Winter of Ice and Iron

by Rachel Neumeier

  Gereth shut his eyes and sighed. This sort of errand was difficult enough without adding trivial annoyances.

  A moment later, the lieutenant in charge of his escort cautiously opened the door on what had become the lower side of the carriage and peered in. “Sir,” he muttered. “The driver hit a hole, sir, begging your pardon. These damn cobbles get worse every winter. The whole street needs to be reset and sanded, but the wheel, it must’ve been cracked already, I guess. You all right?”

  “Merely a little startled,” Gereth assured him. “Better now than a moment when His Grace was within.” He began moving, slowly, to extricate himself from the interior of the carriage.

  “Fortunate Gods forfend!” said the lieutenant—Nikas, a responsible man, not one to be flustered by minor disasters. He offered Gereth a hand, but added, “The wind’s wicked, sir, and I don’t see anyplace comfortable to wait. You might want to just stay inside there till the driver brings down another wheel. Or maybe another carriage; that might be faster. Or do you want I should get somebody along here to loan you a carriage?”

  “No. The driver had better go fetch another of His Grace’s carriages,” Gereth told him, a little distractedly. “I don’t want to hear what His Grace would say to me if I went about his business in a borrowed conveyance.”

  “Sir,” said Nikas, which was as close as he could come to agreeing without skirting dangerously near impudence.

  Gereth nearly smiled, but then his amusement ebbed. He feared Innisth had pressed himself far too near the razor edge he rode with the brutal Eänetén Power. That was too often the young duke’s way: to refuse to notice his own limitations until he was perilously close to going beyond them. He thought he should be able to endure anything, and while he had indeed been trained in endurance, anything was a bit beyond mortal reach.

  With the lieutenant’s assistance, Gereth clambered down from the tilted carriage, standing with one hand braced against the ornamented door as he considered the street. It was deserted at the moment, save for the half dozen men of his escort, all of them looking at the moment thoroughly disgusted with this turn of events. This wasn’t a much-trafficked area at the best of times: all guild offices and such, with just a scattering of townhouses. Earlier in the morning the servants would have been out; later in the afternoon men of rank would pay calls on one another to deal with matters of business, but at this particular hour, few folk of any degree would find reason to brave the weather. Though there was one other carriage: the heavy, plain sort hired by the moderately well-to-do, pulled up before an establishment a little way down the street. The sign above the door showed a black rose, a single drop of blood clinging to one petal. Gereth made a slight face and looked away.

  Then he thought again. “It might be good fortune that caused the accident to happen just here,” he told Nikas. “I intended to visit the magistrates, but . . . this may do. Perhaps I shall be able to complete His Grace’s errand even before the other carriage arrives.”

  “That’d be good, sir,” Nikas answered distractedly, keeping an eye on the driver, who had moved to the horses’ heads, murmuring to them as he fussed with their harness.

  The horses were both gray geldings, His Grace favoring black and gray animals for his personal use. One was younger and darker and more heavily dappled than the other, but otherwise they were well-matched beasts, with handsome heads and sloping shoulders and powerful quarters. The driver rearranged the harness of the darker and clambered from the driver’s seat of the carriage to its back, gathered up its reins and the trailing reins of the other horse, and started off with a clatter.

  The low sky began to spit a nasty mix of freezing rain and sleet. Gereth squinted up at the clouds and sighed.

  “It’s not a pleasant day and that’s a fact,” Nikas agreed.

  Gereth nodded, gathering his nerve against anticipated unpleasantness. “I believe I know just the door to knock on, Lieutenant, and we’ll get in out of the weather for at least a few minutes.” Beckoning to his escort, he headed down the street toward the Black Rose Guildhouse.

  This particular guildhouse was one of the older buildings in the town of Eäneté, and one of the grander on this street. The brick steps were wide, the porch generous, the door polished and inlaid with brass to form another rose image. The servant who answered the knock was a silent old man with a narrow-lipped mouth and unfriendly eyes. He looked first at Lieutenant Nikas and the other soldiers. Then his gaze flickered to Gereth’s face, and he stepped back and swung the door wide without a word.

