In The Prince's Secret Service - 15. Spymaster's Summons

The companions’ departure from Agium was quiet. The baron and his family had said their goodbyes after the public audience several days before. Daniel and Ceti had visited the previous afternoon, and Michael said good-by when he left the room early that morning.

Their horses were saddled with saddlebags in place, when the five reached the stable after breakfast. Alan tipped the stable boys, and the companions walked their horses through the street to the gate. Alan and Thom were in the lead, walking side by side. “Quite an adventure, wasn’t it, Thom,” Alan said. “You did so very well, you know. I was very glad to have you at my side, in that fortress.” He reached out and took the boy’s hand as he spoke.

*****

The companions were especially happy to reach the Stoltz farm; it marked the beginning of the last leg of their journey. Further, they knew their welcome was assured. Although they’d made friends at many of the towns, villages, and holts between Agium and Fortmain, there was always the feeling that they were outsiders. They’d face that—in even greater measure—when they reached Fortmain. For the moment, however, the Stoltz farm provided a place to rest—one at which they were welcome.

Patrick was not surprised to be invited into Stoltz’s study for brandy. The Stoltz boys laughingly overruled their father’s invitation for Alan to join them, and demanded more stories from him.

After preliminary pleasantries, Stoltz pulled out a sheaf of letters. “I’ve apparently opened a floodgate,” he said. “I’m getting a dozen letters each tenday. The letters are delivered here by one of my nephews. I’m using my brother’s farm as the collection point so as not to draw attention to this farm. As he is on the caravan routes…a crossroads, in fact…caravaneers are accustomed to leaving mail for him to forward, and are accustomed to calling on him to ask if there is mail.

“Because these are letters from family, and not trained observers, I have to read them carefully to cull information. Often, two or more people will write about the same event—which they have heard at second or third hand—, and I must resolve conflicts between their descriptions. Not all families have a member who can read and write, so some of the letters are dictated to clerics, further complicating the matter. I sometimes have to write asking for more information…and have to phrase my requests most carefully, of course.

“I need help, and propose recruiting one of my sons as my assistant. In order to be effective, he’d have to know exactly what I was doing. And, the boy I have in mind is bright…he’d figure out in an instant that you were responsible for my involvement in this spy game. I would not expose you to that risk unless you agreed…”

“Master Stoltz,” Patrick said, “Our friend in Arcadia has suggested in a letter that you be encouraged to expand your contacts by recruiting from among your extended family, telling them what little is necessary. They should not know me, nor I them.

“As for bringing one of your sons into the matter, to learn of our somewhat unusual relationship: You have been a most gracious host and a good friend, in addition to an admirable colleague. Just as you have shared your home with us, your sons have shared themselves with my companions and me. I can think of no family in whom I have greater trust and confidence. Thank you, nevertheless, for asking.”

Stoltz stood, and placed his hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend, for your kind words…I’ll invite Benjamin in, now.” He opened the door and beckoned.

“Benjamin, will you swear by the Light and on your Name that you will never reveal to anyone, nor discuss outside of this room, what you are about to hear?” Stoltz asked.

The tween looked at his father, and then at Patrick, but found no clue in either face. “I swear, Father…but…all you have to do is ask!”

“It is not just I who is asking, son. Patrick, would you begin?”

“Of course. Benjamin, the stories that Alan tells so well…they’re not entirely true, and they’re not entirely fables, either, although he makes them seem as if they were true, and that happened a long time ago and to other people,” Patrick began.

“We have just returned from Agium, where we were involved in a battle with a Mage who had ensnared Humans, Trolls, and Lizard-Men in a dark and evil slavery. He sent them to raid farms and merchants’ caravans. You see, there is real evil in this world, and it is trying to overcome the Light. The brigands who held Thom captive are horseflies compared to what lay outside of Agium.

“Not too long ago, James killed a Man-Lizard armed with an Evil, life-stealing sword. That was near Cross Creek, just a few days north of here on the Royal Road.

“There is reason to believe that Evil will try to destroy the Light of Arcadia and Elvenhold. You see, Light has held sway for thousands of years, and World seems to like Light and Dark to be in Balance.

