The City of Ice

by K. M. McKinley

  The crowds passed on. Over the course of the next two hours the horns sounded several more times, the voices shouting out new locations in the city. These too ceased.

  The duke finished the last of his wine, set down the glass, and stood.

  “You will wait here upon my pleasure,” he said while he buttoned his jacket again. “I may return to use you. I may not. You can only wait and see.” His voice purred with pleasure. He put a hot hand under her chin and tilted her head up. “What do you say?”

  Fearing a trap, she did not meet his eyes. “Yes, your grace. At your pleasure, you grace.”

  He considered a moment. “Very good,” he said. “I am pleased.”

  A single peal of thunder cracked from behind the house, far on the other side of the park. And then he left.

  Madelyne spent hours kneeling naked upon the velvet, trembling in anticipation. Sleep would not come. At any moment she expected the door to creak open and for him to come in. How would he take her? Would he coax her? Would he force her? He had shown her every kindness, but underlining everything he did was the reason she was there—she was his toy. At some point, he would bed her, she doubted she could achieve her aims without avoiding that. She was not sure how she felt about it. Before her heart had hardened, in the past she had given her virtue to less worthy suitors without a fee, though often they had made themselves appear otherwise. In some ways, the prospect of sleeping with the duke excited her, for how many women could claim to have lain with a god? In others, she was terrified. There was his size, for one thing. He could crush her in his embrace, and if he was sized proportionally all over he might split her in two. Again the worrisome question of how many girls had passed through his doors and been with him arose. He could have the pick of Perusian society, yet he chose from the poor. He always had. The obvious explanation was because they were easier to dispose of should they displease him.

  The fire died, and she became cold. The noise passed away from the house.

  The quiet of the city was eerie. Although she was far from prying eyes she felt exposed there, in front of uncurtained windows. She was ashamed of her nakedness. This fear of unseen eyes combined with the chill of the room to arouse her senses. She was aware of every inch of skin. When she moved, her nipples brushed against her bound arms and stiffened in response.

  The night wore on. The questions whirled around and around her head in a parade of anxiety and doubt. She determined that he would not come, and needed to cover herself. By that time, the thought of him looking at her like this made her feel sick. There was the blanket beneath her, she could cover herself with that. She could barely move. She shuffled about. Getting off the blanket was easy enough, and she regretted it. Cold marble chilled her and she began to shiver. Now she would have to arrange the blanket so that she could sleep on it, fold it over and cover herself with the other half. She despaired at the task. Manoeuvring it into position was frustrating. Her hands were next to useless. She was forced to grovel, balanced on her forehead and knees, tugging the blanket this way and that like a dog with her teeth. All the while, the chain running from the collar on her neck to the wall rattled so loudly in the quiet that she became certain the duke would hear her and return and beat her, or worse. She sobbed with the fear, the cold, her shame and her frustration. What was she doing? Nothing was worth this humiliation.

  Finally, exhausted, trembling with effort and with cold, she managed to stretch the blanket out so that she might lie on it. Another interminable half hour of flicking her hands and biting with her teeth, and she had most of her body covered, though her feet remained outside the warmth all night.

  She fell asleep as the sky outside lightened, to the frenzied ringing of bells and blowing of horns all over the city.

  SUNLIGHT STREAMED IN through the high windows. Madelyne’s head emerged from under the blanket, squinting at bright light. The fog had gone, and blue sky roofed the city where the Godhome did not. Madelyne tried to sit, forgetting she was tied. She groaned at the binding, and lay there. By day the room’s exaggerated proportions were more pronounced, but the lascivious frieze of figures had gone, replaced by a repeated pattern of twisted roses armed with giant thorns.

  She scratched her nose with difficulty on her shoulder and yawned. She was warm again, but had no feeling in her hands and feet. She needed to piss.

  As she was wondering how long she must wait, the door opened silently and Markos came in. She had the sickening sensation that the duke meant to share her with his filthy servant. Had he not called her his property? An involuntary moan escaped her.

  Markos did not harm her or look at her. He averted his eyes as he unlocked the chain from her neck and slid an inwardly curved knife between her flesh and the ropes by touch. She flinched as his cold fingers brushed her.

