This Scepter'd Isle (16 page)

Silent, although his eyes showed horror, the servant opened the door to Martin Perez's bedchamber. He had not knocked; Pasgen had not told him to knock. Pasgen did not knock either, simply walked in. Perez was just allowing a second manservant to button his breeches. He gaped at Pasgen, who had walked past the ensorcelled servant.

"How dare you!" he cried. "Out! Out of my bedchamber!"

He recognized Pasgen, of course. The fool. He clearly was under the misapprehension that he, and not Pasgen, was the master here.

"Be still, little man," Pasgen snarled. "Be grateful that I did not decide to lesson you in public."

"Lesson me? For what? Do you think you can?" There was assurance and contempt in Perez's voice.

Pasgen saw the mage's fingers move, heard the subvocalization of some spell. He wondered whether he should let the fool cast it and break it so that it would backlash, but in the end, he was too angry and impatient. He gestured. Perez froze. For one moment Pasgen simply stared at him, allowing him to struggle to free himself, and grow more and more frightened as he realized that he could not.

"You betrayed me. You lied to me."

A tiny finger gesture freed Perez's mouth. He cried, "No." Pasgen cut him off.

"You never told me about the king's son FitzRoy. You concealed the fact that the king is considering naming the boy his heir instead of Princess Mary."

Perez's eyes, the only things that could move beside his lips, slid desperately from side to side. "No! I did not tell you because I did not wish to waste your time. FitzRoy is nothing and nobody. King Henry will never name him heir. He will never place a bastard on the throne."

Pasgen twisted his hand and Perez screamed. The servant who had been attending his master and had been shocked into paralysis by what had happened, now drew a knife and leapt at Pasgen. Without even turning his head, Pasgen drew his sword, and with a single gesture, pulled the man onto the blade without ever releasing his magical hold on the master. Perez screamed again in horror, as did the dying servant.

Pasgen allowed the man to drop to his knees, hands clasped impotently around the blade, then pulled the sword free as he toppled over sideways, eyes glazing with pain and encroaching death.

"FitzRoy is no longer the boy's name," Pasgen said, ignoring the servant and the spreading pool of blood around him as a thing of no moment. He did wonder, though, at Perez's look of horror. This was hardly a gentle age; the mayfly mortals died brutally as a matter of course every day. But perhaps Perez was horrified, not by the servant's death, but by the realization that Pasgen was far more powerful than the Spaniard had guessed. "He is now earl of Nottingham, duke of Somerset, duke of Richmond, the premier duke of the kingdom as well as Lieutenant of the Northern Marches. He has more honors than the princess, has been given an equivalent household and his household holds equivalent power—"

"Nothing. It all means nothing," Perez gasped, his eyes on the bloody sword in Pasgen's hand.

The weapon came up; the tip just touched Perez's throat. He could not flinch away. He began to weep.

"It means so little that yesterday you gave two men a sleep spell to be used on the child's guards so that they could—" Pasgen hesitated; even the Unseleighe Sidhe would not kill a child "—drown him."

"That was not my doing!" Perez's voice was so high with fear that he sounded like a gelded man. "I thought it was nonsense, only King Henry's ploy to win some more points in his negotiations over Mary. I said to draw attention to FitzRoy was a mistake. But the Imperial ambassador demanded the spell—"

He stopped abruptly as Pasgen's sword inched forward and pricked him. The spell held him so rigid that he could not tremble, but tears ran down his face.

"The attempt failed," Pasgen said, contemptuously. "Both men. . . ." He sneered. "Oh, brave! Oh, how noble! How truly in the tradition of the El Cid! So clever, to imagine sending two men to drown a child! Your noble
hidalgos
 . . . were wounded, and fled."

Perez was white under his natural skin-tone, which had the effect of making him look pasty and sallow.

Pasgen drew little figure-eights in front of Perez's nose with the tip of his blade. "There was considerable confusion concerning who was guilty of the attack. Sometime later, Inigo de Mendoza and his retinue left Windsor. Then the attempt on FitzRoy was reported to Norfolk and the palace and grounds were carefully searched. The gate guards swore that no two wounded men had gone out, but the men could not be found. They went out with Mendoza's retinue. I want those two men."

