by J. V. Jones
Through a curtain of twice fallen snow, he saw the girl rise to her feet. Her dress was torn to the waist, and her breasts were bare. Her hair blew around her face, rippling as if each strand moved through water, not air. Gray eyes took in the cleared ground surrounding her, then the flopping, leaking bodies of the sept. Her lips came together. Her right hand began to shake, but she quickly gave it purpose, using it to pull at the tattered shreds of her bodice. Veys noticed the poppy blood bruises under her eyes as she turned to look his way.
If she saw him in the shadows of the overhang, she did not show it. She took a few steps his way, but only to reach for the goat’s-hair blanket that he had dropped earlier. Hands shaking no longer, she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and turned her back on Veys.
On the far side of the campground someone groaned.
Asarhia March stiffened. Veys thought she might turn and heed the cry, but she didn’t, simply continued walking away from the campground in the direction of the hobbled horses.
Sarga Veys waited as quietly and silently as he knew how. The memory of the darkness he had seen eclipsed the pain of his chest and foot. It had called to him as surely as if it had spoken his name out loud.
A small movement against his foot made him realize that Hood was still alive. Hearing the muffled sound of a horse’s hooves heading north, Veys pulled his foot free. “Hood?” he hissed. “Hood?”
Hood gurgled.
It took Veys several minutes to locate the man’s knife. The tip of a broken rib pressing against his lungs made Veys wary of quick movements. To add to his difficulties, Hood had fallen awkwardly on his side, and his body had to be levered before Veys could gain access to his equipment belt and knife. Hood’s tunic had ridden up, and his bare belly was in contact with icy ground. Already the rolls of flesh hanging from his gut had taken on the yellowy gray stiffness of frozen flesh.
Veys found nothing to be concerned with as he raised the knife to Hood’s throat.
Frostbite was not a problem for a corpse.
FORTY-THREE
Meetings
Gull Moler, owner and sole proprietor of Drover Jack’s tavern, was cleaning up the mess from last night’s fight. He had a good broom in his hands, but even the stiff shire horse bristles weren’t enough to scrub the dried-on vomit off the floor. Gull shook his head in exasperation. Fistfights were bad enough. But why was there always some damn fool who kicked someone else in the knackers? Guaranteed to make a man lose his supper, was a blow to the knacks. Right disrespectful to the owner of the establishment. Right disrespectful when that owner had to get down on his hands and knees and scrape rubbery, partially digested oatmeal off the floor.
It was all Desmi’s fault, of course. It usually was. If that daughter of his had one talent in life it was surely for starting fights. She was just too comely for her own good. Who would have guessed that she would have turned out to be a head turner, especially with her dear departed mother looking the way she did? Not that Pegratty Moler hadn’t been a good woman and an excellent wife. Heavens, no! She just wasn’t known for her beauty, that was all.
Feeling a small twinge of guilt, Gull put down the broom and headed for the stove. He needed a bucket of warm water for the floor and a dram or two of malt for his soul.
Drover Jack’s was a one-room tavern. Kitchen, beer cellar, dining tables, gaming tables, minstrel’s stoop, and great copper bath were all crammed into an area the size of a modest vegetable garden. It had occurred to Gull that he could in all honesty remove both the stoop and the bath and suffer no ill effects to his trade. Thirty leagues northeast of Ille Glaive as he was, in the shadow of the Bitter Hills, deep in the heart of ewe country, Drover Jack’s received few musicians stopping by to play for their supper. And those who did never showed an interest in performing from the stoop. Preferred to sit close to the stove, they did, or—even worse—walk among the customers while they were playing! Still, even in the face of this traitorous disinterest Gull couldn’t bring himself to part with the stoop. His was the only tavern in the Three Villages that had one.
Same with the bath. Drover Jack’s was strictly a tavern; it sold food, drink, and warmth. It did not sell beds for the night. Heavens, no! That was one trade Gull Moler did not want. Travelers. They were trouble, paid in foreign coin, spoke with accents Gull’s one good ear had trouble deciphering, and they always started fights. True, Three Village locals had been starting enough of their own ever since Desmi came into bloom, but that was beside the point. Locals were locals; they fought in ways Gull knew and understood. They never damaged the stove, the beer taps, or the proprietor. Travelers damaged everything in sight.
