A Cavern of Black Ice (26 page)

In the uncomfortable silence left, Raif
spat out the swearstone. Rubbing it dry against the fox fur of his
hood, he waited for Drey to take it from him. Normally Inigar Stoop
would transfer the stone from one clansman to another, yet Raif could
tell from the set of the guide's profile that he wanted no more to do
with this ceremony. To him it was already done.

All gathered were silent as Drey took
the small dark swearstone and slipped it into one of the many pouches
hanging from his waist. The ambush party was eager to be gone. Drey
reached out and cuffed Raif's shoulder. "You'd better hurry and
get your roll together for the ride…" He grinned.
"Clansman."

Raif nodded. He couldn't speak. As he
turned to enter the roundhouse, the raven began shrieking loudly.
Corpse! Corpse! Corpse
! Raif heard.

"Rider approaching!"
Velvet-cheeked Rory Gleet made the call.

Even as Raif swiveled around, Bailie
the Red brought his bow to his chest. The massive bowman bellowed for
all to get out of his way so he could be sure of a clear shot if
needed. Raif looked over the graze in the direction Rory Gleet
indicated. A white gelding walked across the snow, picking its steps
with enormous care, its back held artificially straight. Its rider
was slumped forward in the saddle. The man's chest and head were
resting against the horse's neck, and an arm trailed down over the
gelding's shoulder, gloved fingers still tangled in the reins.

A muscle in Raifs neck began to pump.
The gelding belonged to Shor Gormalin.

Slowly, over seconds that stretched
like minutes, Bailie slid his arrow from the string. Corbie Meese's
hammer thudded onto the ground, making a sound like a broken bell.
Inigar Stoop's lips started moving, and even though the wind was
still high and Raif couldn't hear what he said, he knew the Stone
Gods were being named for the second time that day.

The gelding, long necked and finely
cheeked, with large liquid eyes, slowly picked a path to the court.
Everything within him was focused upon just one thing: bringing his
rider home. One small misstep, one slight shake of his neck, and his
rider would slide from the saddle into the snow. Shor Gormalin was
dead. As the clansmen moved forward slowly, quietly, so as not to
startle the fine white horse, Shor's fair hair could clearly be seen.
Half the side of his head was blasted away by two fist-size quarrels
shot at close range. One of the arrow shafts had broken off, the
other jutted out from a mat of blood, tissue, and raised bone like
something growing from Shor's head.

Without a word passing between them,
the ambush party halted in a half circle and allowed the gelding to
finish his journey home. Respect was due to such a horse, and
twenty-nine men knew it. Shor had fallen slightly to the left, and
every muscle in the horse's neck and shoulders was taut with the
strain of holding his rider in place. Dried and partly frozen blood
streaked the gelding's mane pink and black. As horse and rider drew
close, Raif saw that Shor's small unpretentious halfsword still sat
firmly in its scabbard. The finest swordsman in the clan had not been
allowed chance to draw his weapon.

"
Cowlman
," whispered
someone, perhaps Corbie Meese.

The gelding came to a halt before the
clansmen, turned side-on, and then held his position, offering his
rider to the clan. Cloud. The horse's name came to Raif like a gift.
Shor had ridden him for eight years.

A soft tearing sound cut the air as the
raven chose that moment to fly away. Watcher of the Dead, thought
Raif with a dull stab of self-hatred. The raven had known all along.

A Fistful of Ice

Stomach cramps pumped in Ash's stomach
as she and Katia descended the stairs, heading toward the quad.
She was sick of feeling ill all the time, tired of being cooped
up in her chamber and tended day and night. She hated her dreams,
too. They came every night now.
Every night
. She couldn't
remember the last time she had closed her eyes and simply slept.
Couldn't recall when she'd last awakened in the morning feeling
rested. Instead she woke in the dead of night, in those dark
standstill hours where no one but thieves and nightwatchmen were
about, feeling as if she'd been running through the streets. Always
she awoke drained of strength and shaking. Sweat poured down her
neck, her heart beat like a mad thing in her chest, and the sheets
were twisted so tightly around her throat, they raised weals that
stayed for
hours
. Lately there had been bruises…

Ash shook her head. Put
that
thought aside.