"They were not my men," Perez protested. "How can I—"

"I do not know. I do not care," Pasgen told him in a tone that brooked no argument. "I want those men. I will return here tomorrow evening. I will find them here . . ." he smiled " . . . or I will take you."

Pasgen then turned and left, ignoring Perez's cries to be released. The spell would wear off after a while, and Pasgen did not want the mage to try to follow him. He retrieved his horse and returned to The Strand, but instead of turning back to find the Gate he had used, he turned right at the corner and rode further east.

Somewhere ahead, Pasgen sensed a Gate, and he was curious. He could not tell whether it was a very small Gate or simply far away, but he intended to find it if he could. If it were Denoriel's Gate, it would be well worth the time spent to know it. Pasgen smiled thinly again. A neat ambush could be set at a Gate if they needed to neutralize Denoriel for a while. He would not kill his half-brother . . . no, not kill, but he would be delighted to disable that righteous prig.

As he rode along Watling Street, he passed St. Thomas's church. His head lifted and turned when he felt a tiny quiver of power, but he did not rein in the horse. He had often felt a similar touch of power in mortal churches. Another thin smile bent his lips as he rode past; that power had not been nearly enough to save the wretches who thought they could shelter there from the Wild Hunt. Besides, there was a surer, stronger source of power somewhere ahead and to his right.

He rode down Watling Street and then into the East Chepe, one of London's larger markets. He shuddered. Entirely too many things here were made of iron and steel. He kicked his tired horse, feeling it trembling with weariness beneath him. At least now the brute was so worn out that it wasn't fighting him. Probably he should not have come this way; if he did not soon find a Gate the animal might collapse on him. He pushed a little power into it, and to his right felt an answering silent bell.

Down Fish Street . . . 
faugh,
what a smell came up from pools of filth holding decaying scales and skin and fish guts, from heaps of heads and tails and fins! And the stink of the river was not much more salubrious, but at last he was out on the bridge. In its way it was worse. His horse could barely make a way through the buyers and sellers, who came right to his side and thrust trays of goods, often pins and needles of steel, into his face.

There was nowhere to go but ahead. Both sides of the bridge were filled with stalls. Several were armorers who sold steel swords and knives; there were even blacksmith's shops (although at least the forges were off the bridge) that exhibited nails and hinges and handles and Dannae knew what else—all made of iron. Although he touched nothing—he had pushed away the peddler of needles and pins by shoving his shoulder with a boot-clad foot—the evil cold beat at him. Pasgen's gorge rose and he regretted the little strength he had given the horse as his own faltered. Still, ahead, the bell-tone held steady and it seemed that a drift of cleaner, purer air flowed out toward him.

He found the Gate only a little way down High Street, right—he had to laugh—in a tiny grove of trees in the graveyard of St. Saviour's church. The tone he "heard" and the "scent" in the air told him that the Gate would lead into Seleighe territory, but his horse was too tired to go back to his own Gate and unless this was one of the guarded portals, he could pass for Seleighe. The graveyard was empty. Pasgen dismounted and led his horse into the shadowed grove.

He did not recognize any of the six destinations patterned into the Gate and chose one which felt the least "sweet" at random. The choice was fortunate; Pasgen arrived in a neutral area now mostly inhabited by spirits of the air. This lot were cheerful, babbling things which happily directed him to an adjoining Unformed area.

He had remembered to change his somber black to some frivolous combination of rose and blue and the silly creatures were delighted with him. Several wished to accompany him, and he had to turn quite nasty and hurt a few of them to discourage them, but he really could not have them tagging along into Unseleighe territory or marking his path to his own domain. For one thing, they'd quickly become meals there for whatever happened to catch them. . . .

He left the exhausted horse and collected Torgan at his home. From there it was only moments until he completed the tortuous path and went through a last Gate into Rhoslyn's domain. He wrinkled his nose as he looked around. Untidy, that's what Rhoslyn was—a patch of woodland here, a meadow there, a babbling brook following a wavering course over stones of every size and shape, flowers here and there.

