Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
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moving quickly enough through the familiar passages, treading in his own dusty footprints (and those of Stergos and the prince), pausing only for a moment to peep into the solar, where he was amazed to see his royal master pouring wine like a pageboy. Then he came into places he had never been, and several times made wrong turnings. There were no more footprints now save those of the rats. He heard rustling noises now and again, but never caught sight of the creatures.
Inside the gatehouse wall he abruptly came to a dead end in a nook with small unglazed loopholes, full of spiderwebs and bird droppings. The only egress led outside onto a parapet where machicolations fronted the west barbican, above the top of the massive main gate. He cracked the door open and peered cautiously out, then withdrew with a curse. He dared not risk it. It was still bright twilight. Both the north-west and south-west towers were manned by guards, and one or more of the men would be certain to see him crossing. He couldn’t muddle the minds of several people well enough to hide himself unless it was full dark. But if he waited until then, the council of war might come to an end and the windwatcher cut off his surveillance.
He nearly gave it up, but almost by accident he pressed the proper stone in the mold-encrusted wall. A slab swung up, and he saw a black tunnel barely large enough for a man to worm through. Dust lay two fingers deep inside.
‘Codders!’ he whispered in disgust. It looked as though no one had gone that way for a hundred years. Even though he had not yet reached his full growth, he was a well-built youth with broad shoulders. What if he ended up wedged in there like a cork in a bloody bunghole?
Had to try.
A footman, even one serving a prince, owned no such luxury as a kerchief. So he used his small dagger to cut out the fustian lining of his black livery jerkin and wrapped that around his mouth and nose. Then, pushing the lantern ahead of him, he started to wriggle through. His eyes watered fiercely, and as the dust thickened in the meager air he feared he would smother. He pressed on, coming at last to another stone slab. It pivoted easily. He thrust his body through the opening and fell onto the floor of yet another passage, letting loose a huge sneeze. The lantern clattered as he dropped it and its candle went out.
‘Shite!’ he moaned, and lay still in the dark, first listening and then casting about with his talent to determine whether he had been overheard. When nothing happened he struggled to his feet and felt along the wall until he found one of the interior peepholes. He could see nothing through it, but smelled candlewax and incense. A chapel storage room, no doubt, windowless and deserted.
He giggled. ‘Lucky again, Snudge!’ Found the lantern, rekindled it with his talent, dusted himself down as well as he could, and started off.
Suppertime for the stablehands: chunks of black bread, hot mutton pottage thick with barley and onions and carrots, cannikins of strong brown Vanguard ale, famous in the north country. The duke’s men and the grooms and horseknaves of the visiting nobles were gathered together around a flaming brazier in the small arcade between the smithy and the saddlery, cursing the kitchenboys for ladling portions deemed too small and loudly demanding more ale when the first barrel was emptied.
Snudge dodged past that well-lit area into a shadowed corridor beside the granary and hay-store, where he came upon a stack of iron-bound wooden buckets. He had turned his mutilated jerkin inside out to hide the prince’s silver stallion blazon, and no one would think to question a scruffy waterbearer wandering about. He took a bucket and slouched openly to the spring-shelter out in the midst of the ward, dipped up a small amount of water from the basin, and headed into the area of the stables where common born visitors were lodged at night. It was there that he believed the windwatcher was lurking. Almost immediately he met two head grooms in Marley livery, who eyed him with disdain.
‘You, knave!’ called one of them. ‘Where do the upper servants dine?’
Snudge bobbed his head humbly. ‘In the kitchens, messire. Straight past the smithy yard and to your left, within the middle tower.’
They strode off without another word, leaving Snudge with his heart pounding. He slipped into an alcove hung with coils of rope, put down the bucket, and closed his eyes to search closely.
Perhaps down that corridor to the right … His mind’s eye could perceive no human form in any of the chambers, but there seemed to be a strange blur among the packsacks and fardels and other baggage belonging to some lord’s train. The boy concentrated his oversight on the mundane objects near the blur. The room was dark, but he was finally able to make out a heraldic device stamped on a small leather coffer — a lymphad with the sail furled and oars over the side, flying a death’s-head flag: the arms of House Skellhaven.
Ha! Had the spy had come in from the east coast, with or without the knowledge of the piratical viscount?
An idea suggested itself. Since there was small likelihood that the watcher would recognize his own talent — not even Vra-Kilian, the Royal Alchymist, had managed to do that — Snudge decided to blunder into the room like an oafish servitor and hope for the best. The water provided a suitable excuse. Perhaps the spy would be so engrossed in his work that he wouldn’t even notice an intruder.
Snudge ignited his improvised dark-lantern, which he had hung from his belt like an ordinary tankard, and hoisted the bucket. The first dormitorium, with its door wide open, was untenanted. So was the second. The third chamber was closed but not locked, and when Snudge opened the door and held high the lantern he stopped short in astonishment.
‘Futter me blind!’ he whispered, almost letting the bucket fall to the floor.
At the far end of the dark, shuttered room, which was strewn with baggage, the wavering shadow of a human form was dimly visible on the wall.
A shadow without a body to project it.
Open-mouthed, Snudge advanced a few steps, sweeping the lantern from side to side. The movement of the light caused the shadow to change shape. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried, without thinking.
‘Why, it’s only me, laddie — Jasiko, a man of Lord Skellhaven’s! Who might you be?’ The voice was like dry oak leaves crushed underfoot.
The windwatcher had appeared in the blink of an eye, and Snudge was aware of an insistent mental whisper telling him he had only imagined the bodiless shadow. The magicker was mind-mashing him!
He was a wiry little old fellow bald as an egg, with a deeply lined face, as though he had experienced great pain. He wore the dirty white pantaloons, waxed leather jacket, and folded high boots of a sailor. Around his neck hung a short gold chain with a square stone pendant that glowed as faintly as foxfire. The sorcerer’s eyes were golden-orange, like an eagle-owl’s, and the boy had never seen their like in a human head. Within them shone the glint of talent, the same fugitive spark perceptible to him in the gaze of anyone possessed of arcane ability: easy to discern in Stergos and the other alchymists and windvoices of his acquaintance, more elusive but nonetheless a tell-tale sign in the eyes of certain others, such as Prince Heritor Conrig Wincantor.
‘I’m … Oddie, the scullion,’ Snudge said.
‘What do you want?’
The boy lifted the bucket. ‘Here’s w-water for washing. I’ll just put it here and go.’
The spy started toward Snudge, an ingratiating smile spreading his furrowed lips. His teeth were decayed brown stumps. The pupils of his amazing eyes expanded until all trace of their fiery color had been obliterated by blackness.
‘Bide a moment, lad. I’ll take the bucket.’ He held out a hand, striding quickly through the scattered chests and packs of Skellhaven’s retainers.
Snudge felt a terrifying splinter of ice prick his throat. He cried, ‘Oh!’
‘Don’t be afraid.’ The sorcerer spoke in a wheedling tone. His eyes had become gleaming jet beads, enormous and compelling. Magic stiffened Snudge’s tongue and rendered him mute. He felt his fingers freeze. A wave of cold began creeping up his arms. His feet tingled painfully, then lost feeling and seemed rooted to the floor. Snudge’s mind screamed: