen stepped forward toward the thing on the ground, she—the long red hair made it, whatever it was, feminine—sidled around in front of him.

  “I mean your … friend … no harm,” he said.

  After a further moment of indecision, she stepped aside. Pasgen went down on one knee and found himself stilled by shock. A Sidhe, as badly made as the red-haired doll, but that was human … sort of … and this was Sidhe. The hair was gold, the ears large and pointed, the other features as indistinct as those of the thing with red hair, but … Pasgen swallowed again … the thing was somehow familiar, chillingly familiar. An image created from a faulty memory of him? A mist with a memory?

  Pasgen was shocked again when his glance moved from the face down to the body. It had been ripped open from chest to groin. The thing could not have survived! Almost, Pasgen laughed. Clearly it was not alive to begin with, how could he think in terms of survival? But the lion had dissipated after a much less fatal wound. And as he watched, the great hollow scooped out by the lion’s claws was already filling. The mist, it seemed, did not want to lose this … whatever it was.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Pasgen asked, rising to his feet and facing the red-haired doll.

  After a long moment, as if, perhaps, the mist had to make sense of what he had said and pass it to her, she smiled. Well, there was some motion around the slit that must be her mouth that Pasgen took to be a smile.

  “I will leave you then,” he said. “I have business elsewhere.”

  That drew no response at all and to his own intense astonishment, Pasgen bowed. He would not allow himself to think at all as he walked back toward the Gate. In his mind he said over to himself the most complicated, and harmless, spell he knew, one he had devised to create a room full of furniture all at once. There was deep, deep fear in him now, he who feared so little. But this—this was new, was unheard of—and the potential for danger was so great he resolved he would not think of it until he was somewhere safer.

  When he reached the Gate, his will called up the glowing field into which patterns could be fixed. There were several already set. His glance ran over them; then, suddenly, he closed his eyes and took into his mind the feel of this Gate, thoroughly, carefully, so that he would always have it, know it, and be able to return here. Quickly then he chose a pattern already fixed into the field for a destination and directed his will at it.

  Blackness, falling, arrival. Pasgen barely glanced around. The Gate was handsome but not spectacular and what he could see of the domain was peaceful and beautiful but too irregular to soothe him—a stream there, bushes and trees scattered, their leaves all helter-skelter any way they wished to grow. And there were voices, thin and at the same time rough with age, off in the distance where a shimmering white cupola barely rose above a small copse of trees.

  Hurriedly Pasgen called the pattern field. All three great markets were permanently infixed. Hardly noticing which one he selected, Pasgen willed himself to Gate. Arriving, he made haste into the market, found another Gate, and after five more transfers, he was in his own domain. There, where each leaf on each tree, each bush, was placed perfectly, where the soothing tinkle of crystal music smoothed away the memory of strange, discordant sound, he sat down on a small bench … and began to tremble.

  Chapter 6

  “She is arrogant and needs lessoning,” Aurilia said, scowling at the door through which Rhoslyn had passed.

  But Vidal, although he was also staring at the door, obviously was not listening. “Perhaps it is just as well that she thinks I only want to find Pasgen,” he muttered to himself. “He is so resentful of my recovery and my taking back the rule of Caer Mordwyn that he would doubtless ruin whatever I set him to do.”

  Aurilia had lifted a finger, which brought one of the newtlike servants into the chamber. While Vidal mumbled to himself, she sent the servant to procure more of her potion. Then she turned her still-brilliant green eyes on her prince.

  “You are likely right about that, my lord,” she said. “And it is no loss. All you need do is wear his seeming when you leave the palace. Those who see you will believe that Pasgen has set out to do your bidding, and so their minds will report if Oberon ever searches for one who has displeased him.”

  “Now that is a clever thought, my lady,” Vidal approved, smiling at her. “Any watcher will have reported that Rhoslyn was here.”

  Aurilia nodded. “All will be convinced that Pasgen was here also, even if he came by a different route, most especially if several see him leave the palace.”

  Vidal’s sharp teeth showed briefly. “And it will be even more convincing as I will be going to the house in the mortal world that Pasgen established for his disguise as the wizard Fagildo Otstargi. Yes, yes.” His teeth showed again. “With the king’s death, my failing tool is sure to have begged for Otstargi’s advice. He will be good for one more task.”

  Cropper briskly plied the knocker on the door of the modest house and when it opened, said, before the servant could protest his coming to the front door, “My master, Lord Denno Adjoran, would wait upon Mistress Mildred Cecil if it is convenient for her to receive him. He wishes to explain why her request for the rumney wine has not been fulfilled.”

  The servant, seeing Denoriel at the foot of the three wide, shallow steps leading to the house, took in the quality of his clothing with a quick glance and the quality of his servant’s livery; he stepped back, opening the door wider. Denoriel promptly accepted that invitation, coming up the stairs. Cropper had stepped aside as Denoriel mounted the steps and followed him in.

  “I will see if my lady is at home and can receive a visitor,” the servant said. Then, he gestured to the side of the passage that led through the house, which was furnished, close to the outer door, with a small table holding a salver, and to each side of the table a handsome chair. “If you would be good enough, Lord Denno, to wait …”

  Denoriel looked around as the servant passed about a third of the way down the hall and then went left through a door, presumably into a parlor. Usually the door to the right led to the hall and the stairway to the second level. The passage was wainscoted in a richly finished oak halfway up the wall. Above, a pleasantly patterned plaster of soft ivory color mad
e a fine background for several sober portraits.

  Just above the table was one Denoriel recognized, Sir Anthony Cooke, whom he had seen walking with the young prince when he visited Elizabeth at Hertford Palace some years ago. Beyond Cooke, not far from the door the servant had entered, was the portrait of a lady. Denoriel had taken two steps to look more closely at the picture, when the servant came out of the door, said the mistress would be happy to receive him, took Denoriel’s cloak and led the way.

  A fire was blazing in a very handsome fireplace across from the doorway, the warmth extending a seductive invitation to join the lady standing in front of a cushioned chair. Behind the standing young woman, two others were sitting. Denoriel stopped and bowed. The young lady smiled and stretched a hand toward him.

  She was simply dressed, her gown of dark mulberry red over a kirtle of soft lavender. The square yolk, from which rose the slightly stiffened, tall collar, open at the throat of a white lawn chemise, was black velvet. The sleeves were not padded and slashed but puffed slightly at the shoulder and fitted to the wrist.

  Her hair was dark, pulled back smoothly under a French cap, and her eyes were a clear and sparkling gray. Her forehead was broad and smooth, her nose not large but nondescript in shape, and her mouth a little pale and thin but mobile and just a trifle curved toward a smile. She was not beautiful, Denoriel thought, but her expression was so animated, her whole face so lively, that she was most attractive.