Scent of Magic by Andre Norton Read Free Book Online Page B

spice for the meat. Please, mistress"—she hunched herself together as if she already feared the smack of Jacoba's cane across her bony shoulders—"let me have what she has asked for—she is already angered.”
    “Who are you!” The voice in her ear was harsh, the hand which fell on her shoulder to pull her around was heavy enough to bruise.
    Willadene did not have to call on any power of acting; she was already frightened enough. The man who jammed her back against the counter was of the guard right enough. His mail shirt, his helm shadowing the upper part of his broad face on which a mustache bristled fiercely, were more than warning—rather perhaps dire disaster.
    “She is the cook maid for the Wanderers Inn"—Halwice's voice was as calm as if they were exchanging some pleasantries concerning a fine day—"she was sent here for spices—”
    Willadene dared not stir. The man glanced only briefly at the Herbmistress; his eyes were sweeping swiftly about the shop, while two of his fellows crowded in behind him.
    Again Halwice spoke. “I am known well to the Reeve; also I have a seat on the Guild Council. Why do you come into my shop in this fashion? Do I not supply His Highness himself and all others of noted families—?” Her voice was growing heated, as might that of any honest shopkeeper so used. “My taxes are paid—given into the hands of the Reeve himself. I have offended no one and abide by the guild laws—”
    The leader of the guard looked to her again. He indicated with a thumb the curtained doorway to the inner room.

    “What lies there, mistress?” His voice was not quite as aggressive as it had been.
    “My living quarters and beyond that the garden where I grow some of my stock. Look for yourself. But what do you hunt? I am indeed an honest woman and as such am not to be used in this manner. Be sure I shall report to the Reeve—”
    The leader continued to stare at her.
    “There has been information laid against this shop— against you,” he repeated stolidly. “It was given to us on good authority that a rogue we seek would be found here dead—killed, mistress"—now his mustache seemed to rise straight out from the roots like the bristles of a boar— “by an evil potion.”
    Halwice drew herself up, her features set. “What kind of a talemonger's fashion is this? Do you see a dead man? Look you—look well!”
    Willadene's heart was beating so she was sure it would soon shake her body, for Halwice was actually pointing to the curtain of the second room.
    “But listen well, Sergeant. Do you, or any of these clumsy followers of yours, do any damage to my wares I shall not take it only in complaint to the Reeve but to His Highness himself. Look you there—” She pointed to where a glass bottle fashioned only large enough to fit perhaps into the palm of Willadene's hand and in the form of a rose, rested under a glass dome. “That is Breath of Roses for the High Lady Mahart. Know you the cost of that? It is worth more than half your year's pay with the lady's displeasure into the bargain?”
    “Our information"—but the girl noted he was eyeing that bottle warily and had moved several steps away from its vicinity—"came from a source which does not rumor monger. Since you yourself bid us do so—we look.”
    He brushed by and swept the curtain roughly aside. Willadene stared down at the top of the counter, at that packet of spice she was supposed to be buying, and waitedfor the sergeant to make his find. Only, he did not but came tramping back to the shop room in just a moment or two. Perhaps Halwice's warning had had its effect.
    “Well,” the Herbmistress demanded, “where is your dead man? Look in the garden if you must—there is no recent delving to be seen there. Make very sure I shall enter on the Reeve's record my answer to this charge and the disturbance of my trade. Why should a dead man be found in my shop? I have taken oath before the altar of the Star and been