A Cavern of Black Ice (34 page)

Ash didn't pause to take a breath
before entering. She had to risk this. The stables were her best
chance—she had known that from the moment she had decided to
go. The gate beyond the stables was the most used and the least
checked. The brothers-in-the-watch who manned it were more interested
in who was going in than coming out. Those who entered through the
stable gate were usually tradesmen or deliverymen or fellow
brothers-in-the-watch. Grangelords, petty gentry, rich merchants, and
anyone else who thought enough of themselves to worry about
appearances always used one of the other gates, preferring to call
grooms to lead their horses away.

Master Haysticks and the two grooms did
not hear Ash enter. A groom with a neck as red and shiny as a loin of
beef had just thrown the blocks, and Master Haysticks and the second
groom were studying the lay of the wood. They did not look pleased.
Loin Neck had thrown a good hand, and Ash could tell from the
shell-like clink of coinage that money was riding on the wood.

She took a moment to recover from the
ravages of the wind and cold. The stables were dim despite the two
safe-lamps, and sounds of horses blowing, feeding, flicking their
tails, and snoring were comforting to her ears. She liked horses.
After a moment she began edging toward the long line of horse stalls
that lay directly across from where the men sat gaming.

She had to get to the far door. The
stables were the reason the brothers-in-the-watch manning the gate
were lax; they knew that whoever presented themselves for leavetaking
had already passed through the stables and therefore the inspection
of the stablemaster and his grooms. Ash had thought this through. She
wouldn't stand a chance at any other gate. Brothers-in-the-watch were
on guard day and night. They asked questions and would call a
commanding officer rather than risk letting anyone of uncertain
credentials pass. Why, the west gate alone was manned by a full sept
and lit by so many torches that Katia said that all the snow for
thirty paces melted.

Ash sucked in her cheeks. If there was
any way to leave Mask Fortress other than through one of its four
gates, she wished she knew it. Climbing over battlements and roofs
was out: She had broken her arm falling against an iron siege guard
when she was six. She knew just how treacherous the walls of Mask
Fortress, with their iced-up stonework, murder holes, and spiked
embrasures, could be.

"Hey! That throw doesn't count.
Bloody rat over there turned the tally." Master Haysticks' voice
rose in anger. "Throw again or I'll have you on dung duty for a
week."

'S not my fault the rat—"

"Throw again!"

Sounds of crates creaking and grown men
huffing muffled the click of Ash's bones as she crouched close to the
floor. Shadows deepened as she crawled toward the line of stalls that
ran the length of the stables. Every stall in the stables had
dividing walls that came to an end a full foot above the floor. Once
a week the stables were sluiced clean, and the gap between the walls
and the floor was needed to allow all the horse muck, shed hair, and
moldering grain to be carried away.

Tucking her head close to her body, Ash
ducked under the wooden divide and into the first stall. It
had
to be safer than iced-up stone.

A black gelding stood asleep close to
the door, its legs locked in position, its eyes closed and tail
slack. The sound of hay snapping beneath Ash's chest woke it
instantly. Ash held herself perfectly still as the large, liquid
brown eye of the horse regarded her. The gelding dipped its head and
smelled her breath. Dust itched in Ash's nostrils and hay stalks
scratched against her cheek as she worked to control the impulse to
shy away. The gelding's forehooves were big as war hammers, shiny
with neat's-foot oil, and shod with iron.

The gelding whickered and shook his
head. Prodding Ash with his nose, it waited to see what she would do.
Ash glanced ahead. The stone manger for the feed and the leather
water bucket were pushed hard against the back wall. To keep as far
away from the gelding's hooves as possible, she would have to
scramble over them to reach the next stall. Gathering the ends of her
cloak to her chest so they wouldn't snag on splinters, she began
crawling forward… slowly.

Only a short stretch
, she told
herself, gaze darting between the next divide and the gelding. It was
a good horse, she was sure of that. But it was used to seeing rats,
not humans, crawling in its stall after dark.

