The Blue Star

by Fletcher Pratt

III

Under Remigorius’ order, Rodvard did not go home to the pensionnario at sun-turning as usual, but took his repast for a pair of coppers on small beer and cheese at a tavern near his labor. He had been there not often, but it seemed to him that the place bubbled with talk beyond custom, and he wondered if the cause were some tale of Count Cleudi’s witching and Lalette’s escape, a speculation dispelled on his return, for there came to him young Asper Poltén from the next cabinet with:

“Did you know that girl you squired to the harvest festival turned out to be a witch? She has witched Count Cleudi, and stolen all his money; they say he’s going to die. They have closed the city gates and set a price on her. Your fortune that you carried matters no further with one like that.”

Rodvard shuffled papers. Some reply was necessary. “Why are they so urgent over a foreigner? People have been witched before without having all the paving stones in Netznegon City torn up about it.”

“Do you forever live in dreams? He’s the new favorite—named director of the lottery only yesterday. Perhaps that’s the reason the witch rode him—for jealousy more than the scudi. She’s not to be blamed if, as I hear, he’s more than a proper man in the parts that matter most to women. They say Cleudi and the Florestan held an exhibition for Her Majesty and the Tritulaccan was longer. Speaking of which, Ser Rodvard, you are not far from fortune yourself. I saw the Demoiselle of Stojenrosek here again today. She’ll have a shapelier body than Cleudi will ever press, and bring you a fortune in addition.”

(“Did you see her indeed, curse you? and what business is it of yours?” Rodvard wanted to cry; or “Mine’s the high destiny of the witch.”) But aloud he could only say; “There’s nothing in that. She’s only searching out some old family records. I must go to Ser Habbermal’s cabinet; he has a project forward for me.”

He stood up with a trifling stagger, leg tingling with the pain of the position in which he had cramped it. Asper Poltén made offended eyes. “Ah, plah, you are too nice for anything but priesthood!” He turned away, flung open the door to the next cabinet, and could be heard uttering to the three within; “Bergelin again; this time pretending he does not know what women carry between their legs or what it’s used for—” with a whoop of merriment from the rest.

Rodvard himself, before they could all come in and begin their usual sport of baiting, walked to the outer door, through it, and without so much as pausing at the garderobe for his cap, straight down the corridor to the street and away, the last steps running. If there were stares at seeing him without headgear or mark of condition, he did not return them, but hurried on to his own living-place. The pensionnaria was at the foot of the stairs, the little black hairs on her upper lip quivering as she administered some rebuke to a maid who held a trayful of dirty dishes, but her eye lighted as she turned to perceive a new victim.

“You are too late, Ser Bergelin. If we make a rule good for one, it must stand for all, because it is only so that I can keep up a place like this, as cheap as it is, and I simply can’t have you bringing girls here late at night, I have told Udo. . . .” The end of it he did not hear, as he broke past her up the stairs, bounding.

The extra set of hose must come, of course, but his best jacket would not go on over the other, so he had to make a bundle with underclothing and wrap it in the cloak that it was too fine a day to wear. The festival-cap must stay behind, even though it might bring some coppers from a dealer; also the pair of tiny southern-made health-goblets for carrying at the waist on feast days, of whose acquisition he had been so proud. At the last moment he added the volume of Dostal’s ballads; of all the books, he could spare that one least. There was a moment of fear when a glance through the glass-windowed door showed callers closeted with Udo the Crab, but side vision registered the fact that they were only a pair of rough fellows in leather jackets, not blue-and-green provosts.

He had been to Mme. Kaja’s only once before, and then at night, for a meeting of the Sons of the New Day. Under this more vivid light the Street Cossao showed as a dirty courtyard with a running sore of gutter down the center, garbages piled in the corners, yelling children underfoot and somewhere among the upper stories a hand that practiced the violon monotonously, playing the harvest-song, but always going sour on the same double-stop passage. Rodvard elected the wrong house first, the doorman did not know of Kaja, but the next one at the back angle of the court was it; he went up a narrow dark winding stair smelling of yesterday’s cabbage and knocked at the topmost door.

