by J. V. Jones
The gelding whickered and shook his head. Prodding Ash with his nose, it waited to see what she would do. Ash glanced ahead. The stone manger for the feed and the leather water bucket were pushed hard against the back wall. To keep as far away from the gelding’s hooves as possible, she would have to scramble over them to reach the next stall. Gathering the ends of her cloak to her chest so they wouldn’t snag on splinters, she began crawling forward . . . slowly.
Only a short stretch, she told herself, gaze darting between the next divide and the gelding. It was a good horse, she was sure of that. But it was used to seeing rats, not humans, crawling in its stall after dark.
Scrambling over the stone manger proved difficult and painful. Ash struck her shin on a sharp edge, and although she didn’t dare spend a minute inspecting the damage, she knew there was blood. The gelding watched her. Any time she moved too fast, it changed positions, stamping its hooves onto the dung-packed stone. Ash’s heart beat unsteady in her chest. The skin on her face felt too tight. Every second she expected to hear a cry rip through the fortress and the night come alive with armed men and light. Where was Marafice Eye? Was he back outside her chamber? Had Katia slipped inside to check on her one last time before she slept?
“Damn!” Ash cursed under her breath as her elbow caught the water bucket, causing it to tip over onto the stone. The floor slanted forward slightly, and the water ran straight under the stall door.
“Damn black’s knocked its bucket again!” came Master Haysticks’ voice. “Skimmer, spread some new hay before the damp gets in his hooves.”
Free of the stone manger and the bucket, Ash pushed herself through to the next stall. Her cloak caught on a bit of wood, and just as she tugged it free the black gelding’s door swung open. Ash froze. The groom called Skimmer whistled as he spread fresh hay. The gelding, angry by now at all the disturbances, snorted and kicked. Skimmer swore. Master Haysticks and the other groom laughed. Ash thought she heard the faint click of wooden blocks, then Skimmer closed the door.
“Bloody black’s a devil,” he said. “That’s the last time I go in there after dark.” He crossed back to the crates. “Hey! Thems blocks been handled! They weren’t laying like that afore I fetched the hay!”
A lively argument broke out between the men, where Master Haysticks and the second groom swore by every blind dog that had ever frozen to death on a street corner that they hadn’t even looked at the blocks, let alone handled them.
Ash turned her attention to the stall she was in. Apart from a harness of fine dark leather hung from a dog hook next to the door, it was empty. The red-and-black insignia of the Killhound on the Iron Spire was stamped across the noseband, indicating that a member of the Watch normally stabled his horse here. Ash didn’t permit herself a sigh of relief, though she was relieved. Most of the Watch were out in the city, patrolling the Slaining Night crowds, and that meant many of the stalls would be empty.
She moved quickly after that. The argument over blocks raged nicely—Master Haysticks’ voice rising from mild indignation to thundering outrage as Skimmer continued to accuse him of cheating—and the sharp voices helped mask all the little noises Ash made as she crawled from stall to stall. A fair number of stalls were empty, as she had predicted. The more crusted in hay, horse muck, and horsehair she became, the more the horses seemed to accept her. Apart from a nasty clip from a pregnant mare who was sleeping lying down and struggled to stand as her stall was invaded, Ash avoided further injury. The secret, she found, was to turn on her back, then stay perfectly still for a moment, offering up the soft flesh of her throat, until the horse had smelled and inspected her. They usually let her pass after that.
Finally she found herself in the stall nearest the far door, sharing space with a one-year-old filly who was bright, alert, and not the slightest bit sleepy. The filly was wary at first, but after a few minutes of continuous sniffing, she began nudging Ash’s cloak for treats.
“Sorry, girl,” mouthed Ash, strangely affected by the gentleness and beauty of the young mare. “No treats tonight.”
After a quick peep under the stall door had assured her that Master Haysticks and his grooms were too caught up in their argument to notice someone slipping through the outer door, she mouthed her farewell to the filly and slid under the wall.