  “Lie still, Medame,” he said softly.

  The rope fibres parted with a near silent rasp. She gasped as the blood rushed back into her fingers with the stab of a thousand tiny pins. She turned her head so that Markos could not see her blink back tears.

  He cut the rope around her midriff and her feet, then rearranged the blanket to cover her. Not once did she feel his eyes on her. He straightened the room, going about his business as if he did this all time, like he was in the kennels grooming the dogs. She stared resolutely into the wall, unable to look at him. His footsteps stopped beside her head.

  “The duke told me to inform you that you are released. Breakfast is ready,” he said. “Clothes have been arranged for you in your room. You are to take your leisure today. You will accompany his grace to the Grand Ball this evening.”

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice muffled by the blanket.”What time is it? When did the fog lift?”

  “It is not long until noon, Medame,” he said, staring fixedly at a point above her head. “The fog went early this morning, save for a patch about the Place di Regime. The Morfaan are in the city, and are at the Palace of Nations now.”

  He did not remove her collar.

  Later, dressed and fed, Madelyne headed outside to enjoy the sunlight. Now the fog was gone she was eager to be out. She stopped in the porch, arrested by the view. It was as the duke had promised. The palaces of the king and the comtes blocked her view to the east, but to the north and south she saw right across Perus, all the way down to the canyon of the Foirree. From the back of the building she had a fine view of the Godhome, shining like burnished bronze in the early day. She used the pretext of seeing it closer to go around into the rear gardens, toward the wall separating the house grounds from the Royal Park. The grounds there were given over entirely to roses arranged in geometric beds between paths of perfectly round gravel. Not one piece of stone was on the close cropped grass, not one weed grew out of place.

  Stopping to examine this bloom or that, she slowly made her way to the border around the foot of the wall as if she were aimlessly wandering. The collar at her throat felt like a betrayal, although of what she was not sure; of the duke, or of Harafan?

  She headed for the rear of the duke’s kennels, at the southwestern corner of the garden. The wall rose up over her, fifteen feet of weathered brick topped with spiked iron chased in silver. Where the kennel joined the boundary wall was a water butt. Looking about her nervously, she peered behind. Half a clay flask, green with age, lay belly up out of sight. She turned it over and scraped away a layer of soil. Beneath was a waxed paper envelope which she quickly took.

  “Fancy a bit of gardening, Medame?”

  Madelyne whirled around. “Gaffne!” she said, one hand flying to her chest while the other hid the letter behind her back. The gardener had silently emerged from the back door to the kennels, and was carrying a hoe and a spade.

  “Now you don’t want to be getting too close to that wall, Medame. Wild Tyn are in those woods.” Gaffne looked up at the ancient trees towering over the wall.

  “Is that really the case?” she said. Gaffne came toward her; he was old, deeply tanned and heavily lined, b
ut moved with a youthful lightness. She shifted to keep her back away from him. Only the danger of the letter kept her from being acutely aware of the collar around her neck, but Gaffne was used to such adornments on the duke’s women.

  “I know they say it’s all rubbish,” said the gardener. “But I’ve heard some strange things over that wall working here, especially in the winter when my work goes on after dark, or early in the mornings in summer, when no one’s about and the light’s clear as water.” He looked higher, to the lip of Godhome hanging there. “They’re in there alright. On account of the Godhome, so they say. And they’re at their worst where it comes to ground.”

  “The Godhome touches the ground three miles from here, in the Park Hills,” said Madelyne. “I have been on the other side of this wall. It is well frequented. Children play there.”

  “Not at night,” said Gaffne. “Best not linger too close to the wall, in any case. The uncanny attracts the uncanny, and there aren’t none so uncanny as the Infernal Duke in all Maceriya, and I’m saying that with them Morfaan sitting pretty in their cloud of mist.”

  “Thank you Gaffne,” said Madelyne, “for your concern.”

  “Don’t you mention it,” said the gardener. He tugged the brim of his cap, and sauntered away back into the stable block. She waited, until she heard him banging about and whistling.

  When he had gone, Madelyne unfolded the wax paper and took out the letter inside. It was a simple note, penned in Harafan’s untidy hand.