  The hall Gereth entered was warm and welcoming, richly carpeted and well lit. A little way down the entry hall, a door stood half open, revealing light and voices. One of the voices was familiar: the light, smooth voice of Baraka Ris, one of the guildmasters who sometimes represented the Black Rose establishment to His Grace. The other, deeper and warmer, Gereth did not recognize. Nor did he care, but gestured to his escort to wait and headed that way, Lieutenant Nikas at his back, without waiting for the servant to announce him.

  Gereth had never actually set foot in this guildhouse before, nor wished to. The room he surveyed from the doorway was smaller and plainer than he had expected, looking much like his own office in the duke’s house, desk and straight-backed chairs and scrolls filed in a rack on one wall. But here the rose symbol of the house was picked out in black iron on the fireplace screen and inlaid in some dark wood on the surface of the desk.

  Baraka Ris had turned swiftly as Gereth came in, his hand falling to the knife sheathed at his hip. Then, recognizing the duke’s seneschal, his mouth tightened and he whipped his hand away from his knife. Though he gave the servant a sharp look, he said only, “Sir! What an unexpected honor! Pray explain how we may serve His Grace.”

  Gereth studied the guildmaster in silence for a moment. Then he considered the other two occupants of the room. One was a big man he didn’t know. Not Eänetén, or Gereth thought not. He had the feel of someone carrying a thin tie to some other Immanent Power. He had a bluff, friendly look that Gereth did not trust at all, considering the company he was keeping.

  The other, not at all to Gereth’s surprise, was a young woman. Hardly more than a girl to Gereth’s eyes. Pretty enough, though nothing out of the way. She was clearly frightened, which also was not a surprise; but she stood with her back straight and her chin up, and though her eyes were wide, she was not trembling. It was perfectly plain what had been going on here, at least in broad strokes. Gereth asked in a level tone, “Is this a private viewing, or is anyone allowed to bid?”

  The guildmaster hesitated for an instant. Then he said smoothly, “Of course there is no need for His Grace to bid. He need only make his wishes known, and of course the Black Rose House will be honored to serve. However, this girl has already been purchased by a . . . special client. I must ask His Grace to permit us to honor our prior contracts. We have no shortage of superior stock, as you know, sir, though of course not here at these offices. I would be delighted to arrange a viewing at any establishment you wish—or at His Grace’s house, if you prefer.”

  Gereth ignored all this, studying the girl. He could see that, like the man, she wasn’t Eänetén. But he thought she carried a quite different tie. Not Kimsè or Tisain . . . somewhere farther away and unfamiliar. Though he had no idea who she was, he was curious. And sorry for her, of course. And if the guildmaster didn’t want Gereth to take her, one had to wonder just why that might be.

  Also . . . all that aside, even though the duke might be annoyed, Gereth knew he couldn’t walk out of this room and this house and leave this girl to her fate. He said absently, “His Grace will naturally pay for any service done him by the Black Rose House.”

  The girl said, quickly and unexpectedly, before the guildmaster could answer, “Lord, I appeal to you! This man”—she gestured at the stranger—“contracted to guide me to this city, and now he is unlawfully attempting to sell me into slavery. I appeal to you for aid and protection.”

  �
�This girl is my lawful property,” the man protested, glaring at her. “I’m a licensed merchant, sir, and I’ve a proper bill of sale.” He picked up one scroll from among others on the cluttered desk, proffering it to Gereth. Guildmaster Ris twitched and half reached after the scroll, then caught Gereth’s eye and stopped dead.

  Gereth took the scroll, fastidiously avoiding brushing the man’s fingers. Unrolling it, he scanned the few lines and considered the stamp. The document did seem official. And yet the woman spoke so vehemently. He asked her, “Are you this man’s slave? I advise you to answer me truthfully.”

  “No, lord,” she declared at once. “I swear it. I am without friends here, and this man seeks to take advantage of my helplessness. Please, I appeal to you for protection.”

