A Cavern of Black Ice (35 page)

The second man behind the grille raised
a bright-burning lamp to the window, throwing light onto Ash and the
surrounding ground.

Ash blinked. She thought a moment, then
curtsied. With her gaze carefully lowered, she said, "Please,
sir. May I pass?"

The guard took a step forward. Like all
members of the Watch, he was clean shaven and clad in soft beaten
leathers worn over plate. The red steel of his blade shimmered and
rippled as the patterns forged into the metal drew the light. Out of
the corner of her eye, Ash saw his gaze flick behind her to the
growing ring of torches spewing light and black smoke over the wall.
When a cry broke through from the other side, he stilled himself to
listen.

Ash held her jaw so tight it ached.
Grinding the heel of her boot into the snow, she forced herself to
stay calm. She was a servant, a messenger girl, a seamstress. She
couldn't afford to act afraid.

"One of Till Bailey's girls?"

Ash had been concentrating so hard on
grinding her heel into the snow that the question startled her.
Lifting her head, she risked glancing at the watch brother.

He did not look pleased. Sharp noises
continued to sound within the fortress. "I said, are you one of
Till Bailey's?" He made a cutting motion with his sword in the
direction of the Horn. "One of those brought in for Slaining?"

Ash took a breath. He thought she was a
prostitute.

"Answer, girl." The guard's
well-shaped lips slid across his gums, revealing small, yellow teeth.

"Yes." Ash nodded, her eyes
fixed on the man's sword. "One of Till's."

The watch brother spat. Ash thought for
a moment he would let her go. He altered his grip on his sword,
preparing to resheathe it, but as he did so a great bell began to
toll within the fortress. Ash's heart dropped in her chest. It was
the Quarter Bell, hung in the topmost chamber of the Cask. Sounded in
times of war, riots, or sieges, it the signal to secure all gates.

Lunging forward, the warden caught hold
of Ash's arm and yanked her toward the gatehouse window. Sharp
fingernails, the same yellow as his teeth, hooked into her flesh.
Inside the gatehouse, the second man moved away from the window, and
a moment later metal chains began to shudder and hum as gears and
pulleys creaked to life. Stable gate was being lowered.

"Please. Could you let me out
before it drops? Till's expecting me back." Ash tried to match
the sly charm Katia used when rooting after favors or rose cakes. It
was a mistake. She ended up sounding desperate instead.

The watch brother pulled her up to the
window and forced her face against the grille. "Grod. What
should we do about this? She's one of Till's."

The one called Grod was working the
crankshaft. He slowed but did not stop as he took a look at Ash.
Graying and nearly bald, he had the look of a man who had soldiered
for many years. His eyes were sharp as a pig's, and he wore no fancy
insignia at his breast, shoulder, or throat. Ash's first reaction was
to back away, but the first brother had his hand on her scalp and was
holding her fast against the grille. The crisscross iron cut her face
into squares, and she could feel the cold metal stealing warmth from
her cheeks. Slowly, carefully, using the arm that was pressed against
the gatehouse wall, she reached inside her cloak for the jeweled pin
she had taken for selling.

The bell continued to toll, sending out
deep, wailing notes that hurt Ash's ears. Overhead, the gate
clattered and screeched, descending in small, lurching stages as its
weight fought against the chains.

As Ash's fingers found and then closed
around the smooth brass of the cloak pin, Grod shook his head. "She's
not one of Till's. Thin scrap of nothing like that. With that hair
and that mucked-up cloak. Till likes 'em plump and pretty, not dark
and scraggy as a strip of trail meat." Grod's eyes narrowed. His
gaze focused on a lock of Ash's hair that had poked through the
grille. Releasing his hold on the crankshaft, he straightened his
back and snatched the lock. Ash's eyes teared as he ran his fingers
along its length.

Soot rubbed off in his hand. A cold
smile hardened his face as he rolled the newly cleaned lock between
his fingertips. Abruptly he tightened his grip. "This one stays
with us. Bring her round, Storrin. And we'll bind her fit for
hauling."

On the word
hauling
, Ash
yanked her head free of the grille. Pain stung her scalp as she lost
a lock of her hair to Grod. Swiftly she swung her arm forward and
drove the brass spike of the cloak pin into Storrin's well-formed
mouth, driving hard through lip tissue and gum to the smooth bone
beneath.

The man swore viciously. Blood welled
from his upper lip as he lashed out in anger with his fist. Ash took
a hard blow on her shoulder but managed to keep her footing. She had
to get through the gate. Inside the gatehouse, she was aware of Grod
working on the crankshaft, meaning to lower the gate before he came
to the aid of his partner. It was the move of someone practical and
cold-hearted. Ash despised him for it.

She ran for the gate. Storrin was
faster, seizing her cloak tails and yanking her down into the snow.
Falling to her knees, Ash struggled with the ties at her throat. She
couldn't breathe. Snow crystals ground into her shins like powdered
glass. Storrin held her cloak like a leash as he jabbed his blade
into her back and yelled at her to stop fighting. Ash felt little
pain. She was concentrating on loosing the ties and freeing Storrin's
stranglehold on her throat.

