A Cavern Of Black Ice (Book 1)

by J. V. Jones

  Why then did Gull feel an itch of unease as he took the warm towels from the kettle and turned to face the tavern once more?

  She was so quiet; that was the thing. The words she had spoken just now to Clyve Wheat and Silas Craw were the most she’d said all night. And then there was the queer business of her appearance. Fancy Clyve Wheat calling her a girl! Why, she was at least as old as Clyve Wheat’s mother and very probably older than Gull himself. Or was she? It was so very hard to tell.

  Her plain face inspired no male admirers, but her skill at hearth and beer keg was becoming something of a local myth. It was already drawing patrons from the Ewe’s Feet. Good ones, mind. Men with trades. The kind who brought their wives and elder daughters with them and always paid in coin there and then.

  Gull Moler only had to look around his tavern to see the way things were changing for the better. Maggy was a treasure. Just tonight she’d stopped a fight that had threatened not only his tables and chairs, but his own good health as well. And looking down upon the puddles of spilled ale, Gull saw that it was yellow-oat: the least expensive brew that Drover Jack’s offered. Unease forgotten, Gull congratulated his own good luck. Maggy Sea even spilled ale with good sense!

  As he handed over warm towels to Clyve Wheat and Silas Craw, he noticed that Maggy was speaking to a patron who had just walked through the door. The fact that it was clearly Maggy who was doing the talking, not the newcomer, took Gull by surprise. A small twinge of possessiveness bent muscles in his chest as he watched Maggy’s lip graze the newcomer’s ear.

  A hand came down upon Gull’s shoulder with considerable force. “Gull! Friends, eh? I canna say what came over me, great fool that I am. I wouldna hit ye, ye know that. And if I had, I surely would’ve missed.” Burdale Ruff stepped into Gull’s line of vision, grinning like a charming and very naughty child. He pressed coins into Gull’s hand. “For beer lost, my friend. Better that than friendship, eh?”

  Gull pulled himself together. Burdale Ruff was a troublemaker, yet where he drank all the other ewemen in the Three Villages drank, too. Gull made a show of refusing the coins but ultimately accepted them: When a man offered you a gift it was an insult not to accept it. Gull knew this. He also knew that Burdale Ruff would have hit him and would not have missed. Yet he was owner-proprietor of Drover Jack’s and as such could afford to bear no grudges. He made an effort. “Aye, Bear. You’re a good man to think of my loss. Step over to the counter wi’ me and let’s share a dram of malt.” The malt would cost him more than Burdale Ruff’s coins, but that was the way of things in tavern life.

  Only when he had filled two wooden thumb-cups with liquor did he remember Maggy and the man she had been speaking with. He glanced toward the door. The man was sitting with a crew. Now that his face was better situated to catch light, Gull recognized him as one of the patrons newly come from the Ewe’s Feet. Thurlo Pike. Tradesman. A roofer, if Gull remembered rightly, one with fat pockets and a mouth to match. Gull struck cups with Burdale Ruff. Thurlo Pike was speaking with another of the Ewe’s Feet crew, laughing loudly at a jest of his own making.

  “That Thurlo Pike’s in for a good season,” Burdale Ruff said, following Gull’s gaze.

  Gull finished his malt before striking an expression of mild interest. “How’s that, Bear?”

  “Roofer, ain’t he? What with the winds and late thaws we’ve been having around here, he’ll be lining his pockets with master’s gold. Near everyone’s roof is rotted or missing tiles. Take me own roof—leaks like a woman on the rag. ’Cording to Silas, Thurlo’s the only roofer in the Three Villages who has a ladder tall enough to reach anything higher than an outhouse. And he’s known for his tools. When his mother died and left him four gold pieces, he buried the poor woman in an apple crate and spent the money saved on a good set of hand chisels and a lathe. Never looked back since. ’Cept to watch for his mother’s vengeful spirit, o’ course.”

  Smiling in appreciation of the jest, Gull sat and waited for Burdale to finish his measure of malt. Idle tavern talk was exchanged, and much nodding and agreement passed between the two. Then, when Gull judged the mutual show of goodwill sufficient, he poured Burdale a second dram of malt and bade him sit and savor it while he rose and tended to business.