  “I am no lord,” Gereth told her, but gently. “And you appeal not to me, but to the Eänetén duke. You insist this document is forged?”

  “She’d say anything—” the slave dealer began. Gereth raised his eyebrows, and the guildmaster gripped the stranger’s arm with urgent force. The other man closed his mouth.

  The young woman glared at both of them and said quickly to Gereth, “Sir, it’s not just me. That bill of sale is one among many! He was arranging to buy free Eänetén girls from this man. It’s not right, sir, and I appeal to you and to His Grace.”

  Guildmaster Ris drew himself up in deep offense. “That accusation is entirely false—”

  Gereth lifted a hand to halt them both. “It is a very serious accusation, guildmaster. But of course His Grace will not act without determining the truth.” He added to Nikas, “His Grace will wish to question both these men, I’m sure.”

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Nikas said grimly, and leaned out the door to beckon to his men.

  Guildmaster Ris said reluctantly, “Sir, of course it will be just as you command. But I assure you, the Black Rose House has never participated in any such traffic! We are most strictly mindful of His Grace’s law, I promise you. If this man has forged bills of sale or trafficked in Eänetén folk, it is entirely without our knowledge.” He completely ignored the slave dealer’s sputtered protests.

  Gereth said, “Of course I’m sure that’s true,” without making any effort to disguise his skepticism. “And that being the case, I am sure you need not fear His Grace’s judgment, Guildmaster Ris.” Nodding to the young woman to follow, Gereth led her out of the room.

  “I am Gereth Murrel, the duke’s seneschal,” he told the woman, taking her elbow to steady her down the steps to the cobbled street. “I shall take you to the duke’s house, but you needn’t worry. There should not be any need for you to meet him at all, unless you’ve lied to me about your legal status.”

  The woman showed no sign of terror at the idea of venturing into the Wolf Duke’s house. She said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I told you the truth, sir. That man has no legal claim on me, and he told me he would get forged bills of sale from that man.” She added more slowly, sounding hesitant for the first time, “I hope . . . I wished to go through Roh Pass. Parren said he could bring me this far. If you are the duke’s seneschal, sir, then may I ask you for leave through the pass? I would be very grateful.”

  Gereth regarded her with some astonishment. Harivin? He might believe it; he truly thought he might; she did have that foreign feel to her, not unlike the feeling one occasionally experienced when dealing with Harivin merchants. But . . . He said aloud, “But what possibly brings you to Pohorir, then? How did you become stranded here without your lord or father or anyone to protect you?”

  The woman looked at him in some confusion. “It’s . . . complicated,” she said weakly.

  “Well, I shall look forward to hearing your complicated tale.” He expected she would probably lie, and didn’t mind that. For a Harivin girl on her way home, what could it matter who she was or how she’d gotten into such trouble? “Here’s my carriage,” he said, but looked it over doubtfully. He had not wanted to spend another moment in the Black Rose Guildhouse, and surely this young woman agreed, but the carriage was tilted at a most uncomfortable angle. Still, the cushions were good ones, and the leaping wolf picked out in silver on the door would certainly guarantee that no one importuned or annoyed a girl waiting within.

  He explained, although it was obvious, “The wheel’s broken—that’s the only reason I happened to stop just here. I meant to go on to, well, that can hardly matter now. When the wheel broke, I thought I might complete my errand here instead.” He smiled at her. “The Fortunate Gods must be personally watching over your steps, young woman.”

  The young woman nodded earnestly. “I think that might be so.”

  She sounded as though she thought this might be literally true. Well, perhaps it was. Gereth said kindly, “You can wait out of the wind, at least. Another carriage should be arriving very shortly. Can you manage the step? Good. Mind the tilt.”

  The carriage seat was luxuriously upholstered in blue and cream, and must surely be inviting to a young woman in need of protection. She allowed him to assist her, seated herself with care, and let out her breath in a long sigh. If she were afraid of Gereth, it didn’t show.

