IV
The heart of Restormir proved to be hollow. At the bottom were the flooded levels of the dungeon, a black, noisome well in which floated debris and drowned rats. The innermost of the concentric halls overlooked it, ring on ring of them connected by iron stairs, extending upward to the top of the mound.
The Knorth raiders climbed out of the prison pit as though into a different although no less deserted world, over a stained alabaster rim into a court paved with white marble across which dried leaves rattled. All around reared up the inner walls of Caldane's tower keep. On the court level, tall glass doors opening into reception halls, in whose dusty depths a wealth of mirrors and diamantine panels gave back the soft glow of stolen sunlight.
Jame caught her breath. For a moment, she had thought that the rooms were full of motionless giants. Now, however, she saw that they were gilded statues, multiplied by reflection. Portly figures, arrogant faces . . . they all looked like Caldane, larger than life, striking various heroic poses.
Snatches of discordant music and laughter echoed hollowly down the throat of the tower. The man himself was above in the Crown—carousing with how many of his kin? The Caineron was the largest house in the Kencyrath, and Caldane easily the most prolific lord. Aside from his numerous progeny, there must be several hundred Caineron Highborn, not that all lived at Restormir, much less in this tower. Of those who did, hopefully many besides Tiggeri had elected to stay in Kothifir.
Shouts above, and a jeering chant: "Go, go, go . . . !"
A golden shower rained down, mostly into the pit but some spattering the rim and the last cadet over it. He and the others hastily drew back. Either someone had a phenomenal bladder, Jame thought, or . . . how much water, from what height, equaled how many Caineron? No equation came to mind.
The cadets stared upward, eyes widening with their own calculations.
Ancestors be praised, thought Jame. Now they understand.
As if in answer, their gaze returned expectantly to her. Innocents these children might be, but not cowards.
Their commander had been watching her throughout, stone-faced as if to say: This madness begins and ends with you.
True, but not very helpful.
A regal stair swept up around the inner walls, fit for the ascension of kings although strewn with a winter's dirt. Jame began to climb, Jorin bouncing on ahead, the others following close behind.
Balconies studded the walls seemingly at random, decked with winter-worn finery—here a torn banner of silver and gold, there cat bone chimes clattering in the errant breeze. Inside, one glimpsed quarters left in disarray, presumably, by the Cainerons' hasty departure for the Cataracts the previous winter. Overhead, the Crown cantilevered out in nine tiers around the top of the shaft, leaving some twenty feet at the center open to the night sky. Stars shone there, eclipsed by small, swift shapes and one larger than they, which hung slowly swaying.
Jame was leaning over the balustrade, trying to see what the latter was, when a harsh sound made her turn quickly. One of the cadets had doubled up on the steps, down which he would have surely rolled if Brier Iron-thorn hadn't stopped him.
"Height-sickness," said the Kendar tersely, steadying the boy.
For a moment, Jame was puzzled. A hundred feet to the courtyard, as much again to the floor of the pit . . . . Not bad. Then again, the only height that bothered her was from the back of a tall horse. Kendar, however, were prone to acrophobia.
So was Caldane.
"Why would a man afraid of heights live at the top of a tower?" she wondered out-loud.
"M'lord? If he thought that fear was common knowledge, he'd spit blood. Besides, the Crown was his father's work."
Of course, thought Jame. No one as vain as Caldane would admit any weakness, to others or to himself—nor, from what she had heard, would the Caineron Matriarch let him fall short of his father's measure.
Then she recoiled. Blackness like a piece of flapping cloth had swooped in front of her face and hovered there on furry wings. Wide, quizzical eyes in a velvet fox-mask; delicate, cupped ears; a long, flat brush . . . .
"Quipp?" said the foxkin, and dove inside her jacket.
"Healer, get down here," Iron-thorn said, impatient, preoccupied; then, as an afterthought: "Ignore it, lady. It's harmless."
Easy for her to say. Jame wriggled, trying to reach the furry body as it clambered up the curve of her ribs toward the spine.
Kindrie bent over the cadet.
"Can you help him?"
"Quipp!" said the foxkin in Jame's ear, and scuttled back down her collar.
"With the nausea, yes; not with the vertigo. His entire soul-scape is reeling." The healer himself suddenly staggered, his bare foot sliding off the step. The Kendar caught his arm.
"Don't tell me it's contagious," said Jame sarcastically, but she was perplexed: a Shanir healer should draw more stability than that from his own soul-image.
Ah. The foxkin had gotten into her d'hen sleeve—the full left one, fortunately. She shook it gingerly. A darkness with luminous eyes gathered at the cuff, then shot off. Jorin nearly sprang over the balustrade after it.
"Life out here is just too exciting," said Jame. "Let's go inside."
They had almost run out of staircase, anyway. It ended in a landing under the first of the nine tiers, with a door opening into what had been the old keep's ramparts. Now, off the main corridor, the level was divided into tiny rooms which probably housed the Crown's Kendar servants. If so, however, none were there now.
Feet tramped overhead. Objects thudded. Then there was a crash, an oath, and a sound like the spring migration of the bison, fading into the distance.
"What on earth is above us?" Jame asked.
