Magic Casement Page 3

  How very curious!

  Procrastination was not one of her failings. Carefully holding her precious silk away from the cobwebby back of the dresser, Inos moved to that diabolically tempting door.

  She saw steps, of course, as she had expected—another flight curved around inside the wall, just like all the other stairs. These were very dusty. The tiny windows set every few paces were exactly as she would have expected, also, but gray with grime and draped in cobwebs. The musty air was rank with the odor of mold.

  A secret room? How very, very interesting! Now she did hesitate, but only for a couple of seconds. Curiosity overcame caution and even the silk was forgotten as she slipped through the narrow gap and started to climb.

  Quietly, though.

  Probably there was nothing up above here at all, and her father would welcome her just as happily as he would do anywhere else. On the other hand, it was very peculiar that she had never heard anyone ever mention this unknown room. It could not be any of her business. She was trying to be on her best behavior. She was holding a packet of silk that had cost three and half imperials. She . . .

  “. . . is much too young!” said her father's voice.

  Inos froze against the icy stones of the wall. She was almost at the top and obviously the door was open. The voice had echoed as if the unseen chamber were bare and unfurnished.

  “She's not as young as all that,” another voice replied. “You take a good look at her. She's very nearly a young lady now.”

  Her father muttered something she did not catch.

  “In the Impire they would regard her as old enough already,” said the other. Who could that be? She did not recognize the voice, yet it must be someone who knew her, for there could be no doubt who was being discussed.

  “But who? There's no one in the kingdom.”

  “Then Angilki, perhaps?” It was a dry, elderly voice. “Or Kalkor? Those are the obvious choices.”

  Now Inos could guess what was being discussed. She gasped, and for a moment considered marching straight in through the door and announcing that she had no intention of marrying either Duke Angilki or Thane Kalkor or anyone else for that matter. So there! Only the packet of silk stopped her.

  “No, no, no!” her father said loudly, and Inos relaxed a fraction. “Either of those two, and the other would start a war.”

  Or I shall! she thought.

  An infuriating silence followed, one of those pauses when meanings pass without words, in smiles or nods or shrugs, and the speakers are not even aware that they have stopped speaking. But eavesdroppers are. It was not regal—it was not even polite—to eavesdrop. Inos knew that. But she told herself firmly that it was not polite to talk about someone when they were not there, either. So she was perfectly entitled to listen to—

  “I never met Kalkor.” That was her father again, farther away.

  “You can live without the experience, my friend.”

  Friend? She knew of no one who addressed the king that way.

  “Bad?”

  “Rough!” The stranger chuckled quietly. “Typical jotunn . . . winter-long drinking parties, probably wrestles she-bears for exercise. Sharkskin underwear, I shouldn't wonder.”

  “That one's out, then!”

  Inos certainly agreed with her father on that.

  “Angilki's too old for her,” he said. “It will have to be a neutral. But you're right about Kinvale. Next year, perhaps.”

  The stranger spoke quite softly, so that she had to strain to hear. “You may not have that much time, friend.”

  Then another pause, but not so long.

  “I see!” Her father's voice, curiously flat and expressionless.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Hardly your fault!” The king sighed. “It was why I sent for you—your skill and your honesty. Honesty and wisdom. And I knew you would not hold back the truth.” Another pause. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course not.” Inos heard footsteps on bare planks, receding. Then the strangers from farther away: “Have you tried this?”

  “No!” That was her father's monarch voice.

  “It might tell you.”

  “No! It stays shut!”

  “I don't know how you can resist.”

  “Because it causes trouble. My grandfather discovered that. It has not been opened since his time.”

  “Thinal saw one like it once,” the visitor muttered. “It stayed shut, also. For the same reasons, I suppose.”

  She had no idea what they could be talking about. They seemed to have moved to the far side of the room, near the south window. She strained to hear the voices over the thumping of her own heart.

