There were troops in the alley and others pouring into the courtyard from the palace. Everyone was shouting.
The under-captain at the door to the council chamber turned and saw Sharina. "By the Lady!" he cried. "Princess, you've got to get out of here!"
Because this had been a working meeting of Garric's closest advisors, Sharina'd been able to change out of court robes into double tunics not terribly different from what she'd have worn on very formal occasions back in Barca's Hamlet. The fabric was bleached instead of being the natural cream color of 'white' wool, and the sleeves had black appliqués of Ilna's weaving.
Ilna said the patterns were unconsciously soothing to anyone who looked at them. Sharina believed her friend, but given the rancor of some council meetings it was hard to imagine how they could've been much worse.
Between her outer and inner tunics Sharina wore a heavy Pewle knife, her legacy from the hermit Nonnus. He'd used it to save her life at the cost of his own. She didn't carry the knife as a weapon-though she'd used it for one-but rather because touching the hilt's black horn scales invoked the hermit's quiet faith, and that calmed her mind.
She reached through the slit disguised as a pleat in her outer tunic and brought out the knife. Right now it was both a weapon and a prayer.
Half a dozen spears sailed through the air and squelched into the monster, burying in every case the slim iron head and stopping only at the wooden shaft a forearm's length back of the point. The creature continued to advance. The spears wobbled like tubular wasp larvae clinging to the body of a squat green caterpillar.
A soldier just come from the servants' wing dropped his shield and charged with his javelin gripped in both hands. He twisted at the moment of impact to drive the point in, putting all his strength and weight behind the blow. Half the wrist-thick spear shaft penetrated; sludgy green fluid oozed out around the wood.
The soldier's wordless grunt of effort changed to a scream as tentacles wrapped him. The monster lifted him, pulling his limbs off with the same swift dispassion as a cook plucking a goose for dinner. The screams stopped an instant after the fourth bright flag of arterial blood spouted from the victim's joints.
"Use your swords!" an officer shouted. As he spoke, the monster gripped him. He slashed through one of the feathery tentacles, but another tentacle tossed him with seeming ease twenty feet in the air. He didn't scream until he started to fall back toward the alley. Three soldiers who'd started forward at his order backed instead and raised their shields.
The creature crawled forward on hundreds of cilia each no bigger than a man's foot. It was a plant-it had to be a plant; the tentacles were very like fern fronds though huge and hooked with thorns on the underside-but it was a plant from Hell.
Ilna had knotted a pattern from the cords she kept in her left sleeve. She held it up, facing the hellplant.
The creature squished onward, unwrapping a tentacle suddenly to grip a soldier's ankle. He slammed the lower edge of his shield down to cut the frond off against the pavement. Its tip uncurled, leaving a bloody patch above the soldier's heavy sandal. He retreated, his sword up but his face in a rictus of terror.
Chalcus put his left hand on Ilna's shoulder. She tried to shake him off. The sailor kept his grip and shouted, "Come away, dear heart, for you'll do no good here!"
Sharina found herself backing toward the doorway from which she'd entered the courtyard. The hellplant didn't move quickly, but it'd proved it could tear a passage through thick walls.
And thus far, there was no evidence than any human device could stop it.
* * *
"Lift that," Cervoran said to Cashel, pointing at the door set at a slant in the back of the pantry. The housekeeper hadn't been in when her visitors had arrived, and her two assistants had fled with looks of trembling terror when they saw their king.
Or whatever Cervoran was now. Did Protas go back to being a kid that everybody ignored because his father'd returned? There were worse things that could happen, Cashel knew.
"That leads to the bulk storage for liquids, your highness," Martous said in a chirpy voice. "We keep the large jars of wine and oil in the cellars so that they won't freeze during the winter as they might in a shed. But there's nothing down there which matters to you."
Whatever other people thought of the business, the chamberlain was sure determined to act as if nothing about Cervoran had changed. Maybe he was right.
