<h2 id="c12"><span class="h2line1">11</span> <br/><span class="h2line2">KAZMERGA; TWO AGAINST A WORLD</span></h2>
<p>Mathurin entered on his almost soundless feet and let the door
close behind him in the dark before saying, “Rodvard,” softly. Rodvard,
who had been letting his mind drift along endless alleys
rather than thinking, swung himself up. “I will make a light.”</p>
<p>“Do not. There is danger enough, and its point would so be
sharpened. Do not even speak aloud.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_298">298</div>
<p>“What is it?”</p>
<p>“The Duke of Aggermans. His bravoes are let loose. No time. I
only just now learned it from the Count.” Outside there was the
soft sighing of rain.</p>
<p>“I am to go?”</p>
<p>“At once. Make your way south, to the Center of Sedad Mir. The
contact is a wool-dealer named Stündert, in the second dock street.
Can you remember? Change clothes with me quickly. Do not even
take the door, which is watched, but go by the window, across the
road, and south into the country.”</p>
<p>The serving-man began to undress in the dark; Rodvard recognized
the sound. “Is there any money?” he asked.</p>
<p>The rustling stopped. “You to need money, who have the Blue
Star?”</p>
<p>Even under the dark, Rodvard felt himself flush (did he dare
tell what had happened? No.). “Still, I will need some small amount.
I have nothing.”</p>
<p>Even under his breath Rodvard could catch the fury in the
other’s tone; “Ah, you deserve to have your bones broken.”</p>
<p>“I know; but is there any money?” Rodvard fumbled for the
unfamiliar lace-points.</p>
<p>The man snarled, but pressed a few coins into his grasp. “You
are to regard this as a loan. Cleudi sends it.”</p>
<p>“Oh. You did not tell me he was aiding this escape.”</p>
<p>“He wants you to go south to Tritulacca, and gave me a letter
for you to carry—which I will transmit to the High Center.”</p>
<p>It might be a girl’s light tap at the door. “Go,” whispered
Mathurin, fiercely.</p>
<p>The window swung wide; Rodvard felt rain on his face, and the
mud of the flower-bed squished round Mathurin’s soft shoes as he
took the leap down. A light flamed up in the room behind him; he
began to run, stumbling up the terraces with branches snatching
at his body, zigzagging to avoid the pennon of light. A voice
shouted across the rain after him (and he thought Mathurin was
a mighty bold fellow to face the Duke of Aggermans’ assassins back
there). He came against a hedge; there was another shout and the
sound of crashing footsteps from the left, in which direction the
hedge ran, no way to turn, and he stumbled over a root, prone, to
roll beneath the lip of the shrubbery, thinking concealment might
be a better resource than speed.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_299">299</div>
<p>So it was; shout echoed shout with an accent of lost, footsteps
went past, but apparently no one had a light and before one could
be brought, Rodvard rolled out, and began to work cautiously
toward the end of the hedge, bending double. The bushes turned
back to enclose a square of garden, but there was a locked gate,
low enough to be climbed. Over; the gravel path beyond, for a
wonder, did not run circular like most, from which he deduced that
it must be the one leading down from the main road. It offered the
only real clue to direction, for the lights had winked out back there,
the villa’s mass and the trees cut off the night-shine from the bay,
and the slope was no help at all with everything so gardened.
Rodvard pushed forward cautiously; presently the feel of ruts under
his feet told him his reasoning was sound, and he paused to consider
whether along the road or across it. The second alternative
won; if Aggermans were so in earnest, his people would not give
up easily, and they would likely spread along the road.</p>
<p>There was no hedge at the opposite side, but a narrow ditch, in
which Rodvard got one leg well wetted to the knee and almost
fell. Beyond a slope pitched upward into what, as nearly as he
could make out by feeling, would be a sapling grove with low underbrush.