Mme. Kaja herself answered, clad in an old dressing-gown, pink silk, and dirty gray where it dragged along the floor, with her hair packed untidily atop her head. Past her a space of floor was visible, with light coming through a pair of dormer windows, a keyed musical instrument and chairs. “Ser Rodvard!” she squealed, her voice going into a high musical note. “You are sooo welcome. We did not expect you this early. The dear girl is waiting.”

A door against the slant of the garret opened and Lalette came out, unaffectedly glad it was he, and this time not avoiding as he ran forward to kiss her on the lips. The older woman; “I leave you to your greetings, while I make myself beautiful.” She passed through the door from which Lalette had come; the girl sat down. After the door had closed behind Kaja, “Rodvard,” she said, very still and looking at the floor.

“Lalette.”

“I have given you my Blue Star. Whether to marry you now I do not know. I think not—it seems to me that you are not altogether willing; I feel you are holding something back from me. But this I say, and you may look into my heart and find it true—” she raised her head in a blaze of grey eyes “—that I want to be a good partner to you, Rodvard, and will honestly do all in my power never to fail you.”

From the inner room came the sound of Mme. Kaja, running scales in what was left of her voice (and what could he say? thought Rodvard, who had won this loyalty for Remigorius’ reason and not his own desire. Let conscience die, but not with a tear at the heartstrings.) “I will do as much,” said he, and as her lip quivered at his tone, “if we ever pass this peril with our lives.”

She lifted a hand and let it fall beside her. “It is life without account of peril that I have offered,” she said. “I do not—”

“How do you know? Lalette, look at me. Will you lie with me this night, in peril or whatever?”

But she would not meet the questioning eyes now (and he thought, she thought, they both knew there had been somehow a lack of communication). Lalette said; “You have come before time.”

He shuddered slightly. “They picked at me till I must leave. You will hardly believe how—how base—”

The inner door sprang open and Mme. Kaja emerged with almost a dance-step, dressed to the eyes in withering finery. “For a little while I must go forth,” she said, “but you will hardly miss me, he, he. I’ll bring sup from the cook-shop, is there a delicacy you desire or any other way I can lighten captivity for my two caged birds?”

She beamed on them fondly. Rodvard thought of the cap left at the office and prayed her for a new one, with the badge of his condition, which took more of his slender store of coppers. The door closed; and now they two had not much to say to each other, having agreed that all that mattered should be left unsaid.

The end of it was that Lalette in all her clothes lay down on the bed in the corner to make up for some of the sleep lost last night, while he undid his parcel and set out to lose himself in Iren Dostal’s harmonies and tales—but that did not do very well either, the poems he had always loved seemed suddenly pointless. He fell into a kind of doze or waking dream, in which the thought came to his mind that if he were really ready to let conscience die in exchange for high destiny, he had only to give this witch back her Blue Star, call for the provosts, and claiming the price set on her, seek out Maritzl of Stojenrosek. A destiny not high by the standards of the Sons of the New Day, no doubt. But love and position, aye. Remigorius would approve; would call it the act of a great spirit to seek an inner contentment, no matter what others thought of how it was achieved, no matter if others were hurt during the achievement. But Remigorius thought the struggle more important than its end—and it might be that the reason he, Rodvard, could see no high destiny, was that he did not possess such a spirit, immune to scruple, willing to serve any cause.

Now he fell on to wondering what was the tangle of ideas and thoughts that made up himself, Rodvard Bergelin, where they came from and how they were put together—could they be altered?—and so drifted deeper into his daydream till it began to grow dusk and Mme. Kaja came back with a covered dish of fish and red beans.

5
NIGHT; GENEROSITY; TREASON

She was less cooing than before, having learned of the closing of the city gates and the price on Lalette. (For the first time she knows what it is to be a conspirator, Rodvard thought.) There was a self-sacrificing debate over where to sleep, for the singer had only the one bed and tried to insist that the pair use it, or at least share it with her. In the end Rodvard composed himself across a pile of old garments on the floor. They smelled, he felt ill-used, and went to sleep wondering rather desperately what to do about money.

