CHAPTER 9
The coach awaiting them in the dark courtyard was like the one which had fetched them to Gastonhow. As then, heavy curtains hung in place across the windows, and in the light of a single lantern the interior looked very dark. Lord Imbert himself stood to hand them in, and he murmured something in a very low voice to the Princess before putting out his hand to Roane as she tried to manage the folds of her skirts on the small step.
There was no Colonel to share their ride this time, but the cushions were softer than those of the equipage which had brought them to Gastonhow. The door closed and they were in the total dark, for there was no riding lantern.
“No light!” Apparently the Princess found this strange, but then she added, “I suppose Imbert wishes us to be as inconspicuous as possible.”
“Where do we go?” Roane pulled her cloak about her. The evening was chill and there was a cold which seemed part of the coach itself, as if the vehicle had not been recently in use.
“To Gastonhigh. It is a stead used by the royal family—by Immer Lake. I suppose the Queen wishes more quiet.”
A swing of the coach sent Roane against the Princess and she heard Ludorica laugh.
“My dear Roane, feel along the wall and you shall find a hold strap. It is best to make use of those when the pace is swift.”
Roane groped for the anchor, running her hand over the side she could not see, though now and then came a faint glimmer of light around the edge of the curtain, as if they drove by some well-lighted site. She found the loop and took firm hold on it, but she wished they could raise the curtains, just so she did not have the impression that they were imprisoned in a jiggling, swaying cage. And once more her stomach rebelled against this form of travel.
“My mother was King Gostar’s cousin,” the Princess said. “I wish I knew on what terms they were. It might strengthen my appeal if they had parted in friendship when she went to Reveny to wed. If he had kind memories of her—”
“Is there any reason why he would not?” Roane asked.
“There are feuds not only among the stead lords, but also in the royal Houses. Am I not so caught with Reddick? And the House of Hillaroy, which is King Gostar’s, have been noted for their quick tempers and many strange actions, even as Imbert has warned us about Gostar. It would seem that since the Guardians cut communication with men there have been many changes in the course of history. Only when we hold the crowns can we be sure of surviving such changes. I must get the Crown! At least Nelis will do what he can to further the search.”
“You sent the Colonel to hunt the Crown?” Roane tensed. What would that mean for Uncle Offlas and Sandar? If a large party of Revenian troops showed up to prospect along the cliffs and so meet the men from the camp—She could see such trouble as had never disgraced a Service operation before. Why, they might even have to lift off!
“He knows the country, and him I can trust. If he moves in boldly, Reddick cannot face him, since I do not believe that until the King is dead the Duke will dare to come into the open.”
“But the Crown—I thought you wanted to keep others from knowing it was hidden.”
“No one shall. For Nelis will wait for me to take it up. None can touch the Crown save me. Nelis is only to find the way to it.”
But what of her own people? Roane thought of them and clung to her strap anchor as the coach rocked on. They must now be traveling at the fastest pace this vehicle was capable of maintaining.
“King Gostar must be impatient,” she commented. “It would seem that he wants us in a hurry, or is this the usual speed of a royal coach?”
The pace grew even faster. In spite of that anchor loop she was shaken back and forth, and she gulped and swallowed with grim determination not to yield to the queasiness of her much-abused interior.
“This—is—too—fast—” The Princess’s words came in little gasps as if shaken out of her. “What can they be—”
There came still another burst of speed and the swing of the coach was such that Roane was sure she could not stand it long before disgracing herself by being thoroughly sick. She held her free hand over her mouth and fought for control.
“What—” The Princess’s voice rose a note. “Roane!” And now her cry was a danger alert. “Feel along the edge of the window if you can. Are you able to raise the curtain?”
Roane tried, but found it difficult. Finally her groping hand did touch what she judged was the edge of the curtain. But that did not yield to her tug. It was rather as if it had been nailed or otherwise sealed in place.
“It is the same on this side! The curtains are fastened down. Now, Roane, can you lean forward, find the latch of the door?”