“In order to preserve the Light, and protect Arcadia against the Darkness, Prince Auric has asked certain people to gather information on the activities of the Dark…and to forward that information to Arcadia where it is analyzed. Ever since our first visit, your father has been one of those people. Master Stoltz, perhaps you’d take it from here.”

Stoltz looked at his son. “You don’t seem surprised, Benjamin,” he said.

“No, Father,” the boy said. Pointing to his father’s bookshelves, he asked, “May I?”

When his father nodded, Benjamin walked to a particular shelf and pulled down a particular book. “This is The Book of Heroes, from which Father read to us when we were children. It’s the book from which I was taught to read.” Seeing Patrick’s puzzled look, the boy continued, “It’s not only a history, it’s a book of morality…designed, I believe, to teach us to follow the Light. But most of all, I believe it was written—thousands of years ago—to remind us, today, of the danger of Evil and of the lessons learned during the Great Wars and lost to myth and legend since then. It’s as if someone knew that the Great War would be forgotten, that the danger posed by Evil would be overlooked, and that many of the lessons learned would be lost. One of those lessons was that Good needed spies…it’s the story called The Messenger Boy, Father…you remember it.

“Soon after your first visit, Father sent letters to everyone in the family. Tommy and I rode to Uncle’s farm to deliver them for distribution to caravans as they passed his farm. Then, Father started receiving and exchanging letters with family members, including some we hadn’t written to or heard from in years. Since these were family letters, they were read at the table. There was one thing in common: they all contained reports of brigand activity, raids on farms and caravans, rumors of Evil deeds.

“Father also started writing, every tenday or so, to someone in Arcadia…someone I didn’t know. No, Father, I didn’t guess what you were doing, but when Patrick said it, the pieces fell together.”

Stoltz stood. “Come here, son,” he said. When the boy crossed the room, Stoltz hugged him. “I’m so proud of you, Benjamin.”

Stoltz explained the work to Benjamin, who was eager to assist. After Patrick excused himself for bed, Benjamin asked his father, “May he stay another day or so…would you invite him to do so? The boys are having so much fun with Patrick’s companions, and I’d like to spend some time with him.”

“I’ll ask, son,” Stoltz agreed.

The companions were happy to accept Master Stoltz’s invitation to stay longer, and easily integrated themselves into the household routine. They pitched in to help with the harvest, and it was understood that they might stay as long as they liked. Patrick found a kindred spirit in Benjamin. The boy was extraordinarily well educated for someone who’d never been any farther from his home than his uncle’s farm at the crossroads. Moreover, his studies had been in things ignored by Patrick in his study of magic and healing. Benjamin had no more magical talent than most boys, and was not interested in studying that subject. He was, however, fascinated with the ideas behind it. The two became fast friends.

*****

The air held a breath of the coming winter as the companions rode up to the southern gate of Fortmain. Their names meant nothing to the guard, but he did recognize the name of Albert, Thom’s father and the owner of the Wooden Troll, and it was on the strength of that recognition that they were waved into the city.

“A little lax, don’t you think,” James said to Patrick as they walked, side by side, leading their horses through the streets.

“Yes,” Patrick mused. “I’m surprised that they didn’t have a Sembler on duty. I guess I’ve become accustomed to the more rigorous procedures in the south. Wonder what our local brigands have been up to since we left?”

Albert was standing at the door of the Wooden Troll as the boys walked up, leading their horses. “Your room…I saved it,” he said. “Thom, boy, you look healthy. I’m glad you’re safe.” He ducked back inside, unwilling or unable to say more.

Patrick and Alan visited Durber the day after they returned to Fortmain. He was happy to see them, and anxious to tell them the latest news from the capital. “Cadfael wrote to ask you to go back to the fortress and take apart that…what’d he call it…oh, yeah…spinning wheel…and bring it back to Arcadia. He said that he and someone named … Arne? ... Yean, Arne…wanted to talk to you. Here’s the letter,” Durber said.