That problem became no easier with the morning, when Mme. Kaja said her own funds were very low and she could not receive her pupils while the two were there. As she was going out Rodvard gave her his last silver spada, whose breakup would keep them nourished for a couple of days. Lalette added that she was much concerned over her mother; could the singer obtain news?

Hardly had the receding footsteps left the first flight when Rodvard, burning inwardly with anxiety, suspense and the thought of another do-nothing day, which combined to translate themselves into desire, swung the girl off her feet in his arms and bore her toward the bed without a word. She struggled a little and the Blue Star told him she was not very willing, but the contact of their bodies soon caught her, she only asked to be careful of her dress as she pulled it off—and Mme. Kaja’s voice said; “Oh.”

Rodvard rolled over, blood running hot through his cheeks. “I am so-o-o sorry,” the older woman said. “I was going to the Service and found I had forgot my Book of Days. But you must not mind, really you must not, when I was in the opera, His Majesty used to make three of us attend him together and when the heart speaks . . .” rattling like a broken music-box in terms that Rodvard scarcely heard, as she crossed the room to take the Book of Days and left again without looking at them directly.

Lalette (feeling as though she had bathed in a sewer and never wanted to touch anything clean again) took her dress to put it on. When Rodvard touched her shoulder, she shook his hand away and said, simply; “No.”

“It was my fault,” he said, “and I regret—”

“No. I am the one most to blame. It does not matter now for any reason.” Her mouth moved and she looked down, tieing laces. “Dear God, what your fine friends will think of me! I should have accepted Count Cleudi’s offer; at least I would have been well paid for the name I’ll have.”

He felt himself flush again. “Well, if they call you any name you do not wish to have, it will be your own fault,” he said. “I have offered you marriage—”

“Ah, yes, indeed, with me furnishing the priest’s spada for the ceremony.”

“—and I will hold to the offer. Demoiselle, you are not just.”

She turned and sat down, (feeling suddenly weary, bitten with the edge of concern about her mother, so that it was not worth while to quarrel). He made one or two beginnings of speech, but could settle on nothing worth saying; moved about the room, clanking the coppers in his pocket, and looked out the window; picked at one or two keys of the music in a manner that showed he had no training with it; found a book of Mme. Kaja’s and standing, skimmed a few pages, then set it down; resumed his pacing; abandoned it; walked to where he had placed his few belongings on a chair, took his own book and settled himself purposefully to read, in a position where his face was mostly in shadow from her.

(The angry shame had run off Lalette now, she could only see that he was truly unhappy.) After a little while she ran across the room, put her arms around his shoulder and kissed the side of his face. “Rodvard,” she said, “I really meant it all. If you want me, you may have me any time you wish.”

He swung her down to his lap, but (now afraid of interruption) would go no farther than kissing her and holding her close, so for a long time they remained thus lip to lip, speaking a little to exchange memories of things pleasant in their few meetings and not noticing they had missed a meal, until they heard Mme. Kaja’s step outside the door, which this time she made firm enough to give them warning. The singer began to talk at once about the Service and how as the chanters intoned the celestial melody and the violet vestments fluttered among the flowers that fell from the galleries to crush fragrantly beneath the worshipers’ knees, she could feel every power of evil roll from her mind—“though the second baritone was flat in the musanna. Oh, if only the court would have religion in its heart, as the poor people do, who sat with tears in their eyes.” She smiled suddenly on Lalette:

“I spoke to my own priest, too, for you. I know you must have a confession to make by now—” she held up outspread fingers before her face and tittered through them “—so I made up a story for you, about a jealous husband, and he will hear you after dark, when all’s safe, and you won’t have to pay but a copper or two.”

Lalette looked up. “But there’s no confession to make. . . . Did you find out about my mother?”

Rodvard saw Mme. Kaja’s eyes open wide, and felt the cold stone (she was not believing Lalette at all, and for some reason was desperately frightened that the girl should lie). “Oh, you poooor child,” she said. “It was so unthinking of me to forget to tell you. I did not find out much, but I know the provosts have not taken her, and Count Cleudi is not as ill as pretended, that is only a story.”

