A Sword From Red Ice (58 page)

Crope aimed for stealth when crossing the
servants' level. He aimed, but suspected he fell short. A woman had
screamed at him once, and he'd very nearly screamed back. She'd been
sleeping on the bench near the door, covered by a scrap of blanket,
and had woken when he'd stepped on a creaky board. Crope had
hightailed it up the stairs and out of the Quartercourts, and had
then spent an anxious hour walking the streets wondering how on earth
he was going to get back. As it turned out, the night warden had
heard the commotion, informed the woman that she was drunk and had
seen a ghost and turned her from the building. Crope knew this
because Quill had scolded him about it the next day. "Warden
gave me a real fishwifing, I can tell you. Next time you ignore my
excellent advice make sure no one is around to see you do it."

Crope felt bad about that, but it didn't prevent
him from going out. Most nights he took Town Dog and it was their
great mutual pleasure to walk the streets of Spire Vanis side by
side, Town Dog taking eight steps to every one of Crope's.

The night when the strange thing had happened,
Town Dog wasn't feeling up to going out though. Crope thought she may
have eaten a bad rat, for her tummy was swollen and she'd refused
food. He left her with some water and a stern warning about being a
good girl. When he returned two hours later she wasn't in her place
and the length of string that bound her to an iron ring on the wall
had been severed. Crope checked the strange warren of rooms that
Quill had secured for them; the peat cellar that still held the
moldering remains of ancient bricks of turf, the star-shaped
servants' chapel with its six stone mortars for grinding amber, the
cold room for hanging game that still had hoists and brain hooks
suspended from its ceiling, the room with the bathing pool sunk into
the floor that was filled with crusty black water, and the cavernous
space with the iron racks, iron wheels, and iron tables whose
purposes Crope had no wish to guess.

Town Dog was nowhere to be found. Crope worried
about the bathing pool, wondered how a man would set about dredging a
body of water. Deciding he'd better check on his lord first, he
headed back to the stockroom.

The door was open. The door was never open. He had
closed it himself on the way out. Immediately Crope felt the bad
pressure behind his eyes as the giant's blood moved at force through
his brain. Muscles engorged and his sublungs which normally lay
dormant beneath his major lungs sprang open to suck in air.

Baralis.

Crope threw himself through the doorway. Head
whipping around to take in the details of the room, he saw his lord
lying quietly on the bed, his body curled in its normal position, his
broken and swollen-jointed hand resting on Town Dog's neck.

"Calm yourself," came Baralis' beautiful
smoky voice. "We have been here all along."

Crope had stood there, heart thudding like a
hammer against an anvil, his entire body vibrating with power that
needed to be discharged, and stared at his lord and his dog. Town Dog
raised her head a little and stared back, but quickly lost interest.
Tucking herself against Baralis' arm, she headed off to sleep.

Baralis' darkly distorted gaze was steady, though
his skin had that sheen to it that meant the poisons he was taking to
kill the pain were sweating out. "I called her. She is not to
blame."

She had chewed through the rope to get to him. And
what of the door? Crope glanced back at it accusingly. His lord could
move himself, but very slowly and at great cost, using his arms and
shoulders to drag his weight. Crope did not believe he could have
made it across the room.

"You did not close it," Baralis said,
perfectly tracking Crope's thoughts. "It was ajar. The dog
pushed through."

Crope took the door in his hand and tested its
swing. Yes, it did catch a little at the last moment. Pushed without
an extra spin offered it would not close. Crope nodded, satisfied. It
had always been easy to agree with his lord.

That had been about five days back, and it had now
become habit for Town Dog to spend a portion of her day sleeping or
lying quietly on Baralis' bed. After the first shock of it, Crope was
glad. They were three now, and there were times when they were all in
the stockroom together, when Crope was mending a piece of clothing or
mixing up a batch of medicine or just sitting under the window shafts
to get some light that he felt content. If the moments could be
caught and spun out they would make an agreeable life.