Having no cloak, he was by this time so wet that it did
not matter when he stumbled against small trunks and the leaves
just bursting above deluged him with big drops, but the sensation
was so unpleasant that it tipped him into a despairing mood, where
his fatigues of the night and day rolled in (and he began to ask
himself whether all pleasures must end in an escape of some kind).
So he followed the pent of the hill blindly, not thinking at all
of where he was going (but only of how he was trapped by unfairnesses
somewhere; and that it could not be altogether a matter of
man’s justice, which was the plainder of the Sons of the New Day,
since no justice of man’s would hold men from fiery passion).</p>
<p>Beyond an easy crest there was a dip, and Rodvard hurt his
knee against a wall of piled stone. In the field beyond, he could
sense under his feet the stumps of last year’s corn, he was sick with
weariness and fear and had begun to sneeze; there was no light or
life in the world. What direction? With no reason for any, he followed
the line of the stone wall for a little time, and it brought
him ultimately to a sodden straw-stack, whose hard surface yielded
just enough to the persistence of his fingers so that he could get
the upper half of his body in and slide down into unhappy sleep.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_300">300</div>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>He woke with a headache at the top of his spine, which ran
around inside his head to the place over his eyes; nose feeling as
though driven with a wooden plug. Mathurin’s decent black clothes
were horribly stained and scratched. Down the way he had come—not
at all far from where he had crossed the wall, now that one
could see by the light of morning—the footprints lay, a fingerlength
deep into the soft ground. At once he was oppressed by the thought
that only too easily could his path from the villa be traced, there
was Tuolén’s witch behind as well, and fear mounting over the illness,
he climbed to the wall itself and tried to walk along its top
to hide his marks. After the rain, sky and air had become clear, and
there were violets visible on the grove-side of the wall, not that
they did him any joy in his misery. The stones quickly tore a hole in
shoes made for indoor walking, so he had to jump down again and
consider.</p>
<p>Right across his direction, at a little distance, there jutted out
from the stone wall a hedge which lack of care had let grow into
a screen of low, sprawling trees. It slanted down leftward to where
a gap would mark a field entrance; beyond, a slow trickle of smoke
ran up the blue to signal breakfast. Rodvard, deciding what he
would do if he were hunter instead of hunted, found more than
good the argument against harborage so near the villa. He climbed
over the wall again to wipe his streaming nose with a burdock leaf,
whose bitter juice stung his lips, and perceiving that he left less
marked traces in the ground on that side, stayed. The overgrown
hedge proved to line a deep-cut track that in one direction wound
down toward the main road past the villa. Beyond that track was
true forest of old trunks and heavy underbrush. It was surely a good
place to seek concealment, but Rodvard was ignorant of how far
it might run or what it led to, and with illness galloping through
his veins, felt he must have shelter early, so murmuring half aloud
to himself that he might as well die in hot blood as in cold rheum,
he turned up the track toward the cottage-smoke.</p>
<p>The building was more prosperous than most in the country,
with a barn outside, and two complete windows under the thatch-edge.
No one answered his knock; as he pushed open the door, a
child’s squall was sounding with irritable monotony from a
trundle-bed on the right, and a woman who had been doing something
at a table before the fireplace on the left turned to face him.
She was bent and dirty; her face was older than her figure. “What
do you want?” she demanded.</p>
<p>“A place to rest, if I can,” said Rodvard, “and perhaps something
to eat.” He crossed the room and came down weak-kneed on
a stool by the fireplace corner.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_301">301</div>
<p>The lined face held no sympathy as her eyes swept down the
detail of his torn, mudstained clothes and lingered for a tick at
the servant’s badge on his breast. “This is not an inn,” she said
sourly.</p>
<p>“Madame, I am unwell. I can pay.” He fumbled at the waist-pouch.</p>
<p>“This is not an inn,” she repeated, then spun on her heel, took
rapid steps to where the child in its bed still bawled, and administered
it a severe clout on the side of the head. “Will you be quiet?”