She set down packages of food, a dish of lentils with bread and wine; began to make ready the table, keeping her eyes averted, so Rodvard could not read her thinking (it came to him that he would not be the first Star-bearer she had met) as she talked rapidly, about the Service once more. The priest had said that when anyone admitted evil to his heart, peril lay upon all persons approaching the lost one. “For these powers of evil increase like mice in a granary, running from one soul to another, and as farmers will often burn an old grain-bin to keep the vermin from spreading, so it is lawful and even necessary to destroy the body of one infected by the powers of evil. He was talking about this poor child here, it was easy to see.”

Rodvard (to whom this was interesting, if somewhat questionable discourse) would have inquired more as she paused for breath, but Lalette (who found it more than tiresome) broke in to ask what of the city? what of the hunt for her?

“Oh, they have opened the gates again, though I did not go to see, and put guards everywhere. But it will be all right. Have I ever recounted to you, friend Rodvard, that I was in arrest once myself? It was because of that Oronari, who was so jealous because I could carry the high note in ‘The Mayern Lovers’ while she could not, and had me accused of stealing some of the jewels that were loaned for the spring festival performance. I felt very badly about it, because she was a friend of mine, but it’s just as the priest said, the power of evil had gained control over her, and there was nothing I could do but complain to the Baron Coespel, who was my protector then, and he had her banished the . . .”

She stuffed food into her mouth, masticating noisily as she babbled. Rodvard caught a flash of Lalette’s eye (and knew she was thinking how thin the veneer of half a lifetime around the court was over someone with a peasant’s background). To change things he asked; “Madame, is there any word of the doctor?”

“He did not send the fruiterer from his street?” She sighed and turned to Lalette. “Then it is likely that he has no money as yet. He is so good and kind and works for so little that it is often so. Dear child, have you no funds at all?”

Said Lalette; “Only two spadas. But I took all the money in the house when I left, and my mother—”

“Dear child, of course we all love our parents and do all we can for them, but after all, they are only our relatives by accident and not the choice of the heart—” she smote her breast in the gesture Rodvard remembered “—and when the heart speaks, God dwells in us to drive out the powers of evil. Then we are grateful to those who speak to us through the heart, and if we have anything we give it to them. I denied the heart once—”

“Your pardon,” said Lalette, and stood up to leave the table. Her face was a little white.

Mme. Kaja finished the last of the wine and wiped her mouth. “I know it is hard for you, being of the witch-families, dear child,” she said. “But Uncle Tutul, who is the priest we are going to see tonight, says that even a witch may save herself if she gives up everything to those she loves, and oh, my dear, I really do not mind missing my pupils, but—”

Lalette’s mouth strained. She stood up and plucked from her waist the tiny purse. “Here,” she cried, “are the spadas,” and flung them ringing silvernly against the plates. “Take them; I am going to the provosts myself. To be seduced, I will, it was my fault. But I will owe no obligation for it.” She turned to the door so fast that Rodvard barely barred the way before her.

“No,” said he, as she tried to push him from the way. “You shall not go like this.” Their hands caught and she struggled for a moment. “Or if you’ll say you do not love and never will, go; and I will join you before the Deacons’ court. But it was another tale that you told lately.”

Said Mme. Kaja; “Oh, dear child, you must not resist such love.” She tittered (and the nerves of both the others jangled).

Lalette sat down. “I am at the mercy of you two,” she said.

“Mercy? Mercy?” The singer’s bracelets clanked. “Ah, no, we are at yours, and seek to help you at our own risk. Not so, friend Rodvard?” She swung to face him for an unguarded moment (and he was staggered till he must grip the table-edge at the blast of hate for Lalette behind her eyes. There was a strange mother-thought in it too, he could not make out the detail.) Kaja’s glance went restlessly on across the room. She stood up in her turn, saving; “I do not know the hour, my watch is being repaired, but I am sure by the dimness outside it must be late, and Uncle Tutul is waiting. Demoiselle Asterhax—no, I shall call you Lalette, it is so much more friendly—will you come?”