Which brought Gull to the copper bath. No one except Radrow Peel had used it in the fifteen years it had been sitting in the far corner below the hung meat and drying herbs. And even then he hadn’t bathed in it himself; he’d used it to thaw out a sheep. Even so, a copper bath was a copper bath, and Gull was inclined to keep it. Not only did it glow like a freshly struck penny, casting a warm, reflective light upon a corner that had once been dark, but it gave him boasting rights as well.
Drover Jack’s could warm-bathe a frostbitten limb, cold-bathe a fever, and sulfur-bathe anyone with sheep ticks, scrofula, or the ghones. Overcome with feelings of affection and pride, Gull crossed to the bath and patted its curled rim. His sharp proprietor’s eyes picked out telltale blue flecks around the lip. Gull Moler’s soft well-fed belly jiggled in consternation.
Rust!
Desmi had sworn she had polished it last week, yet Gull Moler knew a month’s worth of corrosion when he saw it. That girl was turning out to be nothing but trouble. The fights among her suitors he could stand, the girlish tantrums he could stand, but sloppy care of Drover Jack’s furnishings and fittings was where he, as owner-proprietor, drew the line. The girl needed to be talked to in the most serious terms. Her own good looks had turned her head!
“Desmi!” he called, raising his head toward the oak-and-plaster ceiling. “Come down here, daughter!”
No response. And it was already noon! Gull Moler looked from the ceiling to the bath. He could climb the steps and bring her down, but while he was doing that the tavern would not get opened, and the bath would not get scrubbed, and those hateful blue flecks would remain.
For Gull Moler it was an easy choice. From the back of his prized bloodwood serving counter, he took his basket of cloths, soft and coarse, fuller’s earth, pine wax, powdered pumice, white vinegar, and lye. He loved and honored his daughter, but he treasured his bath.
He did not hear the woman enter. He was kneeling on the dark oak-plank floor, his attention given wholly to the task of removing the rust from the bath, when a voice said:
“Milk steeped in phosphorus would do the job better, and a few drops of tung oil rubbed into the surface when you’re done will stop the rust from coming back.”
Gull Moler turned his head and looked into the face of a short, no, average-size, woman of an age he guessed to be about thirty. His first reaction was one of disappointment. From the golden loveliness of her voice he had expected someone extraordinary. Yet the woman was plain of hair and face and clad in a shapeless dress of dove gray.
“I’m sorry if I distracted you,” she said. “The door was open, so I let myself in.”
Gull Moler looked at the door. Surely he hadn’t pulled the latches yet?
“I thought of knocking, but then I said to myself, What if a man, an owner-proprietor, is at work inside here? What right have I to pull him from his tasks?”
Gull Moler put down his soft cloth and smoothed his collar, all thoughts of latches forgotten. He stood upright. “Such consideration does you credit, miss.”
The woman, whose hair he had first thought dark and graying but now saw was a delicate shade of ash brown, nodded in a polite way. “Thank you, sir. And it’s not miss, by the way, it’s madam. I’m a widow.”
“Oh. I am sorry to hear that, madam. Can I offer you a dram of malt?”
“I never drink.”
Gull Moler began to frown. Experience told him never to trust abstainers.
“Anything stronger than fortified wine.”
Gull’s frown turned itself into a nod of approval. Such moderation was fitting in a widow woman.
When he returned from the counter bearing two cups of strong red wine on a limewood tray, he was greeted by the sight of the woman crouched on her hands and knees, polishing the copper bath to a glorious sheen.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, continuing to buff the metal with a wrist action so smooth and firm that, watching her, Gull felt a guilty blush of sexual excitement. “But it seems to me that a busy and important owner-proprietor such as yourself must have plenty more pressing things to do than spend his time scrubbing blue rust from a copper bath.”
“My daughter normally tends the polishing, but—”
“She’s reached the age when she’d rather tend herself than the tavern.”
Gull sighed. “Exactly.”