The cries sank to whimpers. She came to stand looking down at
Rodvard.</p>
<p>“I know about your kind,” she said. “You’re too lazy to work,
so you run away from a good master down there at the villa and
probably rob him, too, on festival day when he’s drunk, and then
expect honest country-people like us, who have to labor for everything
we get, to hide you from the provosts. My husband and me,
we have to get up at dawn and work all day as hard as we can,
and we’re never through till the sun goes down, winter or summer,
while you servant-people are drinking and stealing behind your
master’s back.” All this was delivered in a torrent as though it were
a single sentence, ending as she uplifted one arm to brandish an
imaginary weapon. “Now you leave here.”</p>
<p>Too weary and ill for a reply, a trickle he did not try to disguise
running from his nostril, Rodvard did so, out into the bright
spring day and along the track. Where it turned round a boss of
hill that thrust in from the westward, a sense of being watched
made him look back. The farm-wife had come out to the end of
the house to look after him, and the sound of the child’s petulant
wail was on the air. (Rodvard felt a surge of bitter anger; there
was an unfairness in life, every pennyweight of pleasure is paid
with double its measure in pain, and only those who grubbed at the
ground were entitled to call themselves honest. Why, if this be so,
then joy must be wrong, and God himself must be evil, in spite of
what the priests say.) But his head was too muzzy to follow any
rabbit of reasoning to its hole, so he trudged along for a while without
thinking anything at all, until he heard the creak of a cart, and
here was a mule coming out from the Sedad Vix direction. The
driver somewhat surlily gave him the time of the day.</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_302">302</div>
<p>Rodvard asked to go with him, and when the man said he was
bound for Kazmerga, declared that was his destination, though he
had never heard of the place and possessed not the least idea in
what direction it lay. The fellow grunted and let him climb in; sat
silent for a while as Rodvard sneezed and drizzled, then was moved
to remark that this was a heavy case of the phlegm, but it could
be cured by an infusion of dandelion root with certain drugs, such
as his old woman made, and so well that they often accused her
of being a witch. “—But the drugs are costly now.” He evidently
wanted conversation in payment for his favor, and when this beginning
failed on Rodvard’s merely remarking that he would pay
for any quantity of drugs to get rid of this rheum, fell silent for a
couple of minutes; then leaned over, touched the servant’s badge,
and struck out again with:</p>
<p>“Running away, ey? What happened, ey? Lying with wrong
woman on festival night, perhaps? Ah, there’s many and many a
high family has daughters born nine months from festival night
that shouldn’t rightly inherit, but lord, young man, don’t you run
away because of that. I say to you that ladies can forgive and be
forgive for everything they do that night, when all’s free, and I say
to you, you ought to go back to your master.”</p>
<p>He chuckled and waved his mule-goad. “I do recall, I do, when
I was a sprout no older than yourself how one night I went all the
way to Masjon for spring festival and at the dancing in the square
there, I found a little cat as hot as ever could be, so we slipped
away for some conversation, ey? And when I got back to where I
was staying with a friend, what do you think I found? Why, in my
bed there was his sister—Phidera, that was her name—and she was
saying she had thought the bed her own, and no more clothes on
her than a fish. So there were two of them in one night, all I could
do, he, he, he, and that’s the way it always is at spring festival,
and maybe it would be with you.”</p>
<p>He looked at Rodvard, and the latter was glad for once that
the Blue Star had gone dumb over his heart, for there was a drop
of moisture on the lip above the ill-shaven chin, which the gaffer
did not bother to suck in or to wipe away.</p>
<p>“It was nothing like that,” said he (and to keep from being
drawn deeper into the morass of the old fellow’s thinking); “Have
you heard that Baron Brunivar is like to be decreed in accusation?”</p>
<p>“Ey, ey. Those westerners, half Mayerns they are. It will be a
sad day when the snow melts from Her Majesty’s head, with only
the regents between that crazy Pavinius and the throne, and no
female heirs. Ey, ey. Here we are in the Marquis of Deschera’s
seignory. For you servant-class it is no matter; you lay out the
plates on the table and you have a scuderius in your hand, but
for us farm-people with all the taxes . . .”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_303">303</div>
<p>(“I am not a servant,” Rodvard wanted to cry, “but a clerk who
makes his gain as hard as you; and it is you we most wish to help.”