"What's the matter, miss. Cold
already?"

"No. I mean yes. That's it. Cold,
just cold." Ash cursed herself. She sounded like such a fool.
"Hand me my gloves. Quick now."

Katia harrumphed. She might have said
something, only they were approaching the lower rotunda and armed men
dressed in the black leather cloaks of the Rive Watch, carrying blood
steel at their hips and across their backs, were walking through the
hallway on their way to the Red Forge. No one, not even a sulky maid
like Katia, liked to draw the Rive Watch's attention her way. The
sight of their blades alone could set maidens and goodwives fainting.
The red pigment fired into the steel of their longknives and
greatswords was said to come from a
mix
of mercury and human
blood.

Suddenly nervous, Ash snatched her
calfskin gloves from Katia and tugged them on with a great deal more
force than was necessary. Knuckles cracked. "It's not snowing,
is it?" she asked, stepping into the hallway. Perhaps a dozen or
so steps above her Marafice Eye, Protector General of Spire Vanis and
Lord of the Rive Watch, followed in her shadow like a terrible and
silent hound. It really was quite ridiculous. Didn't he have
something better to do? Ride down smugglers, burn thieves' hands
black, hack the fingers from prostitutes who were slow in paying
Protector's Trove?

"I
said
, it's cold and
dry outside."

Ash jumped at the sound of Katia's
raised voice. "I heard you the first time," she lied. Why
did she feel so weak? Why did every sharp sound and creaking
floorboard make her flinch?

Reaching the tall iron-gated door that
led from the Cask to the quadrangle, Ash tied the last few ribbons on
her cloak for good measure. Penthero Iss hadn't allowed her outside
in weeks, and the last time she had ridden in the enclosed space of
the quad was late autumn. Things had got a lot colder since then.
Bracing herself, she stepped over the threshold. An awful lot colder.

The stone-flagged quadrangle formed the
protected heart of Mask Fortress. Each of its points was occupied by
one of the four great towers, and its walls were formed by fortress
ramparts and great halls. The quad was long enough to race horses and
wide enough to raise lists and stage tourneys each spring. In summer
the grangelords held court here, and in the dark months leading to
winter Penthero Iss oversaw the trials of high traitors from the
obsidian ledge in front of the Bight.

A thin layer of snow covered the entire
quad. Bitter frosts over the past week had glaciated the topsnow,
making it crackle underfoot. Every time Ash took a step she felt as
if she were breaking something. Most of the quad was paved, but the
horse run along the outer wall had long since grown over with the
tough yellow grasses that lived on Mount Slain. Shaggy weeds peeked
through cracks in stonework, and oily green mosses coated flagstones
around the bases of three of the four towers. Nothing grew close to
the Splinter, not one spike of grass or cushion of moss. Nothing. The
ice-bound tower had foundations like the roots of a black
walnut, sending its poisons deep into the soil to kill anything that
grew and threatened to rob its light.

Ash shivered. However did such nonsense
get into her head? The ground soil was saturated, that was all. Too
much water running down the walls. Aware that her thoughts were
skirting dangerously close to the night she had stepped through the
iron-plated door and walked along the abandoned east wing, Ash said
the first thing that came into her head. "You don't have to walk
beside me as I ride, Katia. You can stay in the stables and keep
warm."

Katia grumbled something. Her dark
glossy hair was currently waging war with a woolen cap, and from the
looks of things the hair was winning. Great springy curls had
succeeded in tilting the cap at an angle guaranteed to catch a
passing updraft—one strong gust and it would be off. Ash
watched the maid out of the corner of her eye. Even in a temperature
cold enough to freeze the brine in the curing vats, Katia looked
beautiful. Her skin glowed like buttered toast, and her lips were fat
with blood. Ash knew her own cheeks and lips would be as pale and
bloodless as day-old bread, and the harsh light of reflected snow
would do the bags under her eyes no favors. The sight of her own face
had begun to frighten her. She looked half wasted.

