A Cavern of Black Ice (103 page)

"Ash." His throat was raw as
he spoke her name. Crouching, he touched flesh as cold and rigid as
tent hide pegged out in a storm. A chill took him, and he placed a
hand upon the back of her neck and drew her head against his. Her
eyes were closed, and her throat muscles were pumping, and he smelled
the sorcery upon her like liquor.

The coolness of her skin was slowly
replaced with something else. Raif heard the murmur of voices.
Reach,
mistressss
, they whispered. So
dark here, so cold. Reach
.

He could not help but pull back. Clan
had no word for the sound of those voices. They were the hissings of
insane things. What sort of men were they, these creatures who lived
in the Blind? Heritas Cant had spoken about shadows and other vague
things, but it seemed to Raif that he'd left too much unsaid. Shadows
could not hold a sword and kill a man, yet why did he think these
things could?

Raif let the thought go. He could not
think about that now. Forcing numb hands to grapple with his pack, he
searched for something to use as
a
gag. Wind howled, rushing
under Ash's cloak and whipping it hard against her back. Suddenly
rocks and trees grew shadows, gliding across the snow like living
things. Ash's lips parted, and the power massed upon her tongue
turned day into night.

No. Raif moved so quickly he crashed
into her, sending them both falling back into the snow. He had a
whole blanket in his hand, and he pushed what he could of it into her
mouth, shoving the pool of blackness back. When he could no longer
fit any more wool into her mouth, he spread his weight full out upon
her, pinning her arms and legs.

Raif did not know how long they lay
there, their bodies forming a cross in the snow. He knew only that
his breath slowed and his body cooled, and when the first snowflakes
fell upon his eyelids they roused him to a world where day and night
had merged into the grayness of a false dawn. Ash's hood had slipped
during the fall, and pale strands of hair blew around her face. Raif
spoke her name, knowing that she would not respond yet unable to stop
himself. He rolled off her, brushing ice crystals from his shoulders
and elbows. Working cold cramps from his muscles, he fixed his pack
to his back, jammed his willow staff under his belt, and settled his
dead man's cloak in place. A lone wolf howled beyond the horizon.

When he was ready, Raif knelt in the
snow and lifted Ash to his chest… then continued the journey
north.

*** Magdalena Crouch waited in
shadows the color of slate. Thurlo Pike had told her to meet him
inside
the Ewe's Feet, not outside in the storm-darkened
street, but for reasons of her own she chose not to enter the tavern
at this time. Besides, no one ever
told
the Crouching Maiden
what to do.

She knew him from his footsteps. The
man spent money on clothes, not shoes, and the uneven tread of
mismatched soles, poorly mended, gave him away before he turned into
the street. The maiden was ready for him with a soft word sure to
please: "Thurlo."

All men liked the sound of their own
names, but some especially so. Thurlo Pike was one of the latter, and
turned his head so quickly that for a moment the pale skin around his
neck was bared, ready to take a knife. The maiden smacked her lips so
softly it sounded like a kiss. She waited a moment, for she knew
nothing interested a man more than mystery, then stepped into the
light. "Over here." A slim finger, closely sheathed in
leather so highly polished it looked wet, beckoned him forth.

Thurlo Pike, roofer, joiner, and rogue,
recognized Maggy Sea, then frowned. "Get inside, Maggy. It's
cold enough to freeze arse hair."

Magdalena took a step forward, but only
because she wanted to. "I can't go in there, Thurlo. Gull would
send me packing if I did. You saw what he's like."

Though in fact all Thurlo Pike had seen
of Gull Moler was a man mildly affronted when the good name of his
tavern was brought into question, he was quick to nod his head. Men
always made monsters of their enemies; Magdalena knew that. It was
one of her tricks. Thurlo snorted air. "All right. All right.
But you'd better make this quick. If you had balls swinging beneath
that skirt of yours, not fresh air, you wouldn't be so quick to do
business outside on a day like this."