  Burdale surprised Gull by catching his arm for the second time that night. “You’re a good man, Gull Moler. And you run a good tavern. If I ever take a strike at you again, may the door of the dark house come tumbling down and the wralls ride out and take me.”

  Gull felt ice slide down his spine. Burdale’s words were old ones, said by people of the Three Villages for generations. Gull did not know where they came from or what they meant, but to hear them sworn in oath in his tavern made him afraid. Words had power, everyone knew that, and once something was spoken it could not be unsaid.

  It cost Gull much to hold his smile as he disengaged his arm from Burdale’s grip. The malt rested as uneasy as sour vinegar upon his stomach, and even the knowledge that Burdale Ruff and his crew were more closely to bound to Drover Jack’s than ever before did little to repair his spirits.

  When he came upon Maggy Sea by the soup kettle, where she was skimming the fat, he spoke more harshly than was his wont. “Maggy. Run upstairs and fetch me my wool coat. It’s passing cold in here tonight.”

  Maggy Sea regarded him with eyes that might have been green or gray. With fingers that were never dirty despite the hard nature of her work, she rubbed the faintest sheen of sweat from her brow. Gull felt his cheeks color. Yet even though her actions demonstrated the warmth of the kitchen area, she simply nodded and said, “Aye. ’Tis a bite cold near the door.”

  Where Thurlo Pike is sitting, added Gull to himself with a second guilty flush. He looked up, half expecting Maggy Sea’s knowing gaze to be resting on the Ewe’s Feet roofer, but she had already turned for the stairs. Gull felt a tiny bit of relief. He did not like deception and knew quite well he was not good at it, yet his position as owner-proprietor often called for small lies. A man could not manage thirty-six drunken patrons on truth alone. Still. This was different. Gull knew that, yet it did not stop him from hastening toward Thurlo Pike the moment Maggy Sea’s small neatly shod feet disappeared from view.

  “Gentlemen! May I take the liberty of welcoming you to Drover Jack’s on this bleak and stormy night.” As Gull spoke, the small crew of Ewe’s Feet regulars ceased speaking among themselves and turned to look at him. Gull smiled warmly and then continued. “I’m Gull Moler, owner-proprietor of this humble establishment, and if there’s anything I can do to increase your comfort or your bellies’ girth, speak up and let me know.”

  Thurlo Pike leaned back in his chair. “Aye! You can tell us where Drover Jack is!” A hard burst of laughter united the Ewe’s Feet crew. Thurlo Pike, who was dressed in expensive fabric cheaply dyed and wore a beaver collar to warm his red and pimpled neck, smirked in satisfaction at his own wit.

  Gull was well used to such teasing about the name of his establishment, yet for some reason he found it difficult to retain his normal good humor. “There never was a Drover Jack, gentlemen. ’Tis but a name my late departed wife picked on account of its favorable sound.” Back in the days when me and Peg still hoped of having a son and dreamed of naming the two the same.

  Thurlo Pike sucked air until his cheeks hollowed. “Let me get this settled. Your name’s not Jack, and no offense, friend, but you look too well fed to be a drover. So what you’re really saying is that there’s no truth to the sign above your door.” One of the Ewe’s Feet crew snickered. Thurlo polished his fingernails on his beaver collar as he delivered his final sting. “How then can we be sure that when we ask for best dark stout we’re getting it? And not last night’s slops instead.”

  Gull had to force his teeth together to stop himself from crying, “Outside!” Jests about his tavern’s name he could stand. Comments about his girth were something that pained him less with each passing year. But when someone brought into question his integ
rity as owner-proprietor of Drover Jack’s, it was like a dagger in his heart. He was not by nature a violent man, but for an instant he entertained the wild image of smashing Thurlo Pike in the teeth. Drover Jack’s was an honest tavern, where a man could purchase an honest beer and an honest supper and take warmth from the hearth for free. And its owner-proprietor had never topped a barrel in his life. Now this roofer from the Ewe’s Feet was sitting before him, as cocky as a trapper with a mink in his snare, suggesting just that.