It seemed perilous to try that. Roane feared that if she loosed her finger-cramping grip of the anchor strap, she might be thrown against the narrow seat facing her. But she stretched and, between more and worse jolts which sent her back and forth, ran her other hand over the inner surface of what she was sure was the door. There was no latch, nothing but a smooth surface. And her fear of a trap added to her sickness until she longed to scream for them to stop. Then came another spell of really violent rocking.
“I—cannot—find—It—is all—smooth!” she gasped.
“Nor—can—I—on—this—side—”
“But why—” Roane began when Ludorica answered her.
“Why? Because we are prisoners. But of whom? Lord Imbert? No—unless he feels he must manage me for some reason he has not told me. But I can guess, Roane, that we are not now bound for Gastonhigh.”
“Where—” Roane was thrown back by a particularly heavy jolt and cried out at a sharp pain in her side.
“What is it?”
“My—but how stupid! I have a light.” The belt she had brought with her, how had she come to forget it? That lapse of memory was another symptom of the fuzzy thinking which had bothered her for days. It was almost as if she did not want to, or could not, remember the familiar things which had been a part of her off-world life. With one hand she worked the beamer out of its loop and turned it on low.
“The doors!”
But she did not need that direction; she had already turned the light on the one through which they had entered. And her exploration by touch had told the truth. There was no sign of a latch. When she moved the beam up to the windows they could see the strips of wood which sealed the curtains down.
“We are prisoners until we arrive and they—whoever they may be—are willing to let us out. But our future hangs on who is behind this—”
“Reddick?”
“Not with Imbert aiding—unless there had come a message purporting to be from the King. Or a substitution of coaches, or—We could offer as many reasons as we have fingers and perhaps still skip the real one. It suffices that we are prisoners, and the reason is less important now than the fact. What other tools or weapons have you that may get us out of here?” As usual she went directly to the most important matter.
“I have this beamer, and a medic kit, and a weapon.” Roane thought of the stunner. “It does not wound, only puts to sleep the one caught in its ray—”
“Such a weapon as your cousin used on me in the cave? But how clever of you to have brought that, Roane! We need only wait until they let us out and then you can put them to sleep and—”
“I shall do what I can,” Roane said slowly. What she did not want to admit was that disturbance which came upon her when she had to make a choice between off-world and Clio matters, and which she now felt. She had used the beamer without really thinking, but to handle the stunner so was a different matter—Never before had she experienced anything like this. Or had she? Conditioning! She had gone through conditioning on numerous occasions—mainly to prepare body and mind to resist some planetary stress hostile to her species. But once that was done she had never been consciously aware of its effects upon her. Now it was as if her mind, when turned in certain directions, worked more slowly, and she shrank from off-world weapons—weapons fashioned to repel aliens from their use.
To prove this point to herself, she held out the beamer to the Princess. “If you will hold this—”
Then Roane laid her hand upon the butt of the stunner, although she did not draw it. And she had to force herself to that move. Her fingers shrank from touching the smooth metal. By the Tongue of Truth, what had happened to her? The cover which kept such a weapon inviolate on another world was operating against her! She was frightened as she had never been before in her life. Ludorica must have read that emotion in her expression, for she asked quickly:
“What is it? What is the matter?”
“It is nothing,” Roane said quickly. The Princess was entirely too sharp-eyed, and she must not let her suspect—the more so when she did not know the truth herself. “The rocking—it makes me sick.”
Ludorica grimaced. “I have traveled often by coach, though it is better to ride mounted, but never at such a wild pace. I, too, would like to—”
What she might have said was never uttered, for the gallop began to abate and the swing became less violent. They slowed and came to a halt.
“Be ready,” the Princess ordered. She still held the beamer, training it on the door to shine full in the face of whoever opened it. Roane forced herself to ready the stunner.
But nothing happened. They listened closely and could hear, very muffled by the walls, a faint jangling. Only the door did not open.
“I think we are changing duocorns!” the Princess said. “A fresh team, which means a longer journey. Already we are far past the distance to Gastonhigh.”
She must have been right, for only moments later there was a shudder through the coach and they were on the move again, first easily and then back to the rocking run which shook them so. Roane stowed away both stunner and beamer, not wanting to exhaust the charge in the latter. She was battered, sore, as if she had been beaten and bumped. But mercifully that second pounding did not last long. Once more they slowed to what was hardly more than a walking pace. The coach body tilted at an angle which suggested that they climbed. The Princess spoke again:
“We return to Reveny.”