But he forebore), saying only; “Is there an inn at Kazmerga? I
need something to eat, being without breakfast, and a place to lie
down for the cure of my fluxions.”</p>
<p>“No tavern—” the man stopped, and the expression above the
uncut whisker became crafty (so that now Rodvard longed for the
Blue Star); “Would you pay an innkeeper?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes. I have a little money.”</p>
<p>“You be letting me take you to my home. The old woman will
arrange your fluxions in less than a minute with her specific if you
pay for it, and give all else you need for less than half what an
innkeeper would ask, and no questions if the provosts come nosing,
ey. Go, Mironelle.” He leaned forward and rammed the goad into
the mule’s rump, which shook its ears, danced a little with the hind
feet, and began to trot, so that Rodvard’s aching head jounced
agonizingly. There was a turn, the track was broadening, fields
showed, pigs rooted contentedly in a ditch, and the trees gave back
to show a church with its half-moon symbol at the peak, and
around it, like the spoke of a wheel, houses.</p>
<p>“Kazmerga,” said the mule-man. “I live on the other side.”</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>She was fat and one eye looked off at the wrong angle, but
Rodvard was in a state not to care if she had worn on her brow
the mark of evil. He flopped on the straw-bed. There was only one
window, at the other end; the couple whispered under it, after
which the housewife set a pot on the fire. Rodvard saw a big striped
cat that marched back and forth, back and forth, beside the straw-bed,
and it gave him a sense of nameless unease. The woman paid
no attention, only stirring the pot as she cast in an herb or two, and
muttering to herself.</p>
<p>Curtains came down his eyes, though not that precisely, neither;
he lay in a kind of suspension of life, while the steam of the pot
seemed to spread toward filling the room. Time hung; then the potion
must be ready, for through half-closed lids Rodvard could see
her lurch toward him in a manner somewhat odd. Yet it was not
till she reached the very side of the bed and lifted his head in the
crook of one arm, while pressing toward his lips the small earthen
bowl, that a tired mind realized he should not from his position
have been able to see her at all. A mystery; the pendulous face
opened on gapped teeth; “Take it now my prettyboy, take it.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_304">304</div>
<p>The liquid was hot and very bitter on the lips, but as the first
drops touched Rodvard’s tongue, the cat in the background emitted
a scream that cut like a rusty saw. The woman jerked violently,
spilling the stuff so it scalded him all down chin and chest as she
let go. She swung round, squawking something that sounded like
“Pozekshus!” at the animal. Rodvard struggled desperately as in a
nightmare, unable to move a muscle no more than if he had been
carved out of stone, realizing horribly that he had been bewitched.
He wanted to vomit and could not; the cottage-wife turned back
toward him with an expression little beautiful.</p>
<p>Her grubby hands were shaking a little. She grumbled under
her breath as he felt her detach the belt-pouch with all his money
and then slip off his shoes. The jacket came next; but as she undid
the laces at the top, grunting and puffing, her hand touched the
chain that held the Blue Star, and she jerked out the jewel. In all
his immobility Rodvard’s every perception had become as painfully
sharp as an edge of broken ice. He thought she was going to
have a fit, her features seemed to twist and melt into each other,
her hand came away from the stone as though it had been a red
coal. “Oh, nonononono,” she squealed, backing away. “No. No. No.