(Rodvard thought; if I let her go, everything will arrange itself to my utmost advantage.) “Maritzl,” he said, “do not go out this evening. There’s no—”

Mme. Kaja tittered once more. “Ah, friend Rodvard,” she said, “if you’d have women kind to you, you must remember their names. Will you come, Demoiselle Lalette? Even if there’s no confession, it will be a joy to hear Uncle Tutul’s discourse.”

Rodvard; “Lalette, I beg you, by all you have said this day and all we hope for in the future, do not go out now. I have a reason.” He reached one hand and took hers, as she looked at him (wondering why he was so vehement in such a small matter); a child’s look, with trust in it.

“Well, then,” and she sat down again. A glassy smile appeared on Mme. Kaja’s face, and she shook one finger at Lalette as she hurried to the door. “You naughty Rodvard; she will certainly have a confession to make before I return,” and her steps were audible, going down.

Lalette’s hands lay listless in her lap. For a minute there was silence, in which she rose, walking slowly to the window to gaze out and down, not turning around. “What is your reason and who is Maritzl?”

He had begun to make up his bundle with quick fingers, the volume of Iren Dostal inside. “We must leave here forthwith. The Blue Star—she will do you a terrible harm if she can.”

“You have told me nothing I did not know without that bit of witchery. A pattern would be useless against her, though, she is too close to the Church. . . . Rodvard.”

“What will you have?” He pulled the edge of the cloak tight.

“I am sorry I said what lately I did . . . about being seduced. Will you forgive? I do not wish to be a shrew, as my mother said, and I will say that I do not regret—what we did.”

He dropped the knot half-made and ran over to her, but she shifted in his grasp, pointing. “Rodvard!”

Down the line of her finger he saw hurrying figures pass the lantern at the gate of the Street Cossao. Impossible to miss Mme. Kaja or the priest, or the provost with bare alerted sword. Said Rodvard; “I did not think her so quick in her grimness. Is there another stair?”

“Not that I know. I am sure not. No escape. Oh—”

“That cannot be true. Life is to those who struggle for it, says Dr. Remigorius.” He threw the latch and pushed the window outward; not a foot down lay a broad rain-gutter, which being proved solid by foot-weight test, he went three rapid steps across the room to sling his bundle over one shoulder, stepped out cautiously, caught a grip at the edge of the dormer with his right hand (not daring to look down into the dizzy dark), and stretched the other to Lalette. “Come.”

“Oh, I—”

“Come!”

He could feel her shiver dreadfully as she took the step, she almost tripped over her dress on the sill, but once out, it was she who stretched to the limit of his restraining hand to swing the window closed. By good fortune it was a suave spring night; Rodvard could see stars past the rim of the house as they edged rightward, free hands pressed against the slates of the mansard, until contact was made with the second dormer, the one in the dressing room. He gripped at that edge, sliding foot against foot, the bundle almost pulling him off balance where he came against the projection. “Hurry,” whispered Lalette. “I can hear them.”

Ahead and beyond the roof turned; one might work round that backslope but it would only lead to the opposite side of Mme. Kaja’s garret. Rodvard halted his sliding progress and looked over his shoulder to see the loom of the house at the back of the court, fortunately of the same height. A glance down showed another gutter, with something more than a thigh-length of black space in separation. He turned again, face brushing slates, to make out that Lalette had seen it, too.

“Shall we try it?” he whispered, and then, incontinently, “I love you” (which was for that enchanted moment true). For answer she disengaged her hand from his and began to tuck up her skirt, leaning with cheek against the roofslope. He swung and tossed the bundle to the other gutter; set foot on the edge where they were, teetered, and with perspiring palms, pushed himself into the long step, almost going down when the lip of the opposite gutter proved higher. But it was wider as well, it held, he was able to reach a hand out and pull her across.