The maiden smiled, but it did not reach
her eyes. As the roofer approached she moved farther back into the
dark space between buildings. The walls of the Ewe's Feet were
dry-laid flint, and it was a testament to the man who'd built them
that even without aid of mortar or sand he'd managed to construct
such flat, ice-resistant plains. Magdalena Crouch appreciated good
workmanship, no matter what the trade. She continued edging back
until Thurlo Pike's beaver pelt mitts caught and held her arm.

"What you playing at? I'm not
going no further than this."

Magdalena Crouch had killed many times,
but only once out of anger. It was something she wished never to do
again. With a quick, almost powerless movement, she moved her arm
toward the roofer's chest, causing his wrist to twist to such a
degree that he was forced to let her go. After he released her, she
continued flaying her arms in panic, as if unaware of what she had
done. "Very well," she said. "Tell me your secrets
here."

As she spoke, she glanced into the
street. All was quiet. The hour of gray light that occurred before a
storm was in some ways better than true darkness itself. Smugglers,
thieves, prostitutes, unfaithful husbands, and procurers all came out
at night. No one ventured out in a storm.

"Have you got the means?"

The maiden tapped a bulge in her
loom-woven coat. "Tell me what you've found out."

Thurlo Pike's eyes ranged from the
bulge, to the storm clouds, to Magdalena's face. He was dressed in a
brown wool coat edged with beaver fur and fastened with pewter
buckles. Sweat and dirt had caused the fur around the collar to clump
and shed, and it looked as if a mangy cat had the roofer by the
throat. "There's four of them all right. The mother. A daughter
about sixteen—all plump and ready for splitting. 'Nother girl,
young. No tits. Then the baby."

A single droplet of saliva wetted the
dark desert of the maiden's mouth. "Did you catch their names?"

"Real close, they were. The mother
bundled the children into a back room the moment she saw me coming.
'Course you know what children are. Specially young-uns. The baby
starts crying for its mother, and the oldest daughter tries to hush
it. Then the middle daughter starts up. Well, all the while I'm
talking to the mother about stone struts and what backing she'd
prefer on the flue, I'm listening to this wi' my second ear. Then I
hear the middle daughter cry out as plain as day. Calls her sister
Cassy.
You're hurting me
, Cassy.
Let me go
!"
Thurlo Pike wagged his head. "Should have seen the mother's
face. Couldn't wait to be rid of me. In her haste she agreed to two
layers of baked brick on the stack. Two layers! That'll cost her a
master's penny." The roofer showed his teeth. "And who's to
say
what's
beneath that first layer of brick."

The maiden whispered the word, "Aye."
She disliked petty crimes and the people who committed them. She was
not the kind of woman who sought to justify her own actions. She was
an assassin, and she knew her place in hell was assured. Yet she also
knew that there was more honesty to be found in killing a man swiftly
than in duping him and continuing to smile in his face. The world was
full of Thurlo Pikes; Magdalena Crouch depended on it. Their greed
made them easy to use.

She maintained eye contact with the
roofer as she said, "Where exactly does this farmhouse lie?"

Thurlo Pike rubbed his thumb against
his mitted fingers. "Means, Maggy. Means."

She took out the dogskin bag containing
salt she had ground to a powder with her own hands. Pulling apart the
drawstring, she showed the contents to the light. Thurlo's hand came
out to grab it, but the maiden snatched it away. "Where's the
farm?"

Thurlo's hazel eyes darkened. "How
do I know it will do as you say?"

"How do I know you have told me
the truth?"

Thurlo Pike had no answer to that. With
a dissatisfied shrug, he gave the details of the farmhouse location.
Magdalena watched his eyes as he spoke.

When he was done, she weighed the
dogskin bag in her hand. "Follow me. A deal is a deal."
Without waiting for his response she headed down the alleyway to the
back of the building.

"Hey! Where d'you think you're off
to? Give me that now." Thurlo snatched at her arm but found
himself grabbing air instead.

The maiden continued walking,
increasing her pace from step to step. This was the point where any
other female assassin would use the promise of sex. A downcast
glance, a lick of the lips, perhaps even a I handful of soft flesh
pressed into a waiting hand.
Let's do it out of sight. I'd be
beaten if my father saw us
. Magdalena raked her tongue over
teeth that were perfectly dry. Seduction was not her stock in trade.
She said, "I have to show you how the drug works. I need water
for that."

