The Magestone

16 Mereth—events at Lormt (10th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/Veneration Day)

When he was brought back to the study room, Kasarian addressed a brazen proposal to me, with an odd mingling of both arrogance and courtesy. He declared that I was of a suitable age and size to disguise myself as his uncle, Baron Volorian, who had fostered him as a child.

I was appalled by Kasarian’s proposition. How could I possibly pose as an Alizonder baron? I had already felt utter revulsion at my own notion which required me to go among our Dales’ worst enemies in even the most inconspicuous, surreptitious fashion, but this hideous plan entailed my assuming a visibly prominent role. I forced myself to attend to the continuing discussion.

“If our initial overture to Gurborian is composed skillfully enough,” Kasarian resumed, “Gurborian would feel obliged to investigate the validity of our receptiveness. Once we tempt him into Krevonel Castle, we can maneuver adroitly for the best opportunity to kill him. Gurborian has always been as wary as a cornered split-tusked boar. He would be unlikely to succumb to any consumable poisons. If I could position myself near enough to him, a dagger thrust should be more certain. . . .” His voice trailed off as he became aware that the others around the table had drawn back in obvious distaste. “I see that Alizon’s common modes of action differ from yours,” Kasarian remarked, evidently more intrigued than offended by our reactions. “Do you not resort to killing under pressing circumstances such as these?” he asked.

“We do not often have occasion to weigh various methods of killing in advance,” said Ouen dryly, “except during councils of war.”

Duratan’s expression remained somber. “In this instance,” he commented, “the Alizonian way may have to be considered. If Gurborian is customarily on guard against sudden attacks, it will be far more difficult for us to take him by surprise.”

I thumped my staff and extended a written question for Nolar to read to Kasarian. “Would Gurborian recognize Volorian’s script?”

Kasarian appeared startled by my query, but after a moment’s thought, he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I can think of no reason why they should have exchanged writings in the past. Volorian dispatches few letters—only to me, and to other noted breeders of hounds.”

Nolar accepted and read my related proposal: “Could we not bait our trap with a message ostensibly written by Volorian? Suppose Volorian demanded to know the truth of Gurborian’s intentions concerning Escore, and offered, under convincingly stringent conditions, to pledge his Line’s backing for Gurborian’s plot?”

“An admirably clever thought, lady,” Kasarian acknowledged. “Knowing that Gratch had encroached upon our lands, Gurborian must assume that Volorian is aware of his suspicious activity near our estates. He should indeed be drawn to respond to such an approach.”

“Regarding the setting of conditions for a meeting of mutually mistrustful barons,” mused Duratan, “Volorian could insist that Gurborian come secretly to Krevonel Castle at a discreet hour—midnight, say—with a minimal number of bodyguards. I trust that Gurborian does employ bodyguards?”

“A dozen or more,” Kasarian confirmed. “Gurborian has accumulated many enemies.”

Nolar’s eyes brightened. “It may be that I perceive a way whereby Gurborian might be persuaded to bring Elsenar’s jewel with him to Krevonel Castle. Since Morfew’s winter ague has silenced Volorian’s voice, the baron would reasonably order Kasarian, his brother’s son, to speak for him. And,” she added triumphantly, “Volorian could make it a condition for the meeting that Gurborian wear his jewel from the Dales. He could claim that Kasarian had taken a fancy to it, and its presence and implied potential availability as a bribe might sway his opinion in Gurborian’s favor.”

Morfew reached for quill and ink. “I can easily indite that message in the proper Alizonian style.” He scribbled busily, then read to us, “ ‘Gurborian: I have heard curious rumors and reports concerning certain of your recent plans. What is the truth of the matter regarding your furtive incursions along the Escorian border? Packs of our puissance should unite into one overwhelming force, not splinter our strength by opposing one another. Is it not time that we set aside our Lines’ past enmities? If you have contrived a scheme with promise, I might, for carefully negotiated considerations, rally Krevonel to your faction. Come to Krevonel Castle at midnight. Bring no large retinue, but I would hear from your agent Gratch, who I know has been sniffing about my territory. Discussions of such moment should be held circumspectly by pack elders. Since a winter ague has quenched my voice, however, Oralian’s whelp will accompany me to speak in my stead. A private word for your ear alone—the whelp has taken a fancy to that bauble of yours from the Dales. Bear that in mind when you arm yourself for the excursion. His opinion could be persuasive, especially among the younger whelps of our Line. I await your reply. Volorian.”