"Kitchens," said ten-commander and healer simultaneously.
"I forgot that you both were here before. How well d'you know the layout?"
"Not very . . . ." they began, and stopped short, eyeing each other warily.
"M'lord insisted that I stay within earshot," said Kindrie.
"And I was only crown-side once, lady." The bronze planes of the Kendar's face seemed to clamp shut on the words.
Whatever happened between her and Caldane, happened there, Jame thought, warning herself, That's her business. Just this once, mind your own.
They found a minor flight of stairs and mounted it cautiously.
The room into which they emerged was indeed a kitchen, given over primarily to stewing. Fireplaces lined the walls, each with a waist-high, three legged cauldron sitting in it. The nearest was full of water, in which bobbed whole carrots, discolored parsnips, and onions still in their outer skins. Other pots and pans hung from the low rafters, except for those piled dirty on the floor. Parsley, figs, and raisins were strewn about an overturned chopping block. Grapes rolled underfoot. The strong licorice smell of half-crushed anise and fennel rose from a mortar.
"Hotchpotch, or an attempt at it," said Jame, drawing on memories of the kitchen at the Res aB'tyrr, and remembering that she hadn't eaten all day. This broth really needed some meat, though—mutton, or pheasant, or chicken.
From out in the hall came a rapidly approaching storm of feet, cries, and clucking. A white hen ran past the door, closely pursued by a dozen Highborn men in their finest if rather soiled clothes, brandishing knives, cleavers, and slotted spoons. No one glanced into the stewry—fortunately, because the sight and sound of them had frozen the cadets open-mouthed where they stood. Peering cautiously around the door's edge, Jame saw the pursuit plunge off down the curving hall, on its second lap of the tower. From somewhere above came a muffled chant:
"Food, food, food . . . !"
Then Jame realized that the door opposite had opened and someone was leaning out of it, just as she was from hers, to stare after the vanishing hunt. A girl, maybe sixteen, wearing a tight, pearl-strewn bodice and a flame-colored skirt . . . .
Behind masks, their eyes met.
"Why, lady!" the younger Highborn gasped.
Jame plunged across the corridor and shoved the girl back into what proved to be a pantry.
"Stay!" she snapped over her shoulder at the startled Kendar and slammed the door in their faces.
Surrounded by strings of onions, garlic, and mandrake, she faced this young Highborn whom she had first met in the royal apartments of a Karkinoran palace, the nominal consort of its prince.
"Well, Lyra. Now what?"
Caldane's daughter stared at her. "It is you! Oh, how splendid! Maybe now things will start happening again!"
" 'Things'? What 'things'?"
"Anything! It's been so dull here, since Karkinaroth and the Cataracts. We did have fun on that barge ride in between, didn't we?"
"You did, anyway," said Jame, remembering their flight after the prince's death and the collapse of his palace. She had never considered what effect all that excitement might have had on a girl like Lyra, whom she had always thought the model of filial obedience, and not really bright besides.
"Oh, yes!"—with great enthusiasm, plunging immediately to despair—"but just look at me now, reduced to scrounging food like a . . . a menial! At the palace, I at least had Gricki to fetch for me. And that's another thing! If that wretched Southron has done something wrong, I should punish him, not Father. He was my servant, after all. It isn't fair!"
"Er . . . " said Jame. "Did you know that Graykin is in my service now?"
"Oh, that's all right, then," said Lyra, beaming at her. "We're sisters, or as good as. In that case, you should be punishing him."
"I've got to find him first."
"He's up in Father's private quarters." Her expression changed suddenly. "I heard him scream. No one should have to scream like that. Come on. I'll take you to him."
"Well, I'll be damned. That is . . . er . . . splendid. Lead on."
She threw open the door. The cadets jumped back, looking startled, curious, and vaguely disappointed. They had, she realized, been expecting a royal cat-fight. She introduced Lyra to them but not to Brier Iron-thorn, whose expression stopped her. Clearly, Caineron foibles didn't amuse the big Kendar.
Blast the woman, Jame thought. She turns everything into a test, and I keep failing.
"Awk!" said the hen, and dodged between her feet into the pantry.
"Stop!" cried the pursuing Highborn, rounding the hall's curve.
"Inside!" hissed Lyra.
The Knorth all piled into the pantry, slammed the door shut, and tipped a flour bin over in front of it. Fists beat on its outer panels. From the hall rose a vengeful, hungry cry:
"Give us back our chicken!"
Too drunk to realize what they've seen, Jame thought, backing away from the door. That's something, anyway—she turned to met Iron-thorn's stony look—but not enough.
"Back here!" Lyra called.
She had retreated to the far wall and now ducked out of sight through a low door, concealed behind a massive bin mounted on rollers. Jame and Jorin followed, emerging in a dark, intramural passage.
"Gran told me about this," Lyra whispered with a giggle. "Father has no idea it's here."
The cadets entered hastily, shoving Kindrie in ahead of them. Their officers, Ten and five, pulled the bin back over the entrance just as the outer door gave way. They heard confusion beyond the wall, a protesting squawk, and the sound of triumphant retreat.
Lyra tugged Jame's sleeve. "This way."