Patrick read the letter to the assembled companions:

I’ve described the spinning wheel and the mill of which you wrote to some friends here, and they would very much like to see the wheel. Since they cannot travel, would you retrieve the spinning wheel…in parts that could be reassembled, if possible, and anything else you think related…and bring it here? Both I and your companion James’s friend Arne are anxious to see you again.

James revealed that he’d received a similar letter from Alten. “He didn’t mention the spinning wheel, but did say that he… Arne… he… whatever… would like to see us, again. That’s as close to a summons as he would send, I think.”

“Well.” Alan offered. “Perhaps it’s time for a turkey hunt. If we were to leave with bows, and return with a brace or three of turkeys for Thom’s father to smoke, no one would think anything of it.”

“Let’s see…we went boar hunting in Agium while the baron’s son was being rescued by a band of his retainers, we’re going turkey hunting while Fortmain goes to the dogs…and everyone but Caulden and Durber thinks you and Patrick had an unsuccessful hunt when you actually rescued those clerics and their relic. Sounds as if we were a thoroughly worthless band of young gentlemen. Yeah, I like it,” Thom said, giggling.

*****

“I’d like to take a look at that Magic Mill,” Patrick said. They had returned from the fortress, where they’d taken apart and packed up the “spinning wheel,” as it was called. Now, they were preparing to return to the capital city.

“And I’d like you all to meet the people at Cross Creek,” James added.

“The only advantage to the farm roads is that it’s shorter…but there is the river to ford, and it’s likely to be pretty full. There’s been a lot of rain in the mountains by the looks of things,” Alan said.

“Then it’s the Royal Road,” Patrick said, and added, looking at Thom, “As befits young gentlemen.”

Thom smiled.

Thom’s memory of the mill proved accurate, as did Kenneth’s description of its location and the difficulty in reaching it. After leading the horses up a narrow path, the companions reached the crest of the tor.

The mill, itself, was built of the same stone as the hill, and only its straight lines and sharp angles indicated that it was manmade. It was in the form of a cone whose base sat on a flat spot atop the hill. The area was scarcely larger than the mill, itself. The cone did not come to a point, but like a wind-powered grain mill, was rounded. Unlike a grain mill whose top would be wooden, the top of this mill seemed to have been built of stone. A shaft projected horizontally from the capstone, and ended in a block that might once have held the blades of the mill. There was only one entrance, a doorway—rather a gaping hole—facing the north.

Alan and Thom looked around and tied the horses to an iron staple set into one of the rocks while Patrick, James, and Kenneth examined the structure with mage sight. “There’s only the one door,” Thom told Alan, “and no windows. A little light comes in from the top, but it’s pretty dark inside. The boys told stories of people who fell into the pit in the center…and how their ghosts haunted it…”

Patrick shook his head. “Nothing…neither Light nor Dark.”

“Didn’t Cadfael tell you that this area had been overrun by both Light and Dark during the last war,” James asked, “so that like the fortress, the mill could have been used by both Light and Dark?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “If the mill did grind magic, as the stories Thom heard seem to suggest, there’s probably nothing innately Good or Evil about that…only about how the magic was used.”

“Well, are we going in,” Alan asked, “and do you want me to light the torches?” They’d agreed earlier not to use Mage Light to illuminate the inside of the mill, so as not to disturb or change any magical residue that might be left.

“Yes and yes,” Patrick said, “and even though we don’t see any magic, yet, I’d still like not to use magic until we’ve checked things further.”

Thom repeated his warning about the pit in the center, while Alan lit a torch with flint and steel, and passed the light to the second and third torches that James and Kenneth carried. The torches had been purchased especially for this visit. They consisted of hard-fired clay pots, mounted on two-foot poles. The pots were filled with vegetable oil. Stoppers of natural rubber kept them sealed until needed. To prepare the torches, Alan had replaced the stoppers with wicks. Wicker-wrapped clay jars held extra oil, and Alan’s belt pouch held extra wicks.

Light from the torches reached only a few feet up the walls, and then only when the torchbearer was standing close. “The walls are black…a sign of Evil?” James wondered. Looking closer he touched his finger to the wall. “Or, rather, generations of boys with torches and candles sooting up the walls with lampblack!”