The woman’s eyes darkened. Gull could not tell what color they were, just that they darkened. “What you need is someone to work for you a few days a week. Take the strain off you and your daughter. A young girl can hardly be blamed for acting like a young girl, can she? And an owner-proprietor such as yourself should be concentrating on the higher points of his business.”
Gull nodded as she spoke. He wasn’t sure that a tavern like Drover Jack’s had any higher points of business, but that didn’t stop him from agreeing with her all the same.
“And a little help at the tables at night would save both your and your daughter’s feet.”
Suddenly catching the real meaning of the conversation, Gull laid the tray down on the nearest table. For some reason he felt as if he’d been duped. “I couldn’t take you on, madam. It’s just been me and my daughter since my wife died. I couldn’t afford to pay another set of hands. The business doesn’t warrant it.”
The woman dipped her head in disappointment. “I’ve heard such good things about Drover Jack’s. And now that I’ve come here and seen for myself this beautiful copper bath and the fine minstrel’s stoop . . .” Abruptly the woman laid down the polishing cloth and stood. “Well, I’d best be on my way.”
Gull looked from the woman to the copper bath. The metal shone more brightly than the day Rees Tanlow had brought it on his cart from Ille Glaive. Even the reliefwork around the hand rings had been scraped clean of all the gummy remainders of previous waxes and polishes. Gull glanced at the ceiling. Desmi was becoming a problem—just look at last night: Burdale Ruff had kicked Clyve Wheat in the knackers because he’d thought Clyve was looking at Desmi the wrong way.
Gull’s glance came to rest upon the woman once more. She was plain enough to inspire no fights, yet not so ugly as to send customers away. And she did look so very honest and hardworking. “I’ll pay you five coppers a week.” It was a pitifully small amount, so small that Gull felt his cheeks color as he said it.
“Done.” The woman, who he had first thought was of short or medium height, suddenly looked tall. “I’ll get to work on those tabletops; whoever cleaned them last used too much wax. Then I’ll pin on my apron, ready to serve the midday trade. Your customers come from all over the Three Village area, don’t they?”
Gull nodded. “Yes, madam.”
“Good.” The woman smiled, displaying teeth devoid of saliva. “It wouldn’t be fitting for you to call me madam anymore. I’m Maggy. Maggy Sea.”
Ash rode north, then northwest. When she came to the banks of the Wolf River, she forced the horse into the black icy water and made him swim it. The horse was a shaggy gelding with thick legs and ears like a mule, and he had no love of moving water. Ash hardly cared. If she’d had a crop, she would have whipped him. She could not allow herself to stop and think. Stop and she might turn and ride back to the pass and take a count of the men she had killed. Think and she might slide her feet from the stirrups, push herself out of the saddle, and let the river’s dark currents take her to hell.
As it was, horse and rider were buoyed by the thick black water, carried a league downstream by its force. Ash let her hand trail upon the surface as the gelding swam beneath her, watching grease and light ripple along her fingers like strange gloves. Her dress floated around her, growing ever and ever darker as it soaked up the substance of the river. Strangely, she wasn’t cold. Perhaps she should be . . . but then she should be feeling a lot of things, yet she was feeling nothing at all.
When she reached the north bank, Ash dismounted and took the wet saddle from the horse. The gelding shook itself, thrashing its mane against its neck and kicking its hind legs into the air. Ash looked at the sky. The storm had long passed, and a late day sun sent shadows stretching for leagues. Even the wind had stilled itself, and all was quiet except for the sound of rotten ice cracking on distant ponds.
The terrain north of the river was hard. Upstream, Ash saw oaks and green meadows, apple groves and dark tilled earth. Downstream, where she was headed, lay a landscape of conifers and trap rock, spawning ponds and spider moss. On the northwest horizon, Ash saw the red and green needle foliage of resin pines, trees that held on to their seeds for a lifetime, waiting until forest fire or death to bear their young. On the southwest horizon, if she looked back, she could see the dark green finger of the Ganmiddich Tower. Night-dark smoke, the kind that was released from burning pitch and petrified wood, poured from the topmost chamber.
