With those words, he scuttled from the room, using his mop for support. Mouse trotted after, surprised at the speed of the old man, his voice hissing with excitement he could not suppress.
“I knew it! I knew I wasn’t mistaken! You understand me. And you know where Etanun is, don’t you?”
The old man’s eyes were empty with senility when he turned his gaze upon the boy. Mouse found himself drawing back with disgust at the sight of such decrepitude. But the scrubber smiled, revealing his gums. “Come, child, faster.”
Mouse followed.
The whole castle was in a state of quiet unrest. Mouse felt it as plainly as though his ears rang with the clash of mustering forces and brewing battles. Guards were patrolling, possibly searching. Earls and their retainers scurried hither and yon, muttering to each other, sometimes shouting. Ferox was dead, then, Mouse guessed. And what of Lord Alistair? Mouse recalled the face of the young man who had kindly let him through the gates and given him his position, however humble. He was to inherit, and he would be a good master. Why then the cruel looks and nasty words that shushed in the air of the castle passages? Why no mourning tears for the old master and no hearty wishes for the new?
Mouse shivered and hastened after the scrubber. Strange—though the castle was alive with bustle, wherever the old man went, he moved as though invisible. No one noticed him or Mouse as they progressed up to the wing where the earl’s family dwelled.
The old man opened a heavy door, motioned to Mouse, and stepped inside. Mouse hurried in behind. He found himself in Lord Alistair’s room.
And the young lord himself lay pale upon his bed, his face lit by a single smokeless candle.
Mouse gasped in horror at the dreadful wound staining Alistair’s white shirt deep red and ghastly brown. It was like no wound he had ever before seen, open and, most dreadful of all, boiling.
Boiling! Even from across the room, Mouse could see bubbles of blood bursting and roiling. Vapors like steam rose from the gash. How could anyone live with such a wound as that? Yet Alistair’s chest rose and fell with piteous moaning.
“What—” Mouse pressed both hands to his mouth, desperate to keep from vomiting. With a struggle, he forced the words out. “What has happened to him?”
“Aye, it’s nasty,” said the scrubber, grunting his way to the young lord’s side. “He’s been poisoned by a magic dagger. Would you believe it?”
Mouse scarcely heard. He drew back, pressing against the closed chamber door. “What can be done for him?”
“Oh, not a great deal yet,” said the old man. “Was a time I might have helped. But not now. Someone’s coming who will put a stay on the poison, and perhaps the Silent Lady will finish the job as soon as she has the chance.” The scrubber gave Mouse a shrewd look. “Not that you’d be knowing anything about that, eh?”
Mouse felt the blood draining from his face. “The Silent Lady is . . . she’s . . .”
The scrubber grinned, his eyes disappearing behind wrinkles. “I know, little mouseling. But you’ll get her out in time. I have faith.”
“Get her out?” Mouse cried. “How can—”
“Shhh.” The scrubber put a finger to his lips. “You don’t know yet, of course, and I don’t expect you to. Tend to this young man now, and do as you think best come tomorrow. It’ll come right in the end.”
With those words, the old man started for the door. Mouse shied away from him, drawing back into the shadows. The scrubber chuckled at this and paused as he opened the chamber door. His eyes sought Mouse’s in the darkness and did not seem to suffer for lack of light. And he said:
“You seek the dwarf, little one. He’s the heir you need.”
“The dwarf?” Mouse squeaked.
The scrubber clucked and shook his head. “Really, child, if you must go about in disguise, you should make some effort to remember it from time to time.”
He shut the door.
Mouse stood alone with the earl’s nephew and the ghastly stench of poisoned blood.
The fountain of misery welled up with such strength that it took all in Leta’s will to force it back. She sat alone in her chamber, listening to the sounds of the hunt. Like a bunch of hounds running a fox to ground, that’s what the men-at-arms, following the orders of Mintha and others, sounded like.
Leta hid her face in her hands. She must not weep. If once she began, how would she stop? This was not the time to be the ninny she’d been brought up to be! Now was the time to think!