A silent pause answered him. When Penni spoke next, fear lay thick on her tongue. “Aye. I was put to the chair before the redrobers.”
Soothmancers, Kathryn knew. They were all put to the question. She herself was no exception, having been one of the last to speak with Mirra before she vanished. Kathryn opened the wardrobe, gathered up the ragged ermine cloak, and returned to the room.
Gerrod raised an arm at her appearance, his hand out for the wrap. Kathryn passed it to him.
“Can you tell me, has anyone else handled Mirra’s cloak? Especially in the last quarter moon before your old mistress disappeared.”
Penni scrunched up her face.
Perryl crossed to her, relieved her of the pile of linen wash, and took a seat beside her. He folded his arms atop the pile. “No need to be scared, Penni,” he said with a warm smile.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. But we need to know the answer.”
Penni kept her gaze to the floor. A bit of color flushed her cheeks, and she turned ever so slightly from Perryl, as if he were the sun, too bright to face. “Then I tell you no. Mistress Mirra’s furs were aired out upon the balconies at the end of summer. Otherwise, they are kept in her wardrobe.” She glanced to Kathryn. “Like now.”
“So no one touched them that you know of.”
“No, Master Rothkild.”
During this exchange, Gerrod searched the cloak, one way, then the other. He turned and pointed to an inner pocket. A dab of reddish brown was plain to see along the inner edge as he rolled it back. More blood. The pocket was otherwise empty.
Penni watched his every move, her eyes plainly drawn by the soft wheeze of his mekanicals. Being a good maid, she recognized the stain. She covered her mouth with a tiny hand, making a small sound of distress. “I must soak that in lemon-press. Mistress Mirra will be most upset with me. I thought I had cleaned it more thoroughly.”
Gerrod met Kathryn’s gaze and motioned to the girl with his eyes.
Kathryn dropped to a knee beside her. “Do you know how it became soiled?”
Penni chewed her lower lip. When next she spoke, it was a whisper meant only for Kathryn’s ears. “Mistress Mirra did not want me to speak of it.”
“But now the old castellan is gone, possibly to harm,” Kathryn urged, leaning closer. “If you know something, you must not hide it.”
Penni glanced up at Kathryn, then Gerrod, then back to the rug at her toes. She kept her words hushed. “A man came one night, well after final bells, muddied and unkempt, carrying a rucksack, led by one of the livery stablemen. Mistress Mirra gave the stableman a gold march to keep him quiet. I was sent from the room, too, but not before I saw the stranger remove a rolled length of oilcloth from his rucksack.”
The maid stopped and wrung her hands together at her waist as if kneading dough, clearly consternated.
“And the blood?” Gerrod said softly, his words echoing a bit inside his helmet.
Penni glanced up to Kathryn. “I didn’t mean to watch. I feared for Mistress Mirra’s safety with this stranger, arriving in such an unseemly manner. So I stayed, the door cracked open a finger.”
“It’s all right, Penni. What happened?”
“They whispered together for some time. The man unwrapped the oilcloth to reveal nothing but a bloody swatch of linen. It looked fresh, wet in the hearth light.”
“Either fresh,” Gerrod mumbled, “or the cloth was charmed to keep it so.”
“What then?” Kathryn said to Penni.
“A knock on the door. Hard. Angry. Scared me white. Mistress Mirra hides the bloody snatch in her own pocket. The man rolls the cloth and stuffs it away. The mistress opens the door. It is Ser Henri, right mad and full of flush. I know better than to listen any more. So I sneaks the door closed and hide away.”
“And you heard nothing else?” Gerrod asked as her words ended.
“No, Master Rothkild.”
Gerrod glanced to Kathryn.
Perryl shifted in the chair next to the scared maid. “Penni, do you know anything about this stranger? A name? Where he might have come from?”
“I’d never seen him before. But though he was muddied and sorely kempt, he seemed a high man of some means. He spoke well and his manners were not low.”
“How did he appear?” Kathryn asked.
“He was fair of face… not as fair as…” Her gaze fluttered toward Perryl. A blush rose on her cheek. “His hair was long to the shoulder, black. I don’t remember his eyes.”
“Any scars? Any marks to distinguish him?” Perryl asked.
Penni thought for a long moment. “No… but I heard him speak to the stableman. To ready a fresh horse, a beast blessed in air, a windmare with enough leg to reach Chrismferry in a day.”
Kathryn shared a look with Gerrod. Normally, on horse-back, it would take three days to reach the outskirts of Chrismferry. There was clearly urgency here to employ the speed of a windmare.
“That’s all I know,” Penni finished, almost shaking now.
Kathryn touched her shoulder, causing her to start. “Penni, you’ve done very well. Why don’t you collect the linens and see to the washing.”
She curtsied, relieved. Perryl passed her the pile, earning a bright blush. She fled out the servants’ door.
Perryl waited until the way closed. “So the man was heading to Chrismferry.”
“Or back to Chrismferry,” Gerrod countered.
Kathryn noted Gerrod drawing in on himself, leaning back, folding his arms across his chest. A troubled posture. He stared down at the ermine cloak on his lap.
“What do you make of all this?” Perryl asked.
Gerrod shook his head. It was all the answer they would get out of him for now.
Out in the courtyard, the Sun Tower chimed the sixth bell. Kathryn hadn’t realized how much time had passed. The sun was halfway down the sky. “I have a meeting I must attend,” she mumbled to the others as the bells ceased.
Gerrod glanced her way.
“As I mentioned from the first,” Kathryn answered, “Tylar is coming here. Warden Fields has gathered folk in the field room to oversee the preparations to receive him. I’m to meet with my supposed guardian.”
“A guardian?” Perryl asked. “Do you truly think that’s necessary? I still can’t believe Tylar would harm you.”
Gerrod stirred, standing with a creak. “I don’t trust our good warden is only concerned about his castellan’s security.”
Perryl frowned.
Kathryn understood. “Warden Fields strings a tight net around Tashijan. And I’m to be the bait in the snare. Who I meet will be both guardian and hunter.”
Perryl’s eyes widened, showing too much white. “Who’s been chosen?”
Now it was Kathryn’s turn to frown. “That I don’t know.”
“There is much all of us don’t know.” Gerrod lifted Mirra’s ermine cloak. “I’ll see what I can discern from this, but it would be prudent to see if the stableman who guided our dark stranger up here could be prompted to divulge what was sealed by gold and a promise.”
“I can check the stables,” Perryl offered. “It hasn’t been too long since I was squired down there.”
Kathryn nodded as he made for the door. “Be discreet.”
Gerrod remained behind and fixed her with a stolid stare, his eyes bright through the slit in his helmet. His words softened. “And you be careful. Bait is seldom considered of any value after one sets the hook.”
Kathryn met his gaze. “By sword and cloak, I’ll be careful,” she promised.
Gerrod studied her a moment longer, then turned away. “I suggest you keep both near at hand.”
Kathryn kept her pace hurried but respectful as she descended the twenty flights of stairs. With each nod to passing knight or courtier, she felt the press of the diamond seal fixed under her chin, the emblem of the castellan. It was not the true seal, but mere paste and artifice. The real diamond ornament had vanished with Mirra. Kathryn felt the same about her role here at Tashijan, more paste and artifice than true authority or command.