There were no windows on this side of the other house, they found it easy to slide along leftward to the corner, and by the especial grace of heaven, there was a drain at the angle, in which Rodvard’s foot caught to keep them from tumbling where the gutter ended suddenly, with the back of the building going down sheer. They both stood breathless as a window in the building they had just left cracked open, a voice said; “No, not along the gutter there. Perhaps they jumped.” Mme. Kaja’s titter was raised. “We must get more men and search—”

Lalette pressed Rodvard’s hand; the window closed, and they stood mute on the roof-edge, finger laced in finger, for it seemed a long time. From below in the court, voices floated up, clear as though they were only a few feet away, except that one could not make out words, only that Kaja’s tone was among the rest. Lalette drew him to her and whispered; “We must go back through before she returns,” and began to lead to where they had crossed the gap. She was clearly right, they had no future there, the roof where they were had no break, was only the side of the building, which went to its peak at the front as well as the back.

The return, with its repetition of peril already overcome, was worse than the passage. Rodvard had to stand on the very edge of the gutter to swing back. Lalette followed lightly. By the time he had reached the window of the dressing-room, worked it open with one hand, and had a leg across the sill, he dared look down—and saw what might have made them earlier hesitate about making a return, namely a blue provost standing watchfully under the lamp at the street entrance, while two or three figures more were moving about. But like most searchers, they never looked aloft.

“Where?” whispered Lalette as they stood in the room, and he:

“We dare not leave the building now. Even if they were not below, the doorman will be awake. Have you seen anyone else here?”

“I have been a prisoner.”

“Then we must try at random whether it is true, as the priests say, that not all men are evil.”

Crossing the outer room, hand in hand in the dark, Rodvard stumbled against a chair, swore softly, and they both laughed under breath. A board creaked, so did the hinges of the outer door, and they were going down, each in turn tripping a little at the short end of the steps where the stairway turned. By unspoken mutual agreement, they tiptoed past the door of the outer apartment of the fifth and to that at the rear of the house. Rodvard gathered his breath and knocked.

6
NIGHT AND DAY; THE PLACE OF MASKS

No step sounded, but as they stood close to catch any stir, a clear, childish treble came muffled through the wood:

“What is it?”

Rodvard squeezed Lalette’s hand. “I cannot tell you from here,” she said with her mouth close to the door, “but we need help. Will you let us in?”

Pause, in which a chain rattled. “In the name and protection of the God of Love, enter,” and the door melted before them into a darkness different because it held shapes. “Stand there till I make a light,” said the young voice. “You must be careful not to break things.”

There was a small sound of fumbling, flint and steel clicked and the candle came slowly into light on a scene that made Rodvard and Lalette both almost cry out, for the small room seemed crowded with people; princes and queens with coronets, richly and gaily dressed, beggars in rags of silk, yellow warriors with ram-horn helmets, Zigraners with want-chins and sliding eyes and all other fantasies of human shape, so life-like in the uncertain gleam that it was an eye-flick before they could be recognized as festival masquerades. In the midst of them a smooth-haired boy of it might be anywhere from twelve to sixteen stood bowing gravely in his night-hose, candle held at arm’s length.

“I am glad to see you,” he said. “My name is Laduis Domijaiek.”

It was a good name for them, from the northwestern provinces, where Queen and Florestan were least popular. Said Rodvard; “We are pursued by the city provosts because a court lord wishes harm to this lady. Will you help her get away?”

The boy looked at Lalette, cocking his head on one side, as though listening to a distant voice. “Yes,” he said. “My heart says it is right and we must always listen to the heart. Besides, we don’t like the provosts.”

“Thank you,” said Lalette. “Where are your parents?”

“Father is in another world, and mother’s at the Marquis of Palm’s palace to make the costumes for the spring festival. She’s going to stay all night and she told me I must go to bed. But this is more fun.” He looked at Lalette again, and his eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, are you the witch? Witch something for me.”

In spite of her situation, Lalette smiled. “Aren’t you afraid it would hurt you?”

“Oh, no. We are Amorosians, and so witches can’t hurt anything but our outsides. I’m not supposed to tell anybody that, only the provosts are after you, too, so it’s all right.”