Baralis had grown stronger since they had moved
from Quill's house. Some of it was the superior medicine, foods and
comforts now brought regularly by Quill. The most expensive medicines
were those that dulled pain—blood of poppy, skullcap and
devil's claw—and Crope had been sparing in their use. Now his
lord could be given sufficient skullcap to insure he slept through
most of the night. Better rested, his health had improved. The open
wounds on his back and shoulders were slowly drying up as flesh
knitted itself into puckered ridges. Bedsores had been eased by the
new mattress, and now that Baralis' muscles were a little stronger he
could shift his weight when they began to bother him. The damp air of
the stockroom appeared to suit him better than the dryness of Quill's
attic and his breaths were less labored, and there were fewer panics
brought on by his failure to take in sufficient air. He had started
to eat a little solid food—oatmeal with marrow butter, and raw
eggs and that made him more robust. Even his sensitivity to light had
improved, and he no longer called for blankets to cover the window
shafts at midday. Not that it was ever bright in the
stockroom—sunlight rarely found a way in.

Little improvements in his lord's health
encouraged Crope. He knew his lord would never be able to walk or
properly use his hands, but now he had hope that some kind of life
was possible. There had been days in the attic when Crope had feared
his lord would lapse into unknowing and die.

Now Crope dreamed of leaving the city, of buying a
horse and cart and heading off in one of the good directions and not
stopping for a very long time. Once Spire Vanis was far behind them
they would find a good piece of land with well-drained meadows, a
hard standing for milch cows and a field hoed for beans, and purchase
it from an obliging farmer who would be so pleased at the offering
price that he'd throw in his barn goat for free. Then he, Crope,
would set about fixing and planting and milking, and Town Dog would
be at his heels and his lord would be on the back porch, in the
shade, beneath a warm blanket, looking up from his book now and then
to tell them all what to do.

Crope glanced from the windows to his lord.
Baralis was resting not sleeping, though his eyes were closed. Quill
had brought fresh linens a few days back, and the sheets were clean
except for a few sweat rings and some dog hairs. A series of small
dark stains on the pillow might have been blood of the poppy or
simply blood. Baralis' breathing moved the tan blankets at a steady
rate, and because they were pulled high around his neck a casual
observer might assume the man lying beneath them was whole. If you
were to look closer, though, you would notice the old white scars on
his eyelids and the burn circles around his nostrils, and the melted
cartilage in each ear.

They shut down his senses, Quill had said once
with a small shudder. Deprived him of sight, sound and smell to break
him.

"The thief comes," Baralis said, opening
his eyes.

Disconcerted, Crope nodded; there didn't seem much
else for him to do.

"Do not leave while I speak with him."

Crope repeated the words back to himself so he
would not forget them. His lord was different now, harder and purer
like a metal that had gone through the fire. Only words that needed
to be said were spoken, and the very few items he requested were
necessary for survival. Crope had the sense that he was both less
and more. Less of body and less of self. More of mind.

It upset him if he thought about it too much. How
could his lord ever sit on a porch and take part in a normal life?

Crope resisted the answer and busied himself with
the small attentions Baralis required. Pillows and bedding had to be
straightened and Baralis himself had to be gently elevated to a more
upright position. Muscles in his lord's jaw tightened like wires as
he was moved, yet he made no reference to the pain. Crope lightly
combed his hair and drew a short wool cape across his shoulders.
Satisfied that his lord had his dignity, but not sure how much that
now mattered to Baralis himself, Crope stepped back and prepared to
wait.

It was just past midday, and a failure in light
told of an approaching storm. Belowground all was still and warm. The
pig-shaped stove, set on the side of the stockroom opposite from
Baralis' bed, radiated heat through its thick iron casing. Town Dog,
who had been ratting in the big room, began to bark. Crope went to
silence her and greet the thief.

Quill let himself through the ice-house door. A
burlap sack was slung over his shoulders and the first thing he did
was swing it forward and set it on the ground before his feet.
"Commodibles," he said in greeting.