Patrick examined the walls and confirmed James’ assessment.

“Thom said that the holes in the shaft were odd, and so they are,” Alan said. The shaft was iron, a cylinder, about six inches in diameter. It extended from the unseen gear mechanism at the cap of the mill to within about five feet of the floor…or where the floor would have been, except that the shaft was suspended over a hole, about ten feet in diameter, whose bottom could not be seen.

The holes in the shaft resembled keyholes: a circle about two inches in diameter with a long oval, about an inch across, dropping from it. Unlike keyholes, however, these holes didn’t extend all the way through the shaft except for two circular holes, one at the bottom of the oval, and one near the top of the oval.

“I’ve seen that, before,” James said. “The droga, or shaft, that goes alongside of the horse pulling a Rom wagon, has holes like that where the shaft attaches to the wagon, itself. There’s a knob on the wagon that goes into the keyhole, and bolts that pass through the shaft and the bed of the wagon. My guess is that another shaft was attached here, to take the motion down into the pit.”

“How deep do you suppose it is?” Thom asked.

“Do you think it’d be safe to throw a rock down and count seconds until it hit bottom?” Alan asked, looking at Patrick and James.

James shrugged; Patrick thought for a moment. “We’ve seen nothing dangerous; the worst stories Thom’s cohort came up with were about the ghosts of boys who’d fallen into the pit. I’d say, yes, let’s do that.”

Alan fetched a rock about the size of his fist, held it over the pit, and released it at Patrick’s signal.

“Four seconds, almost five,” said James.

“Four and a half…nearly five…four and a half…” echoed the others.

“Somewhere between four and a half and five seconds, so that’s 325 to 400 feet,” Alan said. “I’ve got enough rope, but still…”

After a discussion, it was agreed that there was no longer reason to avoid using magic inside the mill. Mage Light was cast on a silver ring that Patrick wore. James gathered magic and cast the spell that reduced Patrick’s weight to perhaps a tenth normal. Alan was reluctant to allow the tall Elf to be the first down the shaft, but bent to Patrick’s insistence and reasoning—Patrick could re-cast the spell from the bottom of the shaft should that become necessary. James tied a boatswain’s chair around Patrick. It was patterned after the one Alten had tied around him, once before.

With the end of the rope anchored to the same metal staple to which the horses were tied, and Alan seated on the floor of the mill, the rope wrapped once around him, Patrick backed up to the pit and gingerly began walking down the side as Alan let out the rope bit by bit. Thom lay on his stomach, his head over the pit, to monitor Patrick’s progress.

“He’s on the bottom,” Thom said, “I can see the ring moving back and forth…once, twice…three times. Now it’s still. He’s safe!”

*****

On Patrick’s signal, Alan began to pull the rope, bringing Patrick to the surface.

“I’m still light…but the spell is about to wear off. You did it well, James. It held for a long time,” Patrick said as he brushed off his clothes.

“What did you find?” Thom asked. “Was there treasure? Skeletons? Ghosts?”

“Yes, and yes, and no,” Patrick said, ruffling the boy’s hair and laughing. “May I tell you all, outside? Who has water?”

When the companions were seated in a circle outside the mill, Patrick opened the bag he’d carried down the shaft with him, and dumped out the contents: eight, no, nine bolts, about eight inches long and an inch thick, the ends drilled for pins, and made of a dull, silver metal; a large number of smaller bolts, some of which pierced a short, ragged strip of copper; a thick rod more than three feet long and two heavy rings of the same silvery metal, but big enough for a giant to wear.

“There was also this,” he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a medallion: an orb vert charged by a spear argent bend dexter with tongues of flames rising gules.

“That’s like yours,” Alan said.

“Yes,” Patrick said. “It’s the symbol of the Firespear Sept. Look more closely.” He handed the medallion to Alan.

“Oh,” Alan said, and handed it to James.

James’ eyes widened, and he handed the medallion to Kenneth.

“Let me see,” Thom said impatiently, followed by “Oh,” as Kenneth handed the medallion to him. “It’s solid gold…all the colors but the spear are painted on…enamel, is that right?”