This statement intrigued him; she could
tell from the subtle change in his breath. "Wait here, then.
I'll get a pitcher from the Feet."

Magdalena shook her head. She was free
of the building now, in what had once been the Ewe's Feet courtyard
but was now no more than a paved square with broken-down walls,
littered with beer kegs, iron hoops, chairs with missing legs,
women's underthings, crates, and several dead crows. It stank of
semen and sour ale. Magdalena headed for a break in the walls.

"Where you going? There's no damn
water out there."

"Yes there is. In the pond, behind
the basswoods."

"That pisshole! It'll be frozen
hard as brass balls until spring."

"No it's not. I passed there along
the way." The maiden hiked over the rubble of stone blocks that
had once been the courtyard wall, forcing Thurlo to keep up with her
if he wanted his voice heard.

"Why'd you be passing there?"
Suspicion was clear in his voice.

'Children," she said. "I
heard one of them crying as I crossed the road in front of the Feet.
I ran to the back, quick as I could. They'd been playing on the pond
when the ice cracked. One of them got a soaking."

"Brats!" Thurlo said with
feeling.

The maiden was facing away from him,
striking out toward the stand of stout-trunked basswoods that
surrounded the pond, so he was unaware of the shift in the color of
her eyes. There
were
no children, and if he had thought to
look at the snow as he trod it, he would have seen that no footprints
led to or from the courtyard and the pond. Magdalena had been at the
pond an hour earlier, but she had come and gone from a different
route. The ice pick and hammer she had used to break the ice were two
items she had no wish to be seen with.

It had not been a pleasant job, making
the first crack in the ice. She'd had to lie with her lower body on
the bank and upper body over the ice as she'd hammered down the pick
until it hit water. The pond was small, and its water was frozen to
the depth of half a foot. Magdalena had blackened her knuckles in the
process. After the initial crack had been made, she'd bellied her way
back to the bank and worked on the shore ice there. By the time
she'd finished, the armpits of her good widow's dress had become a
pulp of wool and sweat. After throwing the pick and hammer into the
body of open water she had created, she'd brushed the ice from her
coat and hood and left the way she'd come.

Preparation was
everything
to
the Crouching Maiden.

'You'd best not be playing games with
me, Maggy Sea."

Magdalena looked back. Thurlo Pike was
crab-walking down the slope, his arms held stubbornly at his sides.
He did not look happy. To make him feel better she feigned a stumble.
"Come on. We're nearly there." For good measure she tapped
the dogskin bag.

He was out of breath and red-faced by
the time he cleared the trees. The maiden positioned herself on the
bank of the pond, directly in front of the break. Water exposed to
the air an hour earlier was already quickening with ice.

The roofer wiped his nose on his
sleeve. "Right. Show me how it's done then, and let's get the
piss out of here before the storm hits and blows that skirt of yours
up around your neck."

From a pouch sewn inside her coat,
Magdalena produced a soft leather cup. It did not hold water well,
having being waxed in haste and tarred only around the stitching, but
that mattered little to the maiden. She bent over the water and
scooped it full of the icy gray slush. As she stood she slipped two
other items from her coat. The first was the dogskin bag. With a
gloved finger she agitated the cup water. "See, you have to get
the water moving before you add the powder. And it must be very cold.
Like this." Magdalena did not look up as she spoke, but every
hair on her body was aware of the roofer drawing closer to the bank.
"Now, you must add only enough powder to salt a roast. Too much
and the women will sleep like dead dogs for days."

"Will it harm'em?"

Magdalena almost smiled. "No. But
there are degrees of sleep. You want the entire family insensible,
yes?" Again, she did not need to look at Thurlo Pike to feel the
air he displaced with his nod. "Then you have to be careful with
the dosage, for what's enough to lay a full-grown woman on her back
might prove too much for a baby or a child. You wouldn't want the two
young girls to sleep too long past the waking of their mother and
elder sister."

Thurlo Pike grunted. He was so close
now Magdalena could smell the excitement on his breath. "I
want 'em all asleep until I'm finished and gone."