Kasarian showed his fangs in a wolfish grin. “Morfew, I commend the shrewdness of your composition. It strikes the perfect tone to prick Gurborian’s ears.” His expression reverted to his more usual semblance of keenly focused regard. “I do foresee one other obstacle,” he said. “Yonder female’s paws cannot be mistaken for those of a proper baron and Master of Hounds.”

Morfew emitted a snort that I took to be a suppressed laugh. “The seamstresses of Lormt,” he said, “ably directed by our Mistress Bethalie, can craft ornamental gloves suitable for even baronial use. Surely an elderly baron suffering from ague would choose to glove his hands warmly for a clandestine meeting in an old castle at midnight.”

“Your ingenuity is inspiring, Morfew,” Ouen observed appreciatively. “We must also address the matter of diverse speech. Do you think it will be possible to teach Mereth sufficient Alizonian so that she can react acceptably to what might be said during a conference with Gurborian?”

“If the lady will permit,” Kasarian offered, “I can endeavor to instruct her in our basic speech.”

“The two of us can assist her,” Morfew declared. “She must master our script as well, so she can write brief comments on her slate as Volorian would, in order to communicate with his nephew. ‘Nephew,’ ” he added for Kasarian’s enlightenment, “is the Estcarpian term for a brother’s or sister’s son.”

I nodded to each of them, and wrote, “I thank you both. Let us set about these tasks at once. I possess a few words of Alizonian, and I know the script for some trading terms, but I achieved that limited understanding many years ago. My memory will require much refreshing and additional instruction.”

“As for her hair. . . .” Jonja had been looking from me to Kasarian, and then back to me. “Kasarian is right. Mereth’s hair needs to be a paler, yet brighter hue if she is to survive close scrutiny by Alizonders.”

Nolar had been quietly pondering. “I am familiar with many preparations of bark or nut shells to darken hair,” she said, “but I cannot immediately recall any treatment that causes hair to lighten to the silver-white we require. I shall ask Master Pruett—he knows more about herbs than any person in all of Estcarp. If such a substance exists, he will know of it, and likely have three different forms of it tucked away in his herbarium.”

“Pray inquire of him for us,” Ouen requested, and Nolar rose from her chair.

Jonja also stood. “By your leave, I can alert Mistress Bethalie to assemble her most skilled glovemakers.” At Ouen’s gesture of approval, she followed Nolar from the room.

Ouen pushed back his own chair. “Your study of Alizonian should be as undisturbed as possible,” he said. “I shall arrange for food and drink to be brought here, as we did for our work in Morfew’s rooms. We will rejoin you presently, after you have had time to progress. Despite the gravity of the threat from the north, we cannot neglect Lormt’s necessary activities.”

Duratan smiled ruefully. “Master Wessell has been chasing after me through every corridor, waving his provisioning lists. I had hoped to elude him in here, but this would be a good opportunity to confer with him.”

Once they had departed, Morfew gathered together several blank sheets of parchment, and invited me to take the chair beside his. Kasarian retained his place across the table from us.

As the hours passed, I was exceedingly relieved that I could not physically speak the wretched tongue. The more I listened to Morfew and Kasarian growl and snarl at one another, the more they sounded like a brace of quarrelsome hounds. Spoken Alizonian grated upon my ear . . . and my memory. I had thought that I had buried those memories, but jagged shards from the past stabbed my mind, unbidden, no doubt prompted by the hateful speech of our Dales’ bitterest enemies.

I thumped my staff, and gestured toward the flask of ale. Kasarian leaped up to pour me a measure. I shut my eyes for a moment, then forced myself to copy yet again the shapes of the script letters that I had to master. I was gradually achieving some facility, but my hand was again aching from the intensive exercise.

Nolar returned first, bearing a welcome tray of porridge, cheese, bread, and fruit. Jonja arrived soon afterward, noting that Mistress Bethalie herself insisted upon coming to measure my hands for the baronial gloves.