  “Even if I am right . . . about you . . . then there might be hope . . . if we two were to cooperate.”

  “No, Sagorn, my friend. I have always refused and I always shall, even for that. Don't think I don't trust you.”

  The stranger—Sagorn?—sighed. “I know whom you do not trust, and you are right. And you have not told your daughter?”

  “Heavens, no! She is only a child. She couldn't handle that!”

  Handle what? Inos wanted to stamp her foot with frustration, but of course she was hardly daring to breathe, let alone stamp.

  “But you will?”

  Another pause.

  “I don't know,” her father said softly. “If . . . if she is older when . . . or maybe not at all.”

  “You must!” The stranger spoke in a tone that no one used to a king. “You must not let it be lost!” His voice reverberated in the empty room.

  “Must?”

  Inos could guess at her father's mocking, quizzical expression.

  “Yes, must! It is too precious . . . and it is Krasnegar's only hope for survival. You know that.”

  “It would also be her greatest danger.”

  “Yes, that is true,” the stranger admitted. “But the advantages of having it outweigh the disadvantages, do they not?” His voice became diffident, almost pleading. “You know that! You . . . you could not trust me with it? If I promised that later I would tell her?”

  She heard her father's dry chuckle. He had come closer. She must be prepared to run.

  “No, Sagorn. For her sake. I trust you, friend, but not . . . certain others.”

  The other man sighed. “No, certainly not Darad. Never trust him. Or Andor.”

  “You keep them away, both of them!” That was a royal command.

  “Yes, I will. And so will Jalon.”

  The stranger's voice was suddenly very close. Inos wheeled around and started down the stairs as fast as she could safely and silently go. Jalon? The minstrel? She was sure that was the name she had just heard. What had he to do with this? And who was this Sagorn?

  Then—-

  Dust! With horror she saw her own footsteps below her, mingled with those of her father and his visitor, giveaway marks on the deposits of years. Coming up, she had not noticed them, but going down they were obvious, even in the dim glow coming through the grimy panes. Panic! They would know that she, or at least someone, had been listening.

  At the bottom she stumbled against the heavy door and the rusted old hinges creaked horribly. She squeezed through the opening, dashed across her father's bedroom, and was plunging down the next stairs when she heard a shout behind her and then a clatter of boots.

  It was a race, then. She must escape from the tower and, certainly, she must hide her precious packet of silk until the storm blew itself out.

  She reached the dressing room, skidded on a rug in the middle of it, regained her balance, dashed down the next flight, and burst into the withdrawing room, into an astonished collection of six matronly ladies just sitting down to Aunt Kade's midmorning salon.

  For a long moment Inos wavered on one foot, with the other still in the air and arms spread like a cormorant. She stared her horror back at their surprise, poised on the verge of sprinting through their midst and out the door on the far side. She was very tempted—at least she wo
uld be able to dispose of the silk—but the way was cluttered by all those ladies on the edges of their gilt and rosewood chairs, by Kel the footman with a serving trolley laden with Aunt Kade's finest china and her magnificent, enormous, silver tea urn giving out its usual disgusting odor of burning whale oil . . . And then Aunt Kade had risen, and all the others did so also, and it was too late.

  Aunt Kade's plump face was turning pink and assuming that fretted look that Inos so often provoked these days. Whether to welcome or scold . . . She was probably also chewing over problems of protocol and the dowdy brown worsted. Then she made her decision.

  She beamed. “Inosolan, my dear! How nice that you can join us! May I present these ladies? Mistress Jiolinsod, Mistress Ofazi . . .”

  Feeling as if her head had come off and floated out through a window, Inos forced a smile on a face not there. Tucking the silk behind her in her left hand, she offered her right to each of the simpering matrons. To be invited to one of Princess Kadolan's tea parties in the palace was a screaming social success, and to meet Princess Inosolan as well was probably a stupid honor.