  Gull cleared his throat. “I’d never take it upon myself to thatch a roof, Thurlo Pike, and unless you fancy stoking my fire and cleaning my taps, then I suggest you leave the business of tavernkeeping to me.”

  A murmur of approval rose from the Ewe’s Feet crew. The crew-man who had snickered moments earlier—a small but muscular apprentice potter named Slip—said, “Aye, Thurlo. The man has the right of it.”

  Thurlo Pike said nothing. Gull watched as he finished his ale with slow insolence, wiped the foam from his lips, then stood. “I think I’ll be heading back to the Ewe’s Feet. At least there a man’s free to make a jest without worry that the help may take offense.” With that, he flicked over his pewter tankard, sending it rolling across the table toward Gull, and stalked out the door.

  Gull stood and suffered the blast of wind and snow that accompanied the man’s exit. What was wrong with him tonight? In less time than it took to bake a loaf of bread he’d nearly talked himself into two separate fights. It was all very upsetting. Very upsetting indeed. As a reflex action, Gull righted the upturned tankard and wiped away the spilled droplets with his sleeve.

  “Don’t mind him,” said the apprentice potter, wagging his head toward the door. “He’s not much loved wherever he goes. Dorri May over at the Ewe’s Feet won’t be thanking you for sending him back. Thought she’d got rid of him for the night, she did.”

  Gull made a noise.

  “Besides, you wouldn’t want him getting too friendly with your new girl. What with her being so highly spoke of and all. He’d only bring trouble to you both.”

  “Oh.”

  “Aye. Thurlo’s got his eye on her all right. Boasting away, he was. Telling her how he’s working all the local roofs, making enough money to buy himself a horse and cart. He mentioned one job up near the oldgrowth forest, you know, on the far side of Buck Stream. Said there’s a house full of women up there. Last week’s storms pulled part of their chimney down, and Thurlo’s planning on making them pay through the nose, what with them being women and all.”

  Gull found his wits. “And Maggy was interested in this?”

  The apprentice potter shrugged. Particles of clay dust sifted from his sleeves onto the table. “With women who can tell? I think she only asked the family’s name out of politeness.”

  It was tavern talk then—a man bragging and a woman listening—the kind of thing that Gull Moler saw and heard every day of his life. He should have felt better for knowing it, but the memory of Maggy Sea’s dry flinty teeth near Thurlo Pike’s ear disturbed him in a way he had no words for. Gull suddenly wished the night were over. He was tired, and his legs felt shaky beneath him. He put a hand on the table to steady himself. Even now he found himself unable to set aside his owner-proprietor obligation of providing congenial conversation. A man, a patron, sat before him, having just said something that required a reply. Gull searched for a way to turn the conversation away from Maggy Sea. “And who might this family who lives in the woods be?”

  The apprentice potter ran a gray and powdery hand across the table, wiping away his own dust. “I don’t think Thurlo knew. To be honest, I think it upset him that Maggy asked a question he had no answer for—you know how some men are. Should have seen his chest get all bloated up as he tried to tell her something else of interest instead. To listen to him tell it, the womenfolk who work the farm are all of passing beauty, and with the husband away for the season on a whaler, the wife and eldest daughter are desperate for a man.”

  Gull’s expression let the apprentice potter know what he thought of that. Reaching beyond the man, he collected more tankards in readiness to withdraw. “Well. Houseful of women or not, Thurlo Pike will be hard put to practice his trade in this weather. Burdale Ruff reckons the storms won’t clear for a week.”

  “Aye. Well, that won’t bother Thurlo. He told the women he was full pressed for the next five days. It’s one of his tricks . . . makes himself seem busier and more in demand than he actually is. You know how these things go: For an extra silver piece I’ll fit you in between jobs.”

  Gull frowned. And this from the same man who had dared question the honesty of Drover Jack’s! Moving away from the table, he raised his voice to address all the remaining Ewe’s Feet crew. “Well, I’ll be off now to tend the stove. Can’t risk it burning out on a night like this. Nay, gentlemen. Keep your seats. I’ll send Maggy with a round.” Gull glanced at the empty cups in his hands, his expert eyes discerning the exact quality of ales drunk from the scum of froth around each rim. He made a quick calculation. “On the house.”