Ah, you were right, Tigrette; you were right to stop me.”</p>
<p>The cat arched against her. As though the small act had released
some spring in herself, the woman bustled to the invisible
end of the room, where Rodvard could hear wood click on earthenware,
then some kind of a dumb low-toned chant she raised, then
became aware of a different and aromatic odor. He was wide awake
now and hardly sick at all any more; could see how the mist in the
room was clearing a little, then heard the door creak open and the
mule-driver’s voice, saying:</p>
<p>“Did you get it done, ey?”</p>
<p>“Not I, you old fool, you rat-pudding, you dog-bait.”</p>
<p>“Old fool yourself.” Rodvard heard the sound of a slap. “Call
me old fool. You weren’t so dainty with the last one. Taken with
the pretty lad, are you? Now go do it, or I’ll slice his throat myself
and never mind mess. What’s one runaway servant more or less,
ey? This is real money, hard money, more nor you ever seen.”</p>
<p>Now she was whimpering. “I tell you you’re a fool. He has a
Blue Star, a Blue Star, and his witch will know what’s put on him
and recoil it back to us, double, triple. Worms that never die crawling
under your skin till you perish of it. All the hard money there
is is not worth it.”</p>
<p>A sound of steps. The scratchy face looked down at Rodvard, he
felt the man palm the jewel. “Blue Star, ey? Ah, fritzess, this is
some piece of glass.” But the tone was little sure.</p>
<p>“It is a Blue Star and nothing else, the second one I see. They
are wedded with the great wedding.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_305">305</div>
<p>The man turned, and though his own head did not, Rodvard
could see how the expression of craftiness had come on back to
him. “Blue Star? Now you witch it for him, wife, witch it for him,
so it will be no longer good. You can witch anything. Then I’ll
take him away from here.”</p>
<p>The whimper became a sniffle. “I’ll witch, ah, I’ll witch, mumble,
mumble, mumble.” Rodvard heard her tottering shuffle go and
come, the fat face was over his again, all filled now with oily kinks
that held little beads of sweat. She looked at him closely and then
flung over her shoulder; “Go out, old man, and leave us. There’s
something not healthy for you to see,” and began plucking at her
garments to undo them, at the last moment pausing to throw an
edge of stinking blanket over Rodvard’s face. His heightened senses
caught the stiff rustle of clothes sinking to the floor; the aromatic
smell declared itself over all others, her fingers sought his burned
chin beneath the blanket and applied a relieving unguent.</p>
<p>“Mumble, mumble,” came her voice, and he understanding not
a word. “Meowrrr-row!” shouted the cat, as it raced through the
narrow cot from end to end. He could have melted with relief as
the fingers soothed his chest, but then his mind went off on a picture
of Lalette become old in the manner of this one and he would
have shuddered if he could have stirred. The crooning mumble
ended, the witch-wife’s ministrations at the same time. There was
a silence set with small sounds, over which the continued mewling
of the cat. He heard the woman at the door summon her husband,
then the two of them speaking in voiceless sibilants, a contention
going on, which terminated with the man’s strong arms around
Rodvard, heaving him up like a sack of meal.</p>
<p>Exterior air came through the edge of the blanket; step, step,
he was borne, and with a grunt, dumped in what must be the
mule-cart. A pause; the blanket was twitched from his face and he
was looking up into the disparate eyes of the woman.</p>
<p>“Nice boy, nice boy,” said her voice. “You tell your witch now
how I do good. You tell her I respect the great wedding. Not him;
he keeps your hard money.”</p>
<p>She patted his still unmoving cheek, a touch that made his
senses creep; and the Blue Star was suddenly, shockingly cold over
his heart, (he could see beyond any question that there was in the
woman’s mind a great fear, but also the great longing kindness of
two joined against an armèd world).</p>
<p>From where he was leading the mule to hitching, the man’s
voice came; “Wife, get that badge we took from the last one, the
mechanician. I say to you, you hurry now.”</p>
<div class="pagenum" id="Page_306">306</div>
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