  Especially, she realized, when the princess was wearing her dowdy brown worsted, regally emblazoned—at least on the right sleeve—with silver cobwebs. Oh, horrors! There were probably cobwebs on her hair and face, also, while the society ladies were all dressed in their best gowns and bonnets, and loaded with every piece of jewelry they owned or, likely, had been able to borrow.

  Boots on the stairs! With a wail, Inos jumped loose from the fourth introduction and started backing away from the door.

  Her aunt spluttered at such gaucherie. “Inos!”

  And then the door flew wide and a man appeared in the doorway—an elderly man, tall and stooped. He folded his arms and straightened, and his gaze swept the room. Inos had never seen him before, she was certain, yet he had known what she looked like. He had a gaunt face, with a hooked nose like an eagle's beak and fierce blue eyes. Deep clefts ran down at the sides of his mouth, emphasizing the nose and the strong chin. Wisps of white hair showed under the brown hood of his cloak. His gown bore traces of cobwebs.

  “Doctor Sagorn!” Aunt Kade exclaimed in delight. “How nice that you are able to join us! May I . . .” Her voice tailed away as she saw how the newcomer was staring ferociously at her niece, as that niece continued to edge backward.

  Inos was fighting a spring tide of panic, drowning in rising terror before that deadly glare. Her hips touched the trolley and she could back away no farther. Where was her father? Why had he not come, also?

  And how in the world had this sinister old man come down the stairs so quickly? He must have outrun her and her father both, yet he was not even panting. She was.

  “Inosolan?” Aunt Kade sounded vexed. “What are you holding behind your back, dear?”

  Her mouth opened and nothing came out.

  “Silk!” said the terrifying Sagorn. “Silk with yellow dragons on it.”

  A sorcerer!

  Inos screamed in terror and turned to flee.

  The trolley crashed over, spilling cakes and wine in all directions.

  Aunt Kade's special and enormous silver tea urn seemed to shake the castle as it struck the floor with a deafening boom. Tea exploded over half the ladies.

  Staggering, Inos trod a creamy chocolate flan into the rug and almost fell. Then she hurtled out and down the stairs, leaving Aunt Kade's midmorning salon in ruins and confusion.

  4

  Whimpering in her panic, Inos fled down all the rest of the staircases; raced in turn across antechamber, robing room, presence chamber, and throne room; burst out into the great hall; and there alarmed a group of small children being fed an early lunch. Out on the terrace she ran, not at all sure where she was going. Startled pigeons and seagulls clawed their way skyward, while the yellow cat that had been stalking them flew over a wall. She rounded a corner and saw ahead of her the open doorway of the palace chapel. She dived through it, seeking refuge in religion. Surely she would be safe from a sorcerer in the house of the Gods?

  She skidded to a halt in the cool dark interior, panting and deafened by the thunder of her heart, which seemed to be beating inside her head. The chapel was a small building, with room for only twenty or thirty people on its ancient pinewood pews. Its walls were immensely thick and it was said to be even older than the rest of the castle. At one end stood the offering table, before the two sacred windows, one bright, the other black and opaque, and on the table stood the sacred balance, its pans of gold and lead symbolizing the battle between good and evil. The air was clammy and musty.

  She hurried forward to the table and was about to drop to her knees when a dry voice spoke behind her.

  “Well!” it said. “Do we have a sudden repentance?”

  Inos uttered a shrill squeak and jumped.

  Arms folded, Mother Unonini was sitting stiffly erect on the front pew. The palace chaplain was a dark, grim woman, who seemed very tall when seated. With swarthy face, black hair, and black robe, she was indistinct in the gloom, except for a clear glint of satisfaction shining in her eyes. “To what do the Gods owe the pleasure of this visit, my dear?”

  “There is a sorcerer in the palace!”

  “A sorcerer? How unusual!”

  “Truly!”

  “Come and sit by me, then, and explain,” the chaplain said. “We can't have you spouting random prayers in your condition—you might summon all the wrong sort of Gods. Long meditation and right thinking are essential prerequisites for prayer.”

