“Yes, they are,” agreed Anya. The witches were already wiping their eyes busily, and the first lot of handkerchiefs was looking fairly sodden. “I’d better get a bowl ready.”
“Under the table, there,” said Etta, pointing. She shook her head against the onion fumes, and retreated from the kitchen tent, back to the mirrors. Unfortunately, her wart flew off with her last head shake, went flying through the air, and fell onto the ground just outside the smiling arc of standing stones that gave the hill its name. Muttering curses, the witch got down on her knees and began to search for it, circling around and around, running her hands through the grass and dirt.
Anya got a large wooden bowl and began to collect the first round of handkerchiefs. By the time she’d wrung them out, the second lot was ready for collection, and the bowl was a quarter full. The princess hurried along the line of witches, swapping the damp first handkerchiefs for the completely saturated second set.
Within fifteen minutes, she had a full bowl of witches’ tears and was feeling very pleased with herself as she poured it into her pint bottle. It was completely full, and there was even a little left over. Anya offered the bowl back to Shushu, but the witch held up her hands in horror.
“We never use our own tears!” she exclaimed. “The idea!”
“You want a cup of tea now?” asked Etta.
“That’s very kind,” said Anya hurriedly. “But I have to be going. Thank you once again.”
She gave them all a short bow, which was not returned. The witches were looking at her again, with that same fixed stare. Now there seemed to be reddish glints in those eyes, somehow reflected from the fire pit.
Anya turned, her back prickling as if a dagger might suddenly sprout between her shoulder blades. She forced herself to ignore it and walked beyond the stones.
She had only gone a few paces, when smoke suddenly erupted under her feet, strange-smelling, saffron-colored smoke that wound around her knees and circled up towards her face. Anya got the slightest whiff of it and immediately felt faint. She instantly held her breath, turned her face into the inside of her cloak, and pressed the material against her mouth and nose.
“Wait till she drops,” said Shushu, somewhere behind her.
Anya kept holding her breath, her mind racing. The smoke was some sort of curse, created by Etta when she’d been pretending to look for her lost wart. The witches had promised not to harm her on their hill, but evidently outside the stones didn’t count. If she ran now, who knew what they might do?
Better to play along and act unconscious, Anya figured. At the worst, Ardent and the others would come to rescue her at nightfall. Or they would try, at least … Anya couldn’t help but fear they might not be the best rescuers around.
The princess fell to her knees, put one hand out as if she was trying to push herself back up, then slowly subsided to the ground, still holding her breath.
Anya held her breath for as long as she possibly could, and then when she absolutely had to suck in some air, tried to do it very slowly and carefully through the material of her cloak. She could hear the witches moving around, but no one had touched her yet.
A minute later, Anya felt hands on her arms. As they heaved her up, she shut her eyes and let her head hang limp, but clutched the bottle of witches’ tears more tightly, hoping that they would think this was just some sort of unconscious grip.
“Put her over by the drinks table, against the flour sacks,” instructed Shushu. “Who’s got a Far-Speaking Pomander?”
“I don’t like this,” said another voice. “It’s sharp practice, and she’s a princess who’s come from the Good Wizard.”
“Who’s head witch tonight?” asked Shushu. “Who cares about a no-account princess of a nothing kingdom that is already under the sway of Duke Rikard? Besides, he’s a member of the League of Right-Minded Sorcerers, and you know what good customers they are.”
“What about the Good Wizard?” asked yet another voice. “She’s not to be trifled with, nor those dwarves neither.”
“Bah! Good Wizards aren’t allowed to interfere, or so they always say,” said Shushu. “Who’s got a Far-Speaking Pomander? We need to call the Duke and get that two-hundred-gold-noble reward.”
“Two hundred? That much?” said someone greedily. “Equal shares?”
That was Etta. Anya recognized her voice. She was one of the witches holding the princess under the arms, dragging her backwards so her heels dug little furrows in the dirt. Not very carefully, they put her down against a big sack of flour. Anya let her head loll forward, then opened her eyes to the barest slits.
She was near the fire pit, and all thirteen witches were arrayed in a semicircle around it, most of them facing Shushu, who looked cross.
“I demand a vote,” said one of the older witches. “Head witch or no head witch. I don’t like promising safety and then doing the dirty one step outside the stones. I say she bought her tears fair and square and we let her go.”
“I say she’s worth two hundred gold nobles and we tell Duke Rikard right away,” said Shushu.
“Put it to the vote,” said the other old witch. “All those who favor letting her go?”
She raised her hand. Four others followed immediately, and then one very slowly.
“All those against,” said Shushu, baring her teeth in a horrible grimace.
Seven hands went up, including the head witch’s.
“That’s settled, then. Who’s got a pomander? Must I ask for everything three times?”
One of the witches produced an orange-like ball from inside her kirtle. Anya knew about pomanders—they were balls of spice and herbs and ambergris that smelled nice, and in New Yarrow and sophisticated places like that people would lift them to their nose so they wouldn’t have to smell unpleasant things like open sewers or stables that hadn’t been cleaned in ages.
Presumably, a Far-Speaking Pomander was something else.