Blackhail. Ash had known that from the moment she had first turned the mule-eared horse north and ridden from the camp. There were few places from which the tower could not be seen and nowhere to hide from the smoke. The red fire of Bludd had been snuffed, and now a smokestack smoldered in its place. No flames burned black, so the Hailsmen had chosen to send their message in smoke instead.
Ash wasn’t sure what the taking of Ganmiddich would mean to Raif. Almost it didn’t concern her. Raif had already left, that she knew, and he was somewhere west waiting to meet her. She did not question where the knowledge came from. She was a Reach. Raif had sworn to see her safely to the Cavern of Black Ice, and they were bound by that promise and the touch they had shared outside Vaingate.
She remembered calling his name while . . . while hands were touching her and everything was foggy and she couldn’t think, and her arms had been so hard to move, like lead, and she’d heard someone say, If she’s waking, it’ll make better sport. Ash stiffened. She thought she had called Raif’s name out loud, but somehow her lips wouldn’t open and her tongue wouldn’t move, and the cry had sounded inside instead. Then she’d opened her eyes and seen the face of the man kneeling above her, his breath coming all ragged and short, his eyes . . . his eyes . . .
Ash swallowed. She wouldn’t think about that now. Wouldn’t.
Holding the dripping saddle against her side, she led the horse downstream. The light faded slowly, over hours, and the first stars came out even before the sun had fully set. The moon shone behind her, pale and not quite full. The land surrounding the river became flatter the farther west she traveled, and from time to time she spied the square outlines of farm buildings amid the trees and freshly stamped hoofprints in the snow. Ash found herself little concerned about the possibility of being spotted by outlying clansmen or drovers. She didn’t know if it was weariness or a sense of her own power that made her unafraid. Who could harm her now? Who dared?
Ash stiffened her back as she walked. They would be able to track her now, magic users, Sarga Veys, anyone else her foster father sent to fetch her. Yet next time when they came they would be wary, prepared. Suddenly she wished very much that she had demanded more answers from Heritas Cant. She knew nothing about her own power, couldn’t even guess what she had done. Killed men, said a small voice inside her. Killed them with only a thought.
Raif saw her before she saw him. Slowly, over the course of an hour, she had worked her way around a dammed lake that bulged from the river like something a
bout to burst. Now, as she returned to the main body of water, she became aware that she was drawing close to him. Gooseflesh puckered along her arms, and for the first time since she’d left the camp at dawn she felt the cold. Her stomach ached with anticipation. As she scanned the water’s edge, hoping to catch sight of him in the reflected surface light, she heard her name spoken out loud. Turning her head in the direction of the sound, she saw a dark silhouette emerge from a stand of resin pines fifty paces ahead of her to the north. For an instant she was afraid. The figure was tall, distorted, the darkest object in sight. She pulled back minutely, drawing closer to the horse for reassurance.
The figure raised his hands from his side. “Ash. It’s me. Raif.” Fear fled as she saw his face. Her chest tightened. The saddle slid from her grip, hitting the ground with a soft crunch. What have they done to him? All the quiet strength that she had filled herself with during the ride evaporated, and a wave of exhaustion made her legs shake like straw as she ran through the snow to reach him.
Raif was silent as he pressed her against his chest. He smelled like ice. Hard nubs of scarred flesh on his neck and hands scraped her cheeks, and tiny flecks of desiccated blood sifted from his hair to hers. His body was so cold. Ash had to stop herself from shivering.
He pulled away first, keeping both hands on her shoulders while he studied her. Ash saw then the leanness of his face and chest, the lack of spare fat or tissue on his body. He looked older, but something more than older as well. The raven lore at his throat glinted blue black in the moonlight . . . it was the only thing on him that looked new made.
Dark eyes searched her face. After a long moment he said, “Let’s find some shelter.”
His voice was weary but gentle. Ash wondered what had happened at the Inch yet dared not ask.
He went back for the horse and the saddle. Watching him, seeing how thin he was, how he moved like a wraith by the water’s edge, Ash felt the slow burn of anger in her chest. She could kill the men who had done this to him, gladly and without regret.