From outside came the sound of feet, tramp, tramp, on the stair, and distant voices. “They are going to search,” said Rodvard. “Laduis, the lady will come back and witch something for you another day, but just now we must get her away from the provosts. Is there any way out of this house except by the main stair?”

The boy was all seriousness. “Not from this floor, Ser. I used to go down the drain-pipe from Ser Tetteran’s quarter, but that was when I was thirteen and it isn’t dignified.”

“Then we must hide her.” Rodvard’s eye darted round the small room, took in the door to that still smaller, where beds must be. “The masks; can you help us into some of these?”

Laduis Domijaiek clapped his hands, and they set to work—for Lalette a Kjermanash princess, whose billowing imitation furs would hide the trimness of her figure; a hunchback Zigraner moneylender for Rodvard, with a bag of brass-plated scudi. Her dress had to come off, but the boy took it to hang with his mother’s and came back to help Rodvard adjust the face-mask as furniture was moved overhead. The thumping came to an end, there was the sound of feet on the stairs once more, Rodvard and Lalette squeezed past the ghostly figures at the front of the assembled masks, and the boy blew out the candle.

Bang! “The Queen’s warrant!” said a voice outside. “Open!”

Rodvard could hear the boy’s feet go pad, pad, on the floor from the bedroom, acting his part in all detail. “What is it?”

“Queen’s warrant; we’re looking for an assassin.”

Chain rattled. Through the eye-peeps of the mask, Rodvard could see the priest in the light of the provost’s lantern, and held his breath.

“My mother is not here.”

“We don’t need her. Stand aside.” Rodvard stood rigid, cursing himself for a fool to have put on this Zigraner guise with its bag of false coins that might jingle. “By the Service, the whole assembly’s here.” The priest held high his amulet; this was the moment of test, but it passed so lightly there might have been no test at all. The provost raised his lantern; “Anybody call on you tonight, sprout?”

“I was asleep, ser provost.”

The man grunted, light flickered as he went into the bedroom, there was a thud as though he might be kicking something, and he came back into the sweep of sight, a naked shortsword showing in his hand. “Not there,” he said. “Ah, bah, she’s a witch and has spirited herself to the Green Islands. But I’ll have my revenge.” He swung his sword at the neck of a yellow-armored Mayern fighting man, and Rodvard heard the head crack to the floor as the boy cried; “Oh, no.” The provost; “Three scudi reward for a foeman down. Tell your mother I saved you from a villain. Hark, now; open your door this night to none more; an order in Her Majesty’s name.”

The door banged to leave it dark for those within and feet retreated beyond. Rodvard stirred cramped muscles. “Will they come back?” Lalette’s voice whispered.

The candle lifted slowly into light. Laduis Domijaiek was on one knee beside the fallen head, whose nose was broken off. The eyes that looked up held tears.

“That man killed Baron Mondaifer,” he said, fiercely, “and I would like to kill him, too.”

Lalette slipped off her head-mask and ran a hand across her hair, looking very princess with her dark head against the white Kjermanash fur. “A true sorrow and it is our fault,” she said. “Do you have names for them all?”

“Oh, yes. You are the Princess Sunimaa, and she’s always getting into trouble because it’s cold where she comes from, and her heart is all ice, and the others don’t like her except for Bonsteg the beggar, who is really a prince in disguise, only she doesn’t know it yet. But Baron Mondaifer was one of my favorites. He’s from Mayern, you see, and he’s always lived in the forest, even if he is in favor of Prince Pavinius, and thinks he’s still a good prophet.”

Said Rodvard, undoing laces to get out of his Zigraner dress; “Your mother will get someone to fix him and bring him back to life.”

“No. His spirit’s gone away to another body, like father’s and now there isn’t anything left but dust. If mother has a new head made, I shall have to give it a different name.”

The boy looked at Rodvard solemnly, and though the Blue Star was cold as cold upon his breast, he could not somehow draw quite clear the thought behind those young candid eyes—something about a place shrouded in clouds, an old house somewhere, with a diffused golden light. Weariness slit his jaws into a yawn. “There is a place where we can sleep?”