Scrambling over the stone manger proved
difficult and painful. Ash struck her shin on a sharp edge, and
although she didn't dare spend a minute inspecting the damage, she
knew there was blood. The gelding watched her. Any time she moved too
fast, it changed positions, stamping its hooves onto the dung-packed
stone. Ash's heart beat unsteady in her chest. The skin on her face
felt too tight. Every second she expected to hear a cry rip through
the fortress and the night come alive with armed men and light. Where
was Marafice Eye? Was he back outside her chamber? Had Katia slipped
inside to check on her one last time before she slept?

"
Damn
!
" Ash
cursed under her breath as her elbow caught the water bucket, causing
it to tip over onto the stone. The floor slanted forward slightly,
and the water ran straight under the stall door.

"Damn black's knocked its bucket
again!" came Master Haysticks' voice. "Skimmer, spread some
new hay before the damp gets in his hooves."

Free of the stone manger and the
bucket, Ash pushed herself through to the next stall. Her cloak
caught on a bit of wood, and just as she tugged it free the black
gelding's door swung open. Ash froze. The groom called Skimmer
whistled as he spread fresh hay. The gelding, angry by now at all the
disturbances, snorted and kicked. Skimmer swore. Master Haysticks and
the other groom laughed. Ash thought she heard the faint click of
wooden blocks, then Skimmer closed the door.

"Bloody black's a devil," he
said. "That's the last time I go in there after dark." He
crossed back to the crates. "Hey! Thems blocks been handled!
They weren't laying like that afore I fetched the hay!"

A lively argument broke out between the
men, where Master Haysticks and the second groom swore by every blind
dog that had ever frozen to death on a street corner that they hadn't
even
looked
at the blocks, let alone handled them.

Ash turned her attention to the stall
she was in. Apart from a harness of fine dark leather hung from a dog
hook next to the door, it was empty. The red-and-black insignia of
the Killhound on the Iron Spire was stamped across the noseband,
indicating that a member of the Watch normally stabled his horse
here. Ash didn't permit herself a sigh of relief, though she
was
relieved. Most of the Watch were out in the city, patrolling the
Slaining Night crowds, and that meant many of the stalls would be
empty.

She moved quickly after that. The
argument over blocks raged nicely—Master Haysticks' voice
rising from mild indignation to thundering outrage as Skimmer
continued to accuse him of cheating—and the sharp voices helped
mask all the little noises Ash made as she crawled from stall to
stall. A fair number of stalls were empty, as she had predicted. The
more crusted in hay, horse muck, and horsehair she became, the more
the horses seemed to accept her. Apart from a nasty clip from a
pregnant mare who was sleeping lying down and struggled to stand as
her stall was invaded, Ash avoided further injury. The secret, she
found, was to turn on her back, then stay perfectly still for a
moment, offering up the soft flesh of her throat, until the horse had
smelled and inspected her. They usually let her pass after that.

Finally she found herself in the stall
nearest the far door, sharing space with a one-year-old filly who was
bright, alert, and not the slightest bit sleepy. The filly was wary
at first, but after a few minutes of continuous sniffing, she began
nudging Ash's cloak for treats.

"Sorry, girl," mouthed Ash,
strangely affected by the gentleness and beauty of the young mare.
"No treats tonight."

After a quick peep under the stall door
had assured her that Master Haysticks and his grooms were too caught
up in their argument to notice someone slipping through the outer
door, she mouthed her farewell to the filly and slid under the wall.

Slipping into the deepest shadows,
following the line of the stable wall, she worked her way toward the
exterior door. The men's gazes were turned inward, heads wagging,
booted feet cuffing stone. The argument had turned nasty. Money was
under dispute now, not wood. One of the safe-lamps was now burning
dregs, and the flame was orange and weak. Ash chose her steps
carefully, pressing her chest against the damp stone and walking on
the balls of her feet. She wanted to run as fast as she could for the
door, but the noise and sudden movement would give her away.

Like the quad door, the far door was
open slightly to let in latecomers and brothers-in-the-watch. Ash
felt a stream of cold air blow against her cheek. As she took the
final step toward the opening, the quad door rattled into motion.
Quick as she could, she shrank back into the shadows. Someone was
entering the stables from the other side.