Crope had a feeling it was a dismissal. Take the
commodibles—whatever they might be—and make yourself
scarce for half an hour. Recalling his lord's words Crope picked up
the sack and carried it through to the stockroom.

Quill, realizing the way things were, wisely made
no objection. "Storm's coming," he said to Baralis as he
entered. "Not going to be much of one, though. Reckon it'll be
up and out before sunset."

"Sit," Baralis replied. Now that he had
more strength in his lungs his voice sounded richer and more
resonant. He had regained his ability to send a word softly yet make
it act like a command.

The thief pulled up a stool, using the time it
took to send his gaze darting around the room. "You'll need more
coals," he said, "for the stove."

Crope was on the verge of agreeing with him
heartily, but a tiny flick of Baralis' eyes stopped him. Quill had
taken the stool Crope usually sat on to feed the stove and care for
Baralis, and Crope had nowhere to sit. Awkwardly he shuffled backward
so he could rest against the wall, hoping all the while that once he
was there they'd both forget about him.

"Tell me the news in the city," Baralis
said to the thief.

"Stornoway holds the fortress. Fighting's
mostly done. There's been some trouble at Almsgate but the other
gates are sealed."

"What trouble?"

"Lisereth Hews' hideclads stormed it. Word
arrived yesterday that her son's on his way back from the clanholds,
and she needs to control at least one gate so the Whitehog can enter
the city."

Baralis closed his eyes for a fraction longer than
a blink, and Crope knew he was dealing with a spasm of pain. "Will
she succeed?"

Quill thought about this, one of his long thief's
fingers circling his chin like a sundial. "All she needs do is
keep fighting until her son arrives—some are saying that might
be as early as tomorrow. She's managed to get hold of a battering ram
and she's a tough mother of a bitch; I think she'll do it."

"And Stornoway?"

"The watch is his. As long as they're loyal
to him it's going to be difficult to break the fortress. The old
goat's sitting tight. He's told the watch that by supporting him
they're supporting Marafice Eye."

[Missing] them strengthen his heart and cool his
face with damp cloths. Yet he could do nothing until the thief was
gone. His lord's will held him in place Quill sat motionless on the
stool, yet Crope was struck with the notion that if he were to touch
the thief he would feel him vibrating. Energy hummed through the
stillness. Quill's gaze rested at a point directly in front of
Baralis' face. His pupils were enlarged with revelation.

He had been promised things, gold and
treasures—access to the deceased surlord's secret stash—yet
Baralis had been slow to deal them out. Hints had been dropped, a
piece of information leading to the discovery of a small cache of
gold had been disclosed. Crope knew how these things worked. His lord
was keeping the thief on the hook. Quill hadn't known it that day in
the attic, but any man who struck a deal with Baralis stood on
quicksand. What Crope didn't know now was his lord's purpose. Power
had been Baralis' sole motivation in the past. He had striven to
control a kingdom and then a continent, and failed. Those days had
gone though, and Crope felt a knife of fear slide in his neck when he
thought about the new days to come.

Evil had been born in the monstrous iron chamber
beneath the tower. The man who had clamped it with faucets and pulled
it out was dead, but the thing he had brought into this world lived
on.

Hell knows me and you cannot understand what that
knowing brings. Crope knew his memory wasn't good, but even if he
lived to be three hundred years old he doubted if he would forget his
lord's words.

Crope wondered if the thief was thinking of them
too. Certainly he was thinking of ways to profit from the information
that a storm meant to pass through the city in a couple of hours
would take an unexpected turn for the worse. Perhaps he was also
thinking there was use in knowing that the fighting at Almsgate
would be slowed. Or perhaps, like Crope himself, he was wondering if
by holding the storm at unspeakable cost to himself, Baralis was
serving or resisting hell.

Quill stood. "I'll see you get those coals
for the fire."

Baralis nodded, accepting the complicated
acquiescence of the [missing].

Once Quill had let himself out, Crope went to tend
his lord. He feared what Baralis would lose this day.