  The fog has gone! Meet me today, half past noon.

  She crumpled it in her fist. Checking no one had seen her, she hurried to the house to tell Markos she was going out. She was already late.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A Bad Trade

  “I AM REALLY not terribly sure about this,” said Vols. Antoninan’s assistant groom led him down the ship’s central corridor to the holds at the rear. From below and behind came the vibration of the ship’s engines, throbbing powerfully even while the ship was stationary. Above a hammer rang and men shouted. All the doors and hatches were open. Sections of the deck around the funnels were being taken up. Consequently it was freezing cold in the ship. Vols didn’t care. The Prince Alfra had stopped moving, for which he was immensely grateful. The clanging of dropped metal echoed down the main corridor. Vols stepped aside as sailors pushed past bearing parts and equipment, losing the groom. The boy did not slow for the mage, and he had to trot to catch him up.

  “Dogs are not among the animals which I care for ordinarily to tell you the truth,” he said weakly.

  Antoninan’s groom must have been all of about seventeen, but had an air of forcefulness about him. He paid no attention to Vols’ protestations. “You work a lot with animals,” he said.

  “Well, yes, I ah, er. Yes. I do. They are gifted with will, but weakly. It makes them susceptible to alterations of the fund—”

  “Dogs are animals.” The boy ploughed on through the crowded corridor. Sailors moved aside for him, but most did not see the mage, and he had to duck and apologise the full length, all the way to the main aft hold door. “In here,” he said gruffly. He spoke High Maceriyan with a thick vernacular accent that he made no attempt to moderate.

  The boy opened the door. The smell of dogs kept in close confinement hit Vols. It was harsh and pervasive, stinging his nostrils, filling his mouth. Urine, faeces, soiled fur—a stink worse than the dirtiest hen coop.

  Three dogs were out of their kennels. A young dog, a bitch and the most enormous dog Vols had ever seen.

  “Valatrice,” he breathed. He could not fail to be awed by such a beast. During his two months aboard the ship, he had avoided the kennels. He felt vaguely ashamed of himself for doing so, like he should go over and apologise to the kingly dog on bended knee.

  One of the indigenes was looking the two smaller dogs over. Antoninan stood by grim-faced.

  Valatrice saw him first. “The mage comes,” he said.

  “Hello, hello,” said Vols, forcing cheer. “I am here as requested. I do not know how much help I will be.”

  “You are a mage. You are not engaged at the moment,” said Antoninan.

  “Well, no,” said Vols, taken aback at Antoninan’s brusqueness. “The er, the Sorskians’ shaman will not allow me upon their island.” He smiled weakly. “Something about upsetting their gods. So, yes. Well, I am rather at a loose end.”

  “So make yourself useful.” Antoninan was surly. “The Sorskians have secured a heavy price for our stay. Two of my best dogs,” he said venomously. “And they want verification of the dogs’ health from their shaman. I do not want to rely on their opinion alone, however. The last we want is accusations of cheating.”

  Vols approached the dogs gingerly. “I will do as you say, it may be hard. Although, ah, I have some experience of animals, I leave the care of my dogs to my grooms.” He did not mention the unreliability of his powers. He reached out a hand toward the young dog. He looked at Vols with yellow eyes so piercing Vols drew his hand back. “In truth, I am not overly fond of them,” said Vols. “They kill my hens.”

  “I find chickens very fine to eat,” said Valatrice.

  Vols took a step sideways away from him. The human-like way in which the dog spoke was unnerving. “Ah, yes. Um, exactly.”

  “Get on with it!” said Antoninan.

  “Yes, very good. I shall,” said Vols. He pushed his fingers into the dog’s coat. Fur enveloped his hand to the wrist. A powerful heart pounded beneath his palm.

  The native watched him carefully. Vols shut his eyes. He let his heart slow, then allowed it to quicken again, picking up the rhythm of the dog’s. The outer world was not always responsive to his will but his own body was his kingdom, altering its rhythms to his whim.