The quad door rumbled open, and the
massive, bull-necked form of Marafice Eye stepped into view. Cloaked
in the skin-soft leather of his office, he carried a horn lamp
burning with a hot blue flame in one hand and a crab-hilted dagger in
the other. Master Haysticks and the grooms fell silent. The wooden
blocks tumbled from Skimmer's hands onto the floor.

"You!" said the Knife to
Master Haysticks, stabbing the air with his dagger. "Has the
Surlord's ward come this way tonight?"

Master Haysticks shook his head with
feeling. "No, sir. All's quiet. No one but the Watch and their
parties have passed through."

The Knife grunted. His small mouth
gathered to itself like something pulled shut with a wire. Watching
him, Ash felt the bones in her legs turn to water. How much of the
stables could he see from where he stood? Were the safe-lamps
throwing light to the far door or shining in his face? "Get this
place lit up! Lock all doors and let no one pass until you hear from
me again. Is that clear?"

"But, sir, what about the other
brothers-in-the-watch…"

Marafice Eye didn't have to say
anything to make Master Haysticks fall silent. His eyes glittered,
that was enough. With a shrug of his shoulders that in any other man
would have been a gesture of uncertainty, but in the Knife was
a
violent switch of muscle and bone, Marafice Eye turned and walked
away. A line of blue light trailed behind him like smoke.

Master Haysticks followed after, a lot
happier to talk to the Knife's back than his face. "As you say,
sir. As you say. Skimmer, get the lamps. Cribbon, help me with this
door."

Ash didn't wait another moment. While
all three men were intent on watching Marafice Eye leave, she slipped
from the far door out into the night.

Cold and darkness enveloped her so
completely it was like diving into a pool of black water. The wind
hissed. Hard snow squeaked beneath her boots as she moved. Walls,
their mortar fresh and in good repair, towered to either side like
stone giants. Thirty paces ahead lay the gate. Stable gate, trade
gate, whatever one chose to call it, was an iron jawbone of spikes.
Two guardhouses, cut from pale limestone and scoured smooth by
centuries of hard wind, flanked the gate itself. The gate was up, its
great metal teeth suspended above the crossbeam, dripping clods of
snow and horse dung onto the ground below. Chain rigging held it in
place. Stretching from the crossbeam to the guardhouse, wrapping
around gears and levers, forming knots of black iron, the gate chains
shuddered like metal foliage in the wind.

Ash stood and looked, her breath
shallow and halting. Her only chance now was if the
brothers-in-the-watch guarding the gate hadn't heard of her escape.
She knew they shouldn't have—someone would have had to travel
through the stables to tell them, and Ash knew for a fact that had
not happened—but the presence of Marafice Eye made her unsure
of herself. He would crush her skull between his bare hands if he
could…

Stop it
. Ash jabbed her
knuckles against her forehead, trying to knock out the fear.

The snow at her feet began to glow as
many lamps were lit in the stables behind her back. Hearing the door
rattle closed, she stepped aside and waited until it was locked and
bolted. The fortress was coming to life. The stables weren't the only
new source of light, and quick glances to either side showed torches
being lit around the curtain wall. Sounds broke through the driving
roar of the wind: shouted orders, the whir and clank of sealed gates,
and the harsh percussion of metal arms.

Ash stepped toward the gate. Tidying
herself as she moved, she brushed scraps of hay and muck from her
cloak and tucked her hair beneath her hood. She smelled bad and
couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. A square of pale
light escaped from the grille-covered window on the left gatehouse,
and several lines of freshly trodden snow led to and from the door,
so Ash headed that way. A man appeared at the grille as she
approached. Knowing she was being watched made it difficult to appear
natural, and her movements became jerky and stilted.

The gatehouse door swung open, and a
brother-in-the-watch stepped out. The man was young and black haired,
with a well-shaped mouth and eyes set too far back in his skull. A
cruciform insignia stamped high upon his steel gorget marked him as a
grangelord's third or fourth son. He drew his sword. "Who goes
there?"