“How can you tell?”
“This is hill country and the only hills close to Gastonhow are those of the border. Now there are only two possibilities as to who will meet us—some representative of the King, or Reddick!”
“But you think the latter.”
“Imbert must have been tricked. Yes, it will be best for us to expect the worst. I was foolish indeed—”
Either the dark which had held them for so long was lightening a little or else their eyes had adjusted. Roane could now make out the outline of her companion braced beside her on the seat.
“Fancher and the Soothspeaker—and how many others, some planted certainly in Imbert’s own household as he suspected. But even he could not have thought how deep their plans ran. Nelis—we can depend upon Nelis. Perhaps we shall have a chance after all. It rests now on where they take us.”
The Princess was quiet and Roane believed she must be weighing one chance against another. She had respect for Ludorica’s courage, endurance, and wits. But even those three in combination could not bring her safely out of some kinds of disaster.
It was time, surely it was time, for Roane to begin to think of herself. She had the stunner, against which on Clio there was no defense, and with it she could break free from any party ready to greet their arrival. Then, back to camp—if camp still existed and Uncle Offlas had not gone off-world.
The toiling of the coach became even more labored, and then its climbing slant leveled and it stopped. Again no one came to the door. There was a wait, during which they became fully aware of all their aches and bruises. When they started on, it was plain that they were now going downhill—luckily at a very slow pace or they would have been flung forward against the other seat. The slope of the road they followed must be steep. It did level out later, so that they rode in more comfort, and the light seeping in around the curtains grew stronger.
“It is full day. And we must cross the border soon. If we pass a gatehouse—” Then Ludorica shook her head. “No, they would not risk such passage unless they have good reason to believe this carriage will not be inspected. Yet this must be the main highway. A coach could not travel a lesser road. They must have a good plan—” She stopped so short that Roane turned to look at her.
The furred hood of the Princess’s cloak had fallen back, her head was a little forward, and she was staring at the coach wall directly ahead. Roane followed the direction of that survey.
From some crack there puffed a thread of white vapor. Roane caught the taint of a new odor against the musty closeness of the atmosphere.
“They—they drug us! That is upus smoke!”
Ludorica dropped her hold on the anchor strap, threw herself at the wall, holding a fold of her cape over the inflow of white. But it was little use—there were two more spirals at opposite sides. They could not hope to stop them all. Roane’s own move was not to try to hold out the menace but to force her belt into as small a package as she could.
Squirming about, she got up the heavy folds of her skirt and fastened the belt under it, though her fingers worked slower and slower and her head spun so that she had to fight to finish that job. Her last view of the Princess was of Ludorica sliding down the wall of the coach, away from the vent she had tried to cover, to lie upon the seat. And a moment or two later Roane followed her into the same unconsciousness.
She was warm, too warm. This was like lying under the desert sun of Cappadella. Roane stirred, brought up a hand to shield her face, her eyes, from the bite of the sun. But she did not lie on sand. Fabric of some kind drew and wrinkled under her as she moved. She opened her eyes.
Above her was dark wood, while across her face a bar of sunshine nearly blinded her. She turned her head fretfully. Her mouth was dry; her lips stuck together, and she parted them with difficulty. She wanted water, more than she ever had in her life, even in the desert country the sun reminded her of.
In the rays of the sun, on a small bench not too far away, stood a flagon. The shape of it promised what she needed so badly. Roane pulled herself up. Movement was a trial of strength, for she needed all the force of her will to make her body obey. She braced herself on stiff arms, her attention all for the flagon which might hold water.
Swinging her feet to the floor was an exhausting effort. She did not even dare to try to stand, but instead fell to her hands and knees and crawled toward that bench. She raised her dead-weight hands and somehow forced the fingers to close upon the sides of the flagon, pulling it toward her, tipping it so that its contents did splash, not only into her gaping mouth, but across her chin and down the front of her dress. The moisture in her mouth brought her farther out of the daze. She sat on the floor, the flagon still between her hands, and looked about.