"Lift that door," Cervoran repeated, but he could've saved his breath. Cashel had only paused to loosen his sash. He didn't want rip a tunic if the weight required him to bunch his muscles.
He bent, gripped the bar handle with his free hand, and lifted the panel in a smooth motion. The door was sturdy but nothing that required his strength. The air swirling out was cool at this time of year, but Cashel understood what the chamberlain meant. Folk in Barca's Hamlet had root cellars for the same reason, though none-even the inn's-was as large as this one. The darkness had a faint fruity odor.
"Ah, your highness?" Martous said. "If you're going down there, should I have a servant fetch a lantern? There are no windows, you see."
Cashel smiled faintly. Anybody looking down the steps into the cellar could see there were no windows; it was dark as arm's length up a hog's backside.
Cervoran started down, ignoring the chamberlain as he'd done ever since Cashel saw the two of them together this afternoon.
"Follow me," Cervoran said; echoes from the cellar deepened his voice.
'Leave the staff; you will need both hands."
Cashel had already started down the sturdy wooden steps behind the king. He paused, trying not to frown, and said, "Sir? I'd rather-"
"It is necessary," Cervoran said.
Whatever else he might be, Cervoran wasn't a fellow who talked for the sake of talking. Cashel sighed and set the quarterstaff against the back wall of the pantry. He'd come this far, so there wasn't much point in starting to argue now.
The cellar was what Cashel'd expected: brick pillars in rows, and big jars lined up against the masonry wall at the back. The ceiling was way higher than Cashel could reach and maybe higher than he could've reached with his staff stretched out above him.
The light that came down the pantry door was enough once Cashel's eyes had adapted. Cervoran seemed to get along all right too, moving at his usual hitching stride down the line of jars. They were two different kinds, Cashel saw, one with a wider mouth and a thickened ridge for a rope sling instead of double handles at the neck like the other.
As he followed, Cashel's eyes caught the least sliver of light from the ceiling in the depths of the cellar. That must be the trap door onto the alley where the jars'd be lowered down from wagons. A cart with solid wood wheels for shifting them here sat beside a pillar.
Cashel grinned with silent pride. If these jars were full of liquids, they'd be work for two ordinary men to shift.
"You highness?" Martous called from the pantry. The quiver Cashel heard in the chamberlain's voice wasn't just the echo. "I have a light here if you need one."
"Lift that jar and follow me," said Cervoran, pointing at the first of the wide-mouthed jars in the rank. His fingers were puffy and as white as fresh tallow.
"Yes sir," Cashel said. He looked at the jar and thought about the path he'd be carrying it by. The stairs wouldn't be a problem because the pantry door was hung at a slant, but if Cervoran took him back into the courtyard he'd have to lower the jar from his shoulder to clear the transom. "Is it wine?"
He rocked the jar to try the weight. It'd be a load and no mistake, but he could handle it. The base narrowed from the shoulder, but it still sat flat. The pointy bottoms of the other pattern of jars had to be set in sand to stay upright.
Cervoran walked toward the stairs, ignoring the question. His voice drifted through the dimness, "It is necessary...."
Cashel grinned as he squatted, positioning his hands carefully. He'd taken orders from his share of surly people before, and that'd never kept him from getting his own job done. The others hadn't had Cervoran's good excuse of having been dead or the next thing to it for a while, either.
When Cashel was sure he had the weight balanced, he straightened his knees and rose with the jar against his chest. He had to lean back to center it. There was enough air at the top of the jar for it to slosh as it moved, but he had it under control. It was tricky, but it was under control.
Cashel walked toward the stairs, not quite shuffling. He could only see off to his left side, the direction he'd turned his face when he lifted the jar. He'd had to pick one or the other, of course, unless he wanted to mash his nose against the coarse pottery. He'd be all right unless somebody put something in his way, and anyway he'd be feeling his way with his toes. It was under control.