  “I hope I haven’t interrupted your errand, sir, or imposed on your work with this ridiculous situation,” she said politely once Gereth had joined her. Yes, polite, and also startlingly assured. Gereth did not permit himself to stare at her, but he knew this was not the manner of a common woman, nor of a slave woman, nor of any young woman who had been badly treated or who had learned to expect hard treatment. He was more and more certain that this was indeed a Harivin woman, and a woman of good family as well.

  “Not at all,” he assured her, keeping all these thoughts out of his voice. “Besides, it was the carriage wheel breaking that was the true interruption; your company for the wait fortunately makes it a pleasant interlude rather than an irritation.”

  “Allow me to thank you again, and ask, if I may—” But the young woman’s tentative request or question was interrupted by the clatter of hooves and the rattle of wheels as the new carriage arrived.

  Not an hour later, as they turned up the high road toward the duke’s house, Gereth watched his foundling’s eyes widen. The duke’s house was big. It lifted arrogantly above the city, snow whirling around its heavy towers. The mountains might as well have been set deliberately behind the house to serve as a backdrop, for they certainly showed it to best advantage. The house commanded the western approach to the province and the town, powerful and aloof.

  It proclaimed the duke’s wealth and taste as well. Pale oak formed the massive guarding walls of the Wolf Duke’s house, but fine-grained black wood had been set between the pale timbers in an abstract design like an embroidery pattern. The tall gates were forbidding, but also ornate, the iron worked into patterns suggesting fir trees and running wolves. As they approached, a cold wind rushed by them and flung out the long banner above the gates: argent, a gray wolf leaping, with eyes the color of beaten gold. The banner snapped in the wind, so that the wolf seemed to move and breathe, as though in the next moment it might leap out of the cloth and land before them in the snow.

  The gates swung open in good time, so that the carriage need not pause. The span of those gates was great enough to let more than one carriage pass through abreast, and the courtyard they entered was broad enough to hold thirty such carriages without crowding. The house itself was of pale stone and pale wood, oak and pine and ash. It towered, many-storied, so that the young woman peered up at it in astonishment.

  The driver drew up the carriage by the stables. A boy sprang forward at once to take the horses, and another hurried to open the door of the carriage and place steps on the damp stones to aid the passengers in alighting. The young woman stepped gravely down to the flagstones, moving with what Gereth was certain was trained grace, and turned to wait for him to join her.

  Descending, he gestured his guest toward the house. She walked at his side toward the broad door and entered without hesitation, the
n paused to look around the entrance hall with obvious curiosity. Though Gereth wanted to tuck her away somewhere unobtrusive before he reported to His Grace, he paused too.

  In the old duke’s time, the entry had been dark and forbidding. Now it was far more welcoming. The hangings that had once covered the high, narrow windows had been removed and the rugs taken up from the parquet floor, so that one might admire the many shades of wood worked into an intricate, repeated pattern. The walls were paneled now with pale wood, and the windows set with both clear and colored glass. The glass sent rainbows of refracted light slanting across the floor. The grim hunting scenes and scenes of battle had been replaced with large paintings, mostly landscapes of the city and the forested mountains in all their seasons.

  The young woman stopped by one such painting, and Gereth couldn’t help but catch his breath. No doubt it was meaningless chance she had chosen that particular painting, but he couldn’t help but wait to see her reaction. This one was taller than she was, framed on either side by a wide fall of midnight-blue draperies so long the cloth puddled on the floor. Set off by that dark frame, the painting stood out as vividly as though it were a window rather than paint and canvas. It showed the city as a bird, winging high above, might see it. The sky had been shown as a broken scape of leaden clouds, with brilliant beams of sunlight lancing through; in the painting, the play of light caught out the duke’s house while leaving the city below in shadow. The arrogant power of the house had been caught exactly. To one side of the painting, slanting in swift flight, went a lark. The little bird had been rendered in beautiful detail, darting across the heavy sky on a course that would, in the next instant, carry it out of view entirely.

  “What do you think of it?” Gereth asked at last.

  The young woman answered quietly, “I think the artist was more in sympathy with the bird than the walls. . . . I don’t think he loved this city. Or was it this house he did not love?”