  Still trembling, the reluctant Inos went and sat beside her. Her head was immediately lower than Mother Unonini's, but at least Inos's feet still touched the floor. The chaplain had never forgiven Inos for imitating her waddling gait during the last Winterfest party, even though the king had made his errant daughter apologize in public afterward. Inos's attendance record at church school was not going to help much, either.

  “What is that you have in your hand? Let me see.” Unonini took the silk and unfolded some of it and held it down for the light to shine on. “Well! You were bringing this as an offering, perhaps?”

  “Er . . . no.”

  “The table could certainly do with a new cloth. This is very nice. Where did you get it?”

  “It's my birthday gift from Father . .”Inos trailed off weakly.

  “Does he know that?”

  “Well . . . I mean, not yet.” Inos twisted round to make sure that the sorcerer was not standing in the doorway. She felt trapped now, snared in this dark little room with the unfriendly Mother Unonini, and a sorcerer possibly lurking outside.

  “Perhaps you had better begin at the beginning.”

  Inos hung her head and began at the beginning. Her breath was returning and her heart slowing down. Little as she cared for Mother Unonini—who bore a strong smell of fish that day—at least a chaplain ought to know what to do if that terrifying Sorcerer Sagorn came after her. When she had finished, there was a pause.

  “I see.” Mother Unonini sounded as if she had been impressed in spite of herself. “Well, let us hear your interpretation of these strange events.”

  “What?”

  “Don't say 'what' like that. It is not ladylike. You know what I mean. All things and acts contain both the Good and the Evil, child. We must try to be on the right side in their eternal conflict. It is our duty always to choose the Good, or at least the better. Let us begin with the sorcerer, if that is what he is. Is he evil or is he good?”

  “I . . . I don't know. If he is a friend of Father's . . . Perhaps he murdered Father?”

  “I hardly think so. Don't jump to conclusions! His Majesty probably stayed behind to close the door again. He certainly would not want unauthorized prowlers up in Inisso's chamber.”

  “You knew about that room?”

  “Certainly!”

  “You've seen it?”

  “No,” Unonini admitted, with a hint of annoyance. “But I could guess that it would be there. Inisso was
a great sorcerer—a good one, of course—and so he would have had a place of puissance at the top of his tower. There may be all sorts of arcane things still up there, things that do not concern prying young ladies.”

  Inos decided that the old witch was probably right. She had not been choosing the Good when she went snooping, nor when she listened to the conversation. So perhaps she had been on the wrong side of the eternal conflict. In that case, the sorcerer might be a good sorcerer, and his anger had been directed against the wickedness in her. It was very upsetting to think that she might be on the side of the Evil, and she suddenly wanted to weep. Preferably on someone's shoulder, but certainly not on Madame Unonini's.

  “This silk, now,” Mother Unonini remarked. “Let us talk about that. Tell me what good and evil lie in this silk.”

  Suppressing a snivel, Inos said, “I should not have taken it until I could pay for it.”

  “That is correct, child. Go on.”

  “Or at least until Father agreed to buy it for me.”

  “Very good! So what must you do now?”

  “Take it back?” Inos wondered if this was how a breaking heart felt.

  “Oh, I think it is too late for that.” Mother Unonini sighed a heavy waft of cod. She wiggled her dangling feet. “Mistress Meolorne may have already made arrangements to spend the money you promised her.”

  Hope flared in Inos like the brightness of the window. “I can keep it?” Then she saw the look in Mother Unonini's eye and the brightness of the Good turned to the darkness of the Evil. “No?”

  “We must not seek to profit from malefaction, Inosolan. Is this not correct?”

  Inos nodded.

  “So, what must you do?”

  Inos tried to think of the appropriate text. “Find the greatest good?”

  The older woman nodded with satisfaction. “Now, as I said, the offering table could do with a new cover—”