Slipping into the deepest shadows, following the line of the stable wall, she worked her way toward the exterior door. The men’s gazes were turned inward, heads wagging, booted feet cuffing stone. The argument had turned nasty. Money was under dispute now, not wood. One of the safe-lamps was now burning dregs, and the flame was orange and weak. Ash chose her steps carefully, pressing her chest against the damp stone and walking on the balls of her feet. She wanted to run as fast as she could for the door, but the noise and sudden movement would give her away.
Like the quad door, the far door was open slightly to let in late-comers and brothers-in-the-watch. Ash felt a stream of cold air blow against her cheek. As she took the final step toward the opening, the quad door rattled into motion. Quick as she could, she shrank back into the shadows. Someone was entering the stables from the other side.
The quad door rumbled open, and the massive, bull-necked form of Marafice Eye stepped into view. Cloaked in the skin-soft leather of his office, he carried a horn lamp burning with a hot blue flame in one hand and a crab-hilted dagger in the other. Master Haysticks and the grooms fell silent. The wooden blocks tumbled from Skimmer’s hands onto the floor.
“You!” said the Knife to Master Haysticks, stabbing the air with his dagger. “Has the Surlord’s ward come this way tonight?”
Master Haysticks shook his head with feeling. “No, sir. All’s quiet. No one but the Watch and their parties have passed through.”
The Knife grunted. His small mouth gathered to itself like something pulled shut with a wire. Watching him, Ash felt the bones in her legs turn to water. How much of the stables could he see from where he stood? Were the safe-lamps throwing light to the far door or shining in his face? “Get this place lit up! Lock all doors and let no one pass until you hear from me again. Is that clear?”
“But, sir, what about the other brothers-in-the-watch . . .”
Marafice Eye didn’t have to say anything to make Master Haysticks fall silent. His eyes glittered, that was enough. With a shrug of his shoulders that in any other man would have been a gesture of uncertainty, but in the Knife was a violent switch of muscle and bone, Marafice Eye turned and walked away. A line of blue light trailed behind him like smoke.
Master Haysticks followed after, a lot happier to talk to the Knife’s back than his face. “As you say, sir. As you say. Skimmer, get the lamps. Cribbon, help me with this door.”
Ash didn’t wait another moment. While all three men were intent on watching Marafice Eye leave, she slipped from the far door out into the night.
Cold and darkness enveloped her so completely it was like diving into a pool of black water. The wind hissed. Hard snow squeaked beneath her boots as she moved. Walls, their mortar fresh and in good repair, towered to either side like stone giants. Thirty paces ahead lay the gate.
Stable gate, trade gate, whatever one chose to call it, was an iron jawbone of spikes. Two guardhouses, cut from pale limestone and scoured smooth by centuries of hard wind, flanked the gate itself. The gate was up, its great metal teeth suspended above the crossbeam, dripping clods of snow and horse dung onto the ground below. Chain rigging held it in place. Stretching from the crossbeam to the guardhouse, wrapping around gears and levers, forming knots of black iron, the gate chains shuddered like metal foliage in the wind.
Ash stood and looked, her breath shallow and halting. Her only chance now was if the brothers-in-the-watch guarding the gate hadn’t heard of her escape. She knew they shouldn’t have—someone would have had to travel through the stables to tell them, and Ash knew for a fact that had not happened—but the presence of Marafice Eye made her unsure of herself. He would crush her skull between his
bare hands if he could . . .
Stop it. Ash jabbed her knuckles against her forehead, trying to knock out the fear.
The snow at her feet began to glow as many lamps were lit in the stables behind her back. Hearing the door rattle closed, she stepped aside and waited until it was locked and bolted. The fortress was coming to life. The stables weren’t the only new source of light, and quick glances to either side showed torches being lit around the curtain wall. Sounds broke through the driving roar of the wind: shouted orders, the whir and clank of sealed gates, and the harsh percussion of metal arms.
Ash stepped toward the gate. Tidying herself as she moved, she brushed scraps of hay and muck from her cloak and tucked her hair beneath her hood. She smelled bad and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. A square of pale light escaped from the grille-covered window on the left gatehouse, and several lines of freshly trodden snow led to and from the door, so Ash headed that way. A man appeared at the grille as she approached. Knowing she was being watched made it difficult to appear natural, and her movements became jerky and stilted.