  The next part was harder, pushing his mind into the dog’s, so that they ran in a synchronicity as close as their heartbeats. As the pounding beats became one, Vols jolted as their minds touched. Never had it been so easy. The dog startled in response. Vols lost contact for a moment, then, with increased confidence, slipped into the dog’s world.

  “Woah, woah, Jolatrice,” said Antoninan, but Vols heard from far away.

  Vols ran with the dog along a beach at morning during the lowest tide, the sun cresting the mudflats, the wind cold on the dog’s nose. Birds and draconbirds whirled skyward in alarm. A world mediated by different senses overlaid Vols’ perceptions, colour drained, greens dominated. A thousand smells filled his thoughts. Vols began to pant lightly. He pushed past the dog’s memories, into his emotion and thought. The dog was strong-willed. He was sorrowful at the coming parting, but proud he had been chosen. A desire to run dominated his thought. Vols raced by, water gushing down into deep caverns. He was into the part of the mind closed to the thinking creature, that segment that moderated the alchemy of the living being, the interface between meat and soul.

  A picture of the dog’s body pulsed in his mind, each beat of the heart a magic-lantern show of its internal workings.

  Run, run, run!

  Vols pulled back with a gasp. He pulled out a handkerchief from his parka sleeve and mopped his high forehead. “This one is fine, very fine. Such will!”

  “What about Miralka, the bitch?” said Valatrice, raising one eyebrow. Vols wasn’t aware dogs could even do that. He shook a little under Valatrice’s scrutiny. The touch of Jolatrice’s soul faded slowly, and he had the urge to submit to Valatrice, rolling on his back and exposing his neck. “Will she be to your liking?”

  “I am sure she will, um, gooddog,” said Vols.

  Valatrice’s froideur evaporated and he laughed in the deep, rumbling manner of talking drays. “Gooddog! Such an honour. Better than being a good dog, eh Antoninan?” The edge returned to Valatrice when he spoke to his master. Antoninan stared with hostility at the Sorskian.

  Vols pressed his hand to the female, and declared her hale also. Without a word, the man of the Tatama nodded his approval and waved to Antoninan, gesturing that he was satisfie
d.

  “Go,” he told his grooms. “Take them.”

  The grooms—the boy and a man not much younger than Antoninan—moved in to place halters around their shaggy necks. But Valatrice growled, and they backed off.

  Valatrice went to the dogs and sniffed at their faces and anuses. They returned the farewell. Then the two males pressed their necks together, side to side, tawny eyes closed. Only then did Valatrice allow the dogs to be haltered. With backward glances, the dogs followed the Sorskian from the hold. Antoninan ran his hands down the flanks of the dogs as they left, head bowed.

  One by one, the dogs left in the kennel began to howl.

  The atmosphere became oppressive. Vols felt the sorrow of the dogs and the anger of the man. He had to get out. “If you won’t be—” he shouted over the howling chorus.

  “They wanted to take Valatrice,” said Antoninan fiercely. “His fame is so great, they know of him even here! But I would not let them.” He looked jealously at his lead dog. “He is the finest, biggest, strongest. The bravest and the most intelligent.”

  “He certainly speaks Maceriyan well,” said Vols.

  “He speaks Karsarin and the lesser Sorskian also. There is not a dog anywhere in the Hundred like my Valatrice!”

  He grabbed at a handful of Valatrice’s fur. The dog growled and shied back.

  “Get off me, Antoninan,” said Valatrice. “I am no mood to be petted like some spoiled turnspit hound.”

  Antoninan clenched his hand into a fist.

  “It is not only your loss,” he said. “I loved them too.”

  Vols was extremely embarrassed, Antoninan was close to tears. To his immense relief, Antoninan turned on his heel and departed without further word, leaving Vols alone with Valatrice.

  “The dog, he was your son,” said Vols quietly.

  Valatrice closed his eyes.

  “My heir, a Sorskian pack leader. He had not yet come into his voice, but he will. Antoninan was sure he would one day take my place as so-called king of the dogs,” he growled contemptuously. “A hollow title for a slave. The sea-people must have bargained hard to take him. Love my kind he might, but it does not stop Antoninan from treating us as chattels. That was not the first child I have sniffed farewell, and he will not be the last.”