Not realizing Ash was watching her,
Katia glanced over her shoulder toward the Knife. Something passed
between them—Ash couldn't tell what—but a moment later
the expression on the little maid's face changed. She shivered
elaborately. "Ooh. But it's cold, miss. I swear I'll catch my
death out here. I'm not like you: iceborn. Mistress Wence says that
judging from the color of my skin and the sum of hair I have to pluck
off my legs afore they're decent, my family must have come from the
Far South. So perhaps I'd better stay in the stables like you said. I
am
feeling a bit middling."

Iceborn
. Ash didn't like the
sound of that one bit. Stepping over a pile of steaming horse dung,
she forced her mind back to the subject at hand. Katia wanted to be
with Marafice Eye, she was sure of it. The stables were a common
enough place for romantic assignations. For as little as a meat pie
or a wedge of good cheese, Master Haysticks would turn a blind eye to
what went on in any number of his vacant stalls. Some held that the
eye he turned wasn't nearly as blind as it might be, and he had
actually carved peepholes in the doors, which he rented out for tidy
sums. Ash thought about the peepholes sometimes before she fell
asleep at night. It
would
be interesting to see what people
got up to.

"Rest in the stables, Katia. I'll
be fine on my own out here. I won't gallop off, I promise." Ash
glanced at the limestone battlements that were topped with iron
railings, archers roosts, and murder holes. She wouldn't be going
anywhere.

Katia pouted prettily. "I'll stay
in the stables if you say so."

Ash glanced over the maid's shoulder to
where Marafice Eye stood watching from the shadows along the Cask's
west wall. He had found something buried in the snow—a boulder,
or a frozen hare carcass, or a bit of firewood—and was grinding
it beneath the heel of his boot until it broke. When he noticed Ash
watching him, he smiled. It was a terrible sight to see, such a small
mouth stretching. The skin looked as though it might tear and bleed.
Ash turned away.

"What are you waiting for?"
she snapped at the maid. "Go on, off to the stables. Tell Master
Haysticks to saddle and bring out Cob."

Something close to anger crossed
Katia's face as she turned on her heel and made for the stables. Ash
regretted her sharpness immediately yet didn't call the maid back.
Rubbing a mitted hand across her face, she took a few deep breaths to
calm herself. Coming outside hadn't been a good idea. Oddly enough,
it had been her foster father who had suggested it, last night when
he'd visited her chamber after dark. You
are so pale,
almost-daughter, like a lily trapped beneath the ice
. You
must
go outside tomorrow. Take a ride around the quad, stretch your legs,
breathe in some fresh mountain air
. Your
room is filled with
lamp smoke and old dust. I worry so about you
.

Ash kicked at the frozen snow. Iss was
always
worried
about her.

Master Haysticks emerged from the
stable block, trotting his old blue cob behind him. The stablemaster
wore a coat pieced together from old horse blankets and bits of
harness leather. His large head was covered by a halfcap woven from
horsehair, and his stirrups had once been horse's bits. Nothing was
wasted in Master Haysticks' stables. Once a day he sent out grooms to
shovel dung in the quad.

"Day, miss," he said,
inclining his head. "Old Cob's ready for yer. Go easy on the
bit; her mouth's scratched up bad. Been chewing on the stall door
again." He shook his head. "Terrible splinters."

Ash took the reins from him. Although
she didn't like Master Haysticks much, she
did
like the
plain way in which he treated her. He had been stablemaster at Mask
Fortress since before she was born, when Borhis Horgo was surlord and
Penthero Iss held the same position as Marafice Eye did now. Master
Haysticks remembered who she was. He knew she was nothing more than a
foundling.

"Pass me yer foot, miss."
Master Haysticks cupped his hands and squatted low to the ground. Ash
gave him her foot, and he heaved her up over the cob.

When she was settled in the saddle, she
glanced back toward the Cask. Marafice Eye had gone; footprints
driven deep into the snow led straight for the stables. Ash let out a
guarded sigh of relief. It was good to be free of the Knife. "Come
on, Cob," she said, kicking the old work mare's flank. "Let's
take a turn or two around the quad."

Master Haysticks watched Ash with a
critical eye, satisfying himself that her reinwork wasn't putting
undue stress on the mare's mouth, before spitting in the snow and
heading back.