The gatehouse door swung open, and a brother-in-the-watch stepped out. The man was young and black haired, with a well-shaped mouth and eyes set too far back in his skull. A cruciform insignia stamped high upon his steel gorget marked him as a grangelord’s third or fourth son. He drew his sword. “Who goes there?”
The second man behind the grille raised a bright-burning lamp to the window, throwing light onto Ash and the surrounding ground.
Ash blinked. She thought a moment, then curtsied. With her gaze carefully lowered, she said, “Please, sir. May I pass?”
The guard took a step forward. Like all members of the Watch, he was clean shaven and clad in soft beaten leathers worn over plate. The red steel of his blade shimmered and rippled as the patterns forged into the metal drew the light. Out of the corner of her eye, Ash saw his gaze flick behind her to the growing ring of torches spewing light and black smoke over the wall. When a cry broke through from the other side, he stilled himself to listen.
Ash held her jaw so tight it ached. Grinding the heel of her boot into the snow, she forced herself to stay calm. She was a servant, a messenger girl, a seamstress. She couldn’t afford to act afraid.
“One of Till Bailey’s girls?”
Ash had been concentrating so hard on grinding her heel into the snow that the question startled her. Lifting her head, she risked glancing at the watch brother.
He did not look pleased. Sharp noises continued to sound within the fortress. “I said, are you one of Till Bailey’s?” He made a cutting motion with his sword in the direction of the Horn. “One of those brought in for Slaining?”
Ash took a breath. He thought she was a prostitute.
“Answer, girl.” The guard’s well-shaped lips slid across his gums, revealing small, yellow teeth.
“Yes.” Ash nodded, her eyes fixed on the man’s sword. “One of Till’s.”
The watch brother spat. Ash thought for a moment he would let her go. He altered his grip on his sword, preparing to resheathe it, but as he did so a great bell began to toll within the fortress. Ash’s heart dropped in her chest. It was the Quarter Bell, hung in the topmost chamber of the Cask. Sounded in times of war, riots, or sieges, it was the signal to secure all gates.
Lunging forward, the warden caught hold of Ash’s arm and yanked her toward the gatehouse window. Sharp fingernails, the same yellow as his teeth, hooked into her flesh. Inside the gatehouse, the second man moved away from the window, and a moment later metal chains began to shudder and hum as gears and pulleys creaked to life. Stable gate was being lowered.
“Please. Could you let me out before it drops? Till’s expecting me back.” Ash tried to match the sly charm Katia used when rooting after favors or rose cakes. It was a mistake. She ended up sounding desperate instead.
The watch brother pulled her up to the window and forced her face against the grille. “Grod. What should we do about this? She’s one of Till’s.”
The one called Grod was working the crankshaft. He slowed but did not stop as he took a look at Ash. Graying and nearly bald, he had the look of a man who had soldiered for many years. His eyes were sharp as a pig’s, and he wore no fancy insignia at his breast, shoulder, or throat. Ash’s first reaction was to back away, but the first brother had his hand on her scalp and was holding her fast against the grille. The crisscross iron cut her face into squares, and she could feel the cold metal stealing warmth from her cheeks. Slowly, carefully, using the arm that was pressed against the gatehouse wall, she reached inside her cloak for the jeweled pin she had taken for selling.
The bell continued to toll, sending out deep, wailing notes that hurt Ash’s ears. Overhead, the gate clattered and screeched, descending in small, lurching stages as its weight fought against the chains.
As Ash’s fingers found and then closed around the smooth brass of the cloak pin, Grod shook his head. “She’s not one of Till’s. Thin scrap of nothing like that. With that hair and that mucked-up cloak. Till likes ’em plump and pretty, not dark and scraggy as a strip of trail meat.” Grod’s eyes narrowed. His gaze focused on a lock of Ash’s hair that had poked through the grille. Releasing his hold on the crankshaft, he straightened his back and snatched the lock. Ash’s eyes teared as he ran his fingers along its length.