  That ensured him a fond farewell. It was such a relief to have patrons feeling nothing but goodwill toward him that Gull almost didn’t care about the cost. Besides, only one of them had been drinking his best stout.

  “Gull.”

  Gull turned and came face-to-face with Maggy Sea. She was so close, he could smell her. She smelled of ice and stone and other hard things.

  “Your coat.”

  “Oh. Yes. Thank you, Maggy.” For some reason Gull found himself fumbling. Maggy Sea was just so . . . intense. That was the word. Her eyes seemed to focus more deeply than most, and she possessed no capacity for gaiety or humor. She smiled when conversation called for it, yet Gull had never heard her laugh.

  Her deeply set eyes never left him for a moment as she handed over the coat. The material was as cool as if it had not been handled, merely picked straight up from the floor. “Should I see to the fire?” she asked, her teeth making little biting actions as she spoke.

  Gull collected himself. “No, Maggy. See to the Ewe’s Feet crew over there. I’ve promised them a round on the house.”

  Maggy Sea nodded. “Gull, I’d like half a day to myself next week. I need to go to market and purchase some good winter boots. I should be back in time for the evening trade.” Teeth, dry as fingernails, flashed in the firelight. “I’ll expect my wages to be duly docked.”

  So put, Gull Moler had no choice but to consent.

  FORTY-NINE

  Ice Wolves

  The mule-eared horse collapsed on the fifth day. Without a sharp knife or a stout length of rope, it was not going to be easy to destroy it. Freezing winds blasted Raif’s face as he stroked the animal’s neck. The high mountain valley they had come to was choked with compacted ridges of ice. It was not a glacier, for the field was not deep or old enough to be named so, but the creak and rumble of grinding ice filled the air. Directly below, the Wolf River ran slow and narrow beneath a partially frozen crust. The sheets of ice floating upon its surface were as black as night, smoothed to glass by the continuous movements of river currents and wind. Overhead, the sky was white with suspended snow.

  Raif met eyes with Ash. She sat with her body pressed against the gelding’s naked belly, sharing what little warmth she had with the dying horse. The journey through the mountains had visibly weakened her, and she could not hold Raif’s gaze for long without dropping her head and looking down. Raif searched his mind for some new way to help her, to keep her warm and protected and out of reach of the voices that hounded her. Yet there was nothing to do but deliver her swiftly to the Cavern of Black Ice.

  Abruptly he bit on the tip of his mitt to remove it and then pulled the elkhide belt from his waist. With a twist of his wrist he tied a hard knot beneath the velvety flesh of the animal’s chin, binding its jaw closed. The old horse jerked its head in protest, but the frozen snow beneath its flank was leeching away its will to fight, and it did not strain for long.
Raif filled his fist with snow and began packing it around the gelding’s nose. Gradually, over the course of many minutes, he blocked the creature’s nostrils, running his scarred hands over the snow until meltwater glistened on the surface. Within seconds it hard-froze to ice.

  The effort of drawing air through the ice pack proved too great for the failing horse, and it died within the quarter. Raif watched its huge dark eye turn dull and gelid, then rose to fetch his knife from his pack.

  As his hand closed around the limewood hilt, he heard Ash’s boots crunching snow at his back. “No, Raif. Don’t butcher him. Not with that dull knife. Not like that.”

  Raif turned to face her. “Look away. I have not made a kill in three days. We have no food save for a few berries and a scrap of smoked meat.”

  “Please.” The light in Ash’s eyes wavered as she spoke, and for a moment he was reminded sharply of the dying horse.

  Relaxing muscles in his hand, he let the knife drop. He had not intended to butcher the horse—his blade was not keen enough for that—but he had wanted to bleed the animal while it was still warm and collect its blood in a skin. Horse blood was rich in goodness and fat.

  “Let’s just leave him here. He was a good horse.” Ash made a small motion with her hand. “It wouldn’t be right to open him.”

  No, he thought. We’ll leave the wolves to do that. Aloud he said, “We should be moving on. It’ll be dark soon. I want to camp by the river tonight.”

  She looked at him for a moment, trying to decide if there was anger in his voice, then nodded slowly. “I’ll fetch the blankets from the horse.”