A Cavern of Black Ice (101 page)

"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 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 dreamt 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 integrity 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 crewman 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.

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.