The room was small with a single window, across which was a screen of bars. The walls were stone. The bed from which she had crawled lacked any ornament and beside it, on another bed, lay Ludorica.
The Princess’s cloak trailed half off her, her face was flushed, and she breathed with a puffing sound, clear to hear now that Roane had time to note it. Even as the off-world girl watched, she stirred, flinging out her arm as if to ward off some danger in a none-too-pleasant dream. And she murmured words Roane could not distinguish.
The small beds and the bench on which the flagon had stood were the only furnishings. There was a door opposite the beds. It had metal banding across it and a lock plate as large as Roane’s palm. She had no doubts that if she managed to reach it she would find it securely fastened. There was no question that they were prisoners. But of whom and where?
Carefully she put the flagon back on the bench and struggled to her feet. Her head swam and she closed her eyes, fighting vertigo. From the bench she lurched in the direction of the window, bringing up against that opening. But at least she kept her feet.
What she saw below was a courtyard with a wall around it, a solid gate fastened by a bar. Beyond that wall showed the green tops of trees, and yet farther away were rises of heights not unlike those about Hitherhow. Hope glimmered in her. If they were in that country she could find her way back to camp.
“Hot—thirsty—” The murmur from the bed brought Roane around, holding to the wall for support as she moved.
The Princess struggled up. She was pulling at the lacing of her bodice as if to loosen it. The delicate lace of her collar was crumpled and her fine dress smeared with dust and badly creased.
Roane preserved her balance as best she could, made for the bench, and then to the bedside with the flagon. She held it with both hands for the Princess to drink.
Ludorica drank, sucking with the same desperate need Roane had known. And when she signified she had had enough, there was very little left.
Now the Princess surveyed the room. Her eyes fixed upon the window and she wriggled off the bed, wavered to the wall, and inched her way to that opening, catching the bars with her hands. Roane joined her.
“Do you know where we are?”
Ludorica did not look around as she answered.
“As to where we are exactly I cannot say. But that peak”—she loosed her right hand to point—“I know. It is within a half league of Hitherhow. And I think we must be on some minor stead—perhaps Famslaw—so it is Reddick after all.”
“You mean this is his land?”
“Land of close kin. But how—” Then she gave a little gasp. “Look there!”
At one side of the courtyard very close to the wall was a coach with a brilliant device painted on its door. It had carefully curtained windows, and although there were no harnessed duocorns and no coachman, Roane was certain it was the one which had brought them here.
“The coach—” she began.
“Of course! But that symbol—on its door—”
Roane could not understand the importance of that but the Princess was continuing:
“That is Lord Imbert’s own! No coach with that on it would be stopped at the border. That was how they got us across.”
“Wait—” Roane’s memory stirred. She thought back to the dusky courtyard at Gastonhow, when Lord Imbert had handed them into what was to become a prison. She had seen the door in the lantern light; there had been no design then—or else it had been covered in some manner. “That was not on the door before.”
“What does it matter? It served its purpose.”
From somewhere over their heads there was a sharp call, which was answered by a horn note. And that fanfare was answered in turn by activity. Men appeared in the courtyard. They wore green or gray and fell into two lines at attention while two of their number ran to draw the gate bar.
“How dare he?” demanded Ludorica.
“What is it?”
The Princess turned a flushed face to Roane. Her eyes were wide and there was about her such an aura of barely leashed anger that Roane was glad it was not she who had aroused that emotion in her companion.
“That is the royal call! No one but those of the Blood dare use it. It is my call—mine—by birth alone. I am heiress to Reveny—there is no other!”
The gates opened and once more the call sounded close and loud, as the trumpeter himself rode through. Over his tunic he wore a loose-sleeved coat stiff with metallic lacing, one half red, one yellow. Behind him came a second rider wearing a yellow uniform tunic, his hat hiding his face. But the breath came out of the Princess in a furious hiss.
“Reddick! And he rides behind the heir’s own herald! Treachery, black treachery!” Her hands closed and wrung upon the bars as if she would pluck them out of their stone setting and hurl them spear-fashion at her cousin.