Funny that Cervoran'd picked him for the job. As best Cashel could tell, the king hadn't set eyes on him till they saw each other through the doorway to the council room. Cashel didn't know another man in the army who could do this particular thing-fetch and carry a full wine jar alone-better than he could, though.
Cashel heard Cervoran climbing the stairs-skritch/thump; skritch/thump. A moment later he touched the bottom riser with his own big toe. Cashel slid the other foot upward, planted it, and then shifted his weight and the jar's onto it while he brought his right foot up and around to the next tread. He'd thought of leading with his left foot on every step, but he decided he'd be better off climbing with a normal rhythm. He took the steps with ponderous deliberation.
"Oh, my goodness, what's going on here?" the chamberlain chirped from close at hand. "Should I get somebody to help, or-goodness, is that a full jar?"
It certainly was a full jar. Cashel felt a jolt every time his heart beat.
Judging from the way it got brighter, he must be near the top of the staircase. He hunched forward slightly to make sure the jar was going to clear. It did and he could see the pantry, the shelves and bottle racks and then the chamberlain staring at him in amazement.
Cashel smiled. This jar was a weight, the Shepherd knew it was, but nobody was going to learn that from anything Cashel said or showed. Part of the way you won your fights was not letting the other guy know you were straining. Cashel didn't understand quite what was going on, but it was some kind of fight. Otherwise Cervoran'd be moving the jar by the usual fashion, a couple guys and a derrick up through the alley door.
A lot of people thought Cashel was dumb. He guessed they were right: he couldn't read or write or do lots of the other things Garric and Sharina did, that was for sure. But sometimes Cashel thought he saw things clearer than most folk did, just because his brain didn't put a lot of stuff in the way of the obvious.
"Follow me, Cashel," Cervoran said from right ahead. Cashel turned a little to his right so that he could see where he was going. The king was walking out of the panty with a brass-framed lantern in his white hand; he must've taken it from the chamberlain. Cashel wondered why he'd bothered now that they were upstairs. Light streamed in through the layer of bull's-eye glass set in the wall just below the trusses supporting the floor above.
Cashel had to turn straight on to get through the pantry door with his load, but he sidled again as soon as he was clear. Something was going on ahead of them, out in the courtyard he supposed; shouting and the clang of metal falling onto stone.
There was a scream too, so shrill that Cashel'd have said it had to be a woman if he hadn't heard men sound the same way when the pain was worse than anything they'd felt or dreamed of feeling. Red Bassin sounded like that the time the ox fell on him and thrashed, trying to get to its feet. It was while the ox was struggling that Bassin screamed; he stopped when his thighbone cracked and he fainted instead.
Cervoran led through the indoor kitchen. It was full of people jabbering, all of them looking out onto the courtyard through the big doors.
"Make way!" Cervoran piped. A pot-boy turned, saw the king with Cashel following, and bawled in terror. Cooks and other palace servants scattered to either side in fright, but they didn't run outdoors.
Cervoran, ignoring the panicked servants the way he seemed to ignore everything that wasn't part of his immediate purpose, marched through the doors to the courtyard. Cashel followed. He heard the battle clearly but he didn't see anything because he was concentrating on not banging the jar. The trusses supporting the portico sloped, so the lower edge of the roof tiles didn't have as much clearance as the kitchen ceiling.
When Cashel stepped off the edge of the pavement and his feet touched grass, he looked up at last. Soldiers stood all around something that was way taller than them and bigger than a full-grown ox.
The thing was green. Its barrel-shaped trunk, thicker than the widest Cashel could stretch with both arms, turned with the slow deliberation of a whale broaching. It started toward Cashel, moving on yellowish squirming roots covered with white hairs like a mandrake's.
"Master Cervoran!" Cashel said. He wasn't scared, exactly, but this wasn't a time he wanted to be standing around with a tun of wine in his arms and his staff somewhere back in the pantry. "Sir I mean! What is it you want me to do?"