At Swords' Point by Andre Norton Page B

The oubliette does not date back farther than that period, but I cannot help believing that it was in use from time to time. By all means you shall see it. Only we will rescue you when necessary from my revered father's clutches — he never knows when to stop talking when he is riding his hobby —”
    â€œOn the other hand,” Joris broke in, “the van der Horne kitchen is under the command of a cook whose lightness of hand and trueness of taste is surpassed only by her girth. Invitations to the van der Horne board are treasured by gourmets.”
    â€œI am overwhelmed by my good fortune,” Quinn found his voice. “An oubliette and a cook!”
    The van der Horne chateau was an uneasy mixture of rather drab and formal barracks and manifestly older and even less inviting medieval keep.
    â€œCozy, isn't it?” asked the heir as they came up the drive to stop before what might once have been a postern gate. “Ugliest pile in the province!” he added with fond pride.
    â€œAnd the coldest,” Joris reminded him. “Be thankful, Anders, that you are not arriving in the depths of winter. As it is you shall be deep-freezed — or is it frozen? — if you pause anywhere in the halls. It is best to pass from room to room at a brisk trot.”
    Within a few minutes Quinn stood before a dim mirror in a high-ceilinged, panel-walled bedroom. He could see the reflection of the two-step dais which held what couldbe nothing but a bed-of-state, its heavily worked curtains still intact. And he hoped, as he sneezed twice, that those curtains were going to keep out any wandering drafts haunting the room at night. Somewhere along the way in his immediate and hectic past he had lost the capacity for being surprised. He could now accept a state bedroom in his stride, and if he should suddenly discover himself at the bottom of the famed oubliette he would not turn a hair. He must have achieved at last the proper detachment necessary for a secret agent.
    Of course he had yet to cope with those two faithful standbys of the business, the drugged coffee or the poisoned cigarette, and as far as he knew he was not carrying on his person a two-inch strip of microfilm which was earnestly desired by — say — Gorum of the Thousand Faces. Quinn laughed, coughed, and called ‘come in’ to the tap on his door.
    Dirk surveyed his guest critically. “Well, you're not blue yet. Americans continue to uphold their reputations — you are, as you are so fond of pointing out, tough. Do you feel in the mood to absorb some sustaining nourishment? My mother is in Den Haag with my sister — so we do not wait for the ladies, Ha, Joris —”
    The stocky Mijnheer Maartens shifted his weight impatiently from one foot to the other. When they joined him in the hall he plunged away at a pace not far removed from the trot he had earlier suggested.
    A flight of stairs, which would have accommodated without crowding ten guardsmen marching abreast, led in polished uncarpeted steps to a massive hallway hung with unattractive displays of maces, swords and shields. There was also a fireplace at one end, large enough to engulf practically an entire tree trunk. And in this blazed a token fire, palm size in comparison with the cavern which held it.
    Standing with his hands outstretched to this was aslender man whose dark wine velvet jacket was slightly threadbare and rubbed at the elbows and whose cockatoo crest of hair was pure silver. He turned quickly as they came across the stones of the flooring.
    â€œGoeden Avond, Mijnheeren,” he began in a soft voice which held some of the same quiet amusement that often colored his son's tones. Then he frowned as if at his own forgetfulness and switched easily into an English which was almost without accent. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
    â€œThis is Quinn Anders, Vader,” Dirk made introductions. “Quinn, my father, Graf van der