Nolar briskly swept aside our parchments to make room for the food. “I described to Master Pruett our need for some means to match the Alizonder hair color,” she reported. “He regretted that he could not attend to you personally, Mereth, but he is engaged in a most delicate extraction of essences that he cannot abandon. He assured me, however, that this decoction of silver nettles should produce most satisfying results.” She withdrew from her skirt pocket a flask of murky liquid that exuded a sharp scent even though its stopper was tightly wrapped with dried grass.

Jonja eyed it dubiously. “I should not care to apply that to my hair,” she stated firmly. “Common nettles I know well enough, and how they will restore hair color, but these silver nettles from the high mountain meadows are far harsher in their juice and in their stings! Surely such an extract would be too strong to apply to the scalp.”

Nolar nodded. “From my own herbal experience, I raised that very objection, but Master Pruett vows that his regimen for purifying and cooling the decoction quite diminishes the more noxious elements of the plant. Still. . . .” She glanced at me, and smiled. “If Mereth will allow us, I would feel easier if we cut off a lock of hair and tested that first.”

Jonja plucked from her belt scrip a sturdy wooden comb and a small knife. I let down my hair, curious to see whether its already white hue could be bleached by Lormt’s herbs to the singular silver-white shade characteristic for Alizonders.

We duly peered at the lock Jonja placed on a saucer, while Nolar dampened it with water, then added a few drops from Master Pruett’s flask. Jonja stirred the strands with her knife, and rinsed them in a second saucer.

“Master Pruett advises that we apply the nettle extract in a solution with mild soap,” Nolar said. “The lightening process will take somewhat longer, but will be gentler to the skin.”

“I would not have believed it,” Jonja admitted, “but this extract of Pruett’s does produce the desired hue. If you agree,” she added, turning to me, “I can trim your hair to the length and style worn by this Volorian.”

Kasarian had been watching us with great interest. “The last time I saw Volorian,” he remarked, “his hair was trimmed much like mine. He wears his perhaps a trifle shorter at the back of the neck, since he seldom fights in a helmet. I practice frequently with blade and spear,” Kasarian explained, “in order to maintain my speed of thrust. Some fighters must pad their helmets, but since my hair is dense, I require no padding.”

“I welcome your attentions and advice,” I wrote for Nolar to read aloud. “At your convenience, I place my hair at your disposal.”

That afternoon sped past in a blur of activity. Just as we were completing our hasty luncheon, an energetic woman of middle age rapped at the door. Nolar introduced her as Bethalie, Lormt’s mistress for all forms of needlework. She spread a square of thin cloth on the table before me, and with a stick of charcoal, deftly marked around my outstretched fingers. From a capacious pocket in her smock, she produced a well-worn strip of linen barred with evenly spaced lines of stitching, which she stretched around and along every possible dimension of my hands. Having carefully noted each measurement on a corner of the cloth, she bobbed her head, gathered up her materials, and promised to bring me a pair of cloth test-gloves as soon as her seamstresses could cut and stitch them.

Jonja was lighting the candles and Nolar was about to serve our evening meal delivered by one of Morfew’s assistants when Mistress Bethalie bustled through the door. She explained that these relatively flimsy cloth gloves would be unstitched to provide patterns for cutting the leather versions. Humming a quiet tune to herself, Mistress Bethalie tightened a tuck here and loosened a seam there. “It may take two days,” she announced at last. “The final gloves must be appropriate for a baron of Alizon. I have three embroiderers marking out the ornamental designs for the gauntlets.”

True to her word, two days later at midmorning, Mistress Bethalie appeared at Ouen’s study door looking highly gratified. Walking directly to the table, she extended to me a pair of hideous red-purple leather gloves, their gauntlets encrusted with tortuous swirls of silver thread so closely stitched that I expected the surface to be as stiff as a turtle shell. When I thrust in my fingers, however, I discovered that the leather was as soft and supple as fine wool. I had never in all my years possessed finer made—or more garish—gloves. I removed one for Kasarian’s inspection. He examined it with every appearance of genuine approbation.

Bowing gracefully to Mistress Bethalie, Kasarian said, “I have seldom touched a finer prepared piece of leather, or seen more elegant decoration. Baron Volorian himself would wear these gloves with pride.”

He turned away to exclaim to Morfew about the stitching, and I heard Mistress Bethalie murmur to Nolar, “I promised our chief tanner last year that someday I would rid him of that vile mistake he made in dyeing. He wagered with me that no man in Lormt would endure such an appalling shade of leather. I believe that I can now honestly claim my wager, for these gloves have been worn, albeit briefly, at Lormt. It seems that their appearance appeals solely to Alizonders.”