Soot rubbed off in his hand. A cold smile hardened his face as he rolled the newly cleaned lock between his fingertips. Abruptly he tightened his grip. “This one stays with us. Bring her round, Storrin. And we’ll bind her fit for hauling.”
On the word hauling, Ash yanked her head free of the grille. Pain stung her scalp as she lost a lock of her hair to Grod. Swiftly she swung her arm forward and drove the brass spike of the cloak pin into Storrin’s well-formed mouth, driving hard through lip tissue and gum to the smooth bone beneath.
The man swore viciously. Blood welled from his upper lip as he lashed out in anger with his fist. Ash took a hard blow on her shoulder but managed to keep her footing. She had to get through the gate. Inside the gatehouse, she was aware of Grod working on the crankshaft, meaning to lower the gate before he came to the aid of his partner. It was the move of someone practical and cold-hearted. Ash despised him for it.
She ran for the gate. Storrin was faster, seizing her cloak tails and yanking her down into the snow. Falling to her knees, Ash struggled with the ties at her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Snow crystals ground into her shins like powdered glass. Storrin held her cloak like a leash as he jabbed his blade into her back and yelled at her to stop fighting. Ash felt little pain. She was concentrating on loosing the ties and freeing Storrin’s stranglehold on her throat.
The gate juddered to life almost directly above her, fresh gobs of snow dislodging from its spikes as it dropped. Ash’s hands felt big and clumsy as she clawed at her neck. Why won’t the damn thing come undone?
Storrin yanked hard on her cloak, making Ash slide backward in the snow. A moment was lost to blackness as she fought to regain her footing and stand. Jab! Jab! Storrin poked his blade into her ribs.
“Stop fighting me, bitch!”
Ash’s mouth flooded with something that had to be blood. Her head felt heavy and swollen, and suddenly there was no room for her thoughts.
Reach! Reach!
Voices hissed through her mind like scalding steam. The pressure was unbearable, forcing blood and heat to her face.
Another yank on the cloak. “Get back here.”
REACH!
Ash reached. With numb, frozen fingers, she reached into the taut hollow of her throat and tore at the cloak. The fastening broke. Hot blood rained down her neck, steaming in the freezing air. Gasping and shaking, she took a diving man’s breath. Stumbling forward, she dug the toe of her boot into the snow. Storrin was at her back, still pulling on her cloak tails. It took him a moment to realize she was no longer attached.
The second was all Ash needed. Forcing strength into legs that felt col
d and oddly numb, she hauled herself to her feet. And ran.
The gate was two-thirds of the way down. As Ash fell under its shadow, she heard a high-pitched wail crack the air. All the chains rattled, and gears and pulleys began to spin out of control. The gate dropped. Ash screamed. Storrin reached.
Two tons of black iron smashed to the earth. A soft gurgle sounded, like water forced from a pipe. Ash felt air and snow and something else spatter against her back. She was on the outside. Outside!
Behind her, she heard the gatehouse door blast open and Grod cry out to the Maker. Strange. He didn’t sound angry. He sounded scared.
Ash glanced back. Storrin was under the gate. An iron spike had entered his spine. His legs were jerking, the muscles contracting and relaxing so it looked as if he were performing an obscene dance in the snow. Blood from the impact had sprayed all the way to her feet.
Ash swayed and nearly fell. Turning, she ran into the night.
FIFTEEN
Within Mask Fortress
She escaped through the stable gate. Grod watched her run east. By the time he’d raised the gate and called for aid she was gone. Lost in the Slaining Night crowds.”
“And the other man . . . What was his name again?”
“Storrin.” Marafice Eye spat the word, clearly displeased that Iss had already forgotten the man’s name. “He’s dead. It wasn’t the falling of the gate that killed him, but the raising.”
Iss nodded, interested despite all he had on his mind. “Yes. I’ve seen things like that before. As long as a man isn’t moved and the spikes stay in place, he lives. The moment one tries to free him, the internal organs tear apart and the lungs flood with blood. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. You have saved the body?”