“Yes,” Patrick said. “Solid gold, with the spear raised from the surface, and the other colors enameled onto it. There was a large room at the bottom of the shaft. There were tunnels leading away to the east, west, north, and south. Something in the tunnel to the north reflected the light of my ring. When I investigated, I found the skeleton of an Elf. It had been disturbed, kicked around, but this was hidden until my mage light struck it.

“There were also skeletons—three of them—under the hole. It looks like the local boys’ stories about other boys falling down the hole are true. They were the skeletons of Human boys or young tweens.

“In the room was the ruin of something that might once have been like the spinning wheel we found in the fortress. Rather than ivory, it had been made of wood, with copper strips attached to the spokes with these rivets. These two rings were probably the axle bearings. These long bolts once connected sections of the shaft that ran from the top of the mill.

“I don’t know whether it happened when the mill was first abandoned, or later, when looters struck, but the mechanism has been destroyed, utterly, and the copper strips pulled off…ripped off. Probably just for the value of the copper. Whoever did it overlooked not only the value of the mechanism, but also the value of the rivets, bearings, and bolts. They’re made of mithral. Pure, unaltered, unalloyed mithral.”

Patrick’s audience was stunned. Alan hefted one of the rings—axle bearings, Patrick called them—and said, “It’s too bad we don’t need money. This, alone, would be worth, what, 1,000 guineas?”

“At least that much,” Patrick said. I have not seen this much pure mithral in one place, ever. On the other hand, I think these things should be in the hands of Alten. With them and the model…if our notions are correct…he or his people may be able to recreate a magic mill. What do you all think?”

The companions agreed that their understanding and contract with Cadfael required the mithral to be turned over to the authorities—and that both Cadfael and Alten’s recent letters suggested that be Alten.

“What about the medallion,” Kenneth asked. “That doesn’t belong to Arcadian authorities…or to us, either.”

“The skeleton was very, very old, and this style of medallion is unfamiliar to me. I suspect that it, too, is from the Great War, or before. My reason for removing it, and what I propose, is someday to return it to Elvenhold. It has more value as an historical memento than anything else.”

*****

The companions had ridden slowly the last few miles in order to arrive in Cross Creek after dark. The sign of the River Horse Inn was illuminated. With James in the lead, the boys rode directly into the yard and toward the stable door. They were seen from within the inn, and two figures came from the kitchen door. James quickly dismounted, handed the reins of Horse to Kenneth, and hurried to meet them.

The light from the open door blinded him, but illuminated his face, so he was easily recognized. The shorter of the two boys ran ahead and jumped into James’ arms. “James! I knew you’d come back,” Joey said.

Joey’s eyes grew larger and larger as James introduced his friends: the tall red-haired Elf on a palomino Elven horse; the beautiful flaxen-haired tween on the huge horse with hair stockings; the slender boy with flowing brown hair…dressed exactly like the flaxen-haired tween; and James’ friend, Kenneth, on another Elven steed.

“I must get grandfather,” Acclaudius, who was the second figure, said. “And the others…the whole town will want to see you.”

“No, please, Acclaudius,” James said. “Please tell no one until we can put the horses in the stable and talk to you, and Joey, and your father…in the kitchen. No one must know we are here.”

Acclaudius and Joey were puzzled, but agreed.

“Joey and I will work the common room, and I’ll send father back to the kitchen,” Acclaudius said as soon as the companions were seated in the back of the kitchen with substantial plates of food. “Now, Joey, come on. They’ll tell us what we need to know, later.”

Thanuel’s eyes were as large as Joey’s when he spotted James and his friends seated at his kitchen table.

“James has told us about you and your family, and about the trust you had in him,” Patrick said after James had introduced everyone. “We have joined with James in an extended battle with Evil. Although James found the people of Cross Creek to be Good, it is important that we not be known by them as his companions. Yet James and Kenneth did so want to see you and Acclaudius and Joey…and your honored father, if that is possible.”

“Of course,” Thanuel said after meeting all the companions. “He’s here, tonight. I’ll send him and Joey back, and Acclaudius as soon as custom permits. But you’ll stay the night, won’t you?”