In the past, I had prided myself upon my ability to juggle several tasks, compressing into one stretch of time a number of trading activities that had to be accomplished simultaneously. The next several days at Lormt reminded me most forcefully of the strenuous trials for both mind and body that had assailed us during the time of fighting in the Dales, and to an even greater degree in the awful years following the war. I had been aided then by others who shared my burdens; now I also had supportive assistance, but so much depended upon my personal exertions. I raced through the crowded hours, listening to and writing Alizonian, sitting for my hair to be cut and bleached silver-white, trying on piece after piece of clothing that Kasarian selected from Mistress Bethalie’s stores to outfit me as Baron Volorian.

Kasarian himself brought up the subject of weaponry. One morning when I had finally been fitted with matching breeches, tunic, and boots that would serve until we could substitute the distinctive high-sided Alizonian style, he declared, “Volorian must be properly armed.”

Without saying a word, Duratan crossed the study to unlock the small cabinet mounted above Ouen’s desk near the window. He took from its shelves all of the weapons he had removed from Kasarian’s body, and placed them on the table.

The Alizonder instantly arose to restore each item to its designated place on his belt or up his sleeve or tucked inside his boot tops. He preserved a deliberately impassive facial expression, but when he wriggled slightly to settle his gear in place, I suddenly recalled a similar motion. Doubt’s old dog had given just such a gleeful squirm whenever his master buckled on his favorite cart harness. I realized that except when he slept (and indeed, I suspected that Kasarian slept with his knives within close reach), he probably had never before been deprived of his personal weapons for so many days as his current visitation to Lormt. I knew that I should have felt ill at ease had someone taken away my slate, chalk, or tally sticks—how much more vital to an Alizonder’s sense of well-being must be his constant awareness of his personal weapons? Possibly the only time they would consider going unarmed would be in a place they knew to be utterly secure . . . if such a place could exist in Alizon, where treachery could be confidently expected from one’s own closest family members.

As I watched Kasarian, I could not avoid noticing the stark contrast between him and Duratan. Duratan’s body, too, had obviously grown accustomed to the weights of sword and dagger, and had been hardened in their use . . . yet during my observations of him at Lormt, Duratan had seemed most serenely content while wielding a quill or searching through old documents. By comparison, for all the pallor of his coloration, Kasarian called to mind the shadows of the night rather than the light of day. He was like a lean, sharp-toothed hound trained to lunge for an enemy’s throat, I thought, then decided that he embodied elements of wildness beyond those of even a war hound. With his uncanny agility and quickness of balance, Kasarian more closely resembled a prowling wolf, always poised to spring, always deadly.

Kasarian had noticed that I was watching him. He touched his belt and said, “As Volorian, lady, you will also have to wear such weapons. In recent years, however, he has exchanged most of his daggers for training gear with which he works his hounds. For our would-be meeting with Gurborian, he would definitely equip himself with full armament. If we do emerge in Krevonel Castle, I have there ample stores of weapons for you, as well as a proper pair of boots.” He walked around me, scrutinizing me from all sides. “I commend you, lady,” he said. “Did I not know better, I would vow that you were a true baron of the blood.”

“And one who regrettably still requires more practice in understanding the quickness of spoken Alizonian,” warned Morfew. “It is vital that you be prepared to respond to sudden queries, Mereth, with no suspicious hesitation. Let us rehearse again the kinds of phrases that you are likely to hear.”

For what seemed endless hours, I feared that I would never grasp what they were saying, but finally my ears discerned the important words which I could not dare mistake. We frequently labored far into the nights. We were constantly aware that at any moment, Gurborian might be succeeding in locating a Dark mage from Escore.

I was both deeply relieved and keenly daunted when on the twentieth day of the Month of the Ice Dragon, after nine days of furious effort, Morfew pronounced me sufficiently prepared for our purposes to deal with both spoken and written Alizonian. Ouen received Morfew’s report with evident gratification. “I believe that we can risk no further delay,” Ouen declared. “We have accomplished all that we can here at Lormt. Let us now discover whether Elsenar’s postern will accept these two would-be travelers. May the Light favor our enterprise!”