Not that there was even the smallest hint of carelessness or laziness. Every stone was a perfect stone, every flower a perfect flower, but like those in the mortal world they were uneven, of different textures, colors, and sizes. Why should she do that when it would have been even less effort to make them all the same or of complementary shapes and colors that fit together in ordered masses to soothe the eye? He sighed. Rhoslyn was Rhoslyn.

Even the path meandered, going off toward one side of the domain under overarching shade trees and then wandering the other way, out into the undappled light of the silver sky where a wide vista of lawn spread to display Rhoslyn's castle. Pasgen sighed again. The castle was not large, not even grand, but it was right out of a mortal's romance, with turrets and pennons, even with a drawbridge over a moat. At least only black swans floated on the water.

The bridge was down and Pasgen rode across. At the open gate one of Rhoslyn's servants was waiting to take Torgan. The construct looked like a wisp of a girl, too large-eyed, with long, thin hands that seemed hardly able to clutch the reins. But those fingers, thin as they were, could cut like razors, not only through flesh but through bone.

Once when Rhoslyn had brought a girl servant with her to a meeting where Vidal Dhu had promised physical rewards that must be carried away, an ogre had tried to seize the girl. The ogre had been torn apart, swiftly and efficiently. The servant had not lingered over the dismemberment to enjoy the ogre's pain, Pasgen remembered, but in general Rhoslyn's servants were more expressive than he would permit in his own constructs, readily speaking, laughing, and crying.

In fact, the girl smiled at him and said shyly, "How nice to see you here again, Lord Pasgen. Please go right in. Lady Rhoslyn is aware of your arrival."

Pasgen did not reply. He knew that if he had not been recognized and approved, the construct would have seized him. But to his surprise, the seeming girl actually looked hurt when he ignored it. Was Rhoslyn going too far in animating her constructs? Perhaps, but if she was practicing that kind of animation, it would be very useful in making the changeling.

He was just turning into a very cozy parlor when Rhoslyn came down the stairs. She gestured him quickly further into the room and closed the door behind him. Pasgen felt a sealing spell and raised his brows at her.

"Mother's here," she said, eyes bright with tears. "Vidal gave her something again. I don't know what it was this time, but she's a right mess."

A "right mess" was an understatement; Rhoslyn had been nursing her mother for the better part of the day, and cursing herself for not having the skills of a Healer. For a long moment Pasgen made no response, but Rhoslyn could see the pulse beating in his throat. He always pretended a greater indifference to their mother than she did, but Rhoslyn was sure he cared for Llanelli deeply, perhaps more deeply than she.

Then he said softly, "I am not yet strong enough."

"No." Rhoslyn put a hand on his arm. "Even together we could not destroy him."

Pasgen shook his head. "That we might accomplish if we put our minds and strengths to it, but I could not hold the domain together."

It was Rhoslyn's turn to be frozen into stillness. She had not sensed her brother's ambition previously . . . or she had denied it to herself. "Would you want to?" she breathed. "Would you want to rule the ogres and goblins and hags?"

"Would you want to set them loose without any control? Or see them in the hands of someone weaker and more vicious than Vidal Dhu?" His tone was savage, however, she knew it was not aimed at her but at their "guardian" and master.

Again Rhoslyn was silenced, but she reached out and put her hand on Pasgen's arm. She had not understood his sense of responsibility. She had not even thought of anything beyond the chance of being free of Vidal Dhu—and really, that was unlike her. What Vidal was doing to their mother had shaken her. She took a deep breath.

"You are right, of course, and this is no time to be at odds with our master. We must make sure that Princess Mary comes to the throne, but is there anything we can do for mother?"

"What do you want me to do?" Pasgen asked, his voice grating. "I can get enough of that disgusting drug to send her into Dreaming—"

"No!" Rhoslyn cried. "That would be forever. I . . . I don't want to lose her. When she's free of it, she is of great use to me. I will see her through this recovery as I have in the past. At least she has enough sense to come to me when she is overcome by craving."

"Yes, but you won't have time to attend to mother just now," he said, dismissively. "I'll take her to her own place and care for her. I've done it before."

Rhoslyn looked at him with anger and distrust. "The last time you nearly let her go into Dreaming. No. There's nothing so important—"