The gate juddered to life almost
directly above her, fresh gobs of snows dislodging from its spikes as
it dropped. Ash's hands felt big and clumsy as she clawed at her
neck.
Why won't the damn thing come undone
?

Storrin yanked hard on her cloak,
making Ash slide backward in the snow. A moment was lost to blackness
as she fought to regain her footing and stand.
Jab! Jab
!
Storrin poked his blade into her ribs.

"Stop fighting me, bitch!"

Ash's mouth flooded with something that
had to be blood. Her head felt heavy and swollen, and suddenly there
was no room for her thoughts.

Reach! Reach!

Voices hissed through her mind like
scalding steam. The pressure was unbearable, forcing blood and heat
to her face.

Another yank on the cloak. "Get
back here."

REACH,

Ash reached. With numb, frozen fingers,
she reached into the taut hollow of her throat and tore at the cloak.
The fastening broke. Hot blood rained down her neck, steaming in the
freezing air. Gasping and shaking, she took a diving man's
breath. Stumbling forward, she dug the toe of her boot into the snow.
Storrin was at her back, still pulling on her cloak tails. It took
him a moment to realize she was no longer attached.

The second was all Ash needed. Forcing
strength into legs that felt cold and oddly numb, she hauled herself
to her feet. And ran.

The gate was two-thirds of the way
down. As Ash fell under its shadow, she heard a high-pitched wail
crack the air. All the chains rattled, and gears and pulleys began to
spin out of control. The gate dropped. Ash screamed, Storrin reached.

Two tons of black iron smashed to the
earth. A soft gurgle sounded, like water forced from a pipe. Ash felt
air and snow and something else spatter against her back. She was on
the outside.
Outside
!

Behind her, she heard the gatehouse
door blast open and Grod cry out to the Maker. Strange. He didn't
sound angry. He sounded scared.

Ash glanced back. Storrin was under the
gate. An iron spike had entered his spine. His legs were jerking, the
muscles contracting and relaxing so it looked as if he were
performing an obscene dance in the snow. Blood from the impact had
sprayed all the way to her feet.

Ash swayed and nearly fell. Turning,
she ran into the night.

Within Mask Fortress

She escaped through the stable gate.
Grod watched her run east. By the time he'd raised the gate and
called for aid she was gone. Lost in the Slaining Night crowds."

"And the other man… What
was his name again?"

"Storrin." Marafice Eye spat
the word, clearly displeased that Iss had already forgotten the man's
name. "He's dead. It wasn't the falling of the gate that killed
him, but the raising."

Iss nodded, interested despite all he
had on his mind. "Yes. I've seen things like that before. As
long as a man isn't moved and the spikes stay in place, he lives. The
moment one tries to free him, the internal organs tear apart and the
lungs flood with blood. Unfortunate. Most unfortunate. You have saved
the body?"

"You're not having it." The
skin over Marafice Eye's lips stretched white as he spoke. Seeing him
standing there, his back to the great Roundroom fire, his boots
dripping snowmelt onto the gold-and-turquoise rug, his entire body
shaking with fury, Iss decided to say no more. Marafice Eye was
protective of his men, fiercely so. The Red Forge would burn long and
bright this night in memory of a brother lost.

Turning his back on the Knife, Iss
stared into the yellow flames blazing in the hearth. How could
Asarhia have gone? Didn't she know he would never hurt her? Hadn't he
told her a hundred times that he loved her more than any real father
could? Damn her! She had to be found. There was no telling whose
hands she might fall into out there. The Phage might find her…
or even the Sull. Iss took the black iron poker from its stand near
the hearth and turned over piece after piece of burning coal. After a
few moments he had collected himself enough to finish the matter at
hand. "Have Storrin's body brought before the White Robes for
blessing and annunciation—wake them if you must. If they
complain, tell them that the Surlord himself commands it. And see to
it that the man's widow, his mother, or whoever else he leaves behind
is adequately compensated for the loss."

Marafice Eye grunted. Even in a chamber
the size and height of the Roundroom, which occupied a full quarter
of the ground floor in the Cask, the Protector General of Spire Vanis
dominated the space. He was a dangerous animal, not to be toyed
with—Iss knew that.

"You never mentioned what business
was so pressing it pulled you away from Asarhia's door."

"No. I didn't." Marafice Eye
stood his ground, his eyes hardening along with his tight little
mouth.

Iss held his gaze. Information was
cheap to come by in Mask Fortress: He'd have answers soon enough.
Caydis Zerbina, with his soft linen slippers that never made a sound
and his long agile fingers shaped for foiling locks, would see to
that. There was little Caydis and his dark-skinned brethren did not
know about Marafice Eye.
The Knife prefers to court his women in
the dark, Sarab
, Caydis had once breathed in his soft musical
voice.
His
night mushroom is sadly misshapen
. Iss
found such information both useful and distasteful. And he always
sent Caydis in search of more.

Returning the charred black poker to
its stand, he said, "No matter. Asarhia must be found. The
servant girl must be questioned. It seems highly unlikely to me that
Asarhia could have orchestrated such a clever escape on her own. My
ward is a bright girl, but far too naive and timid to have carried
off something so cold-blooded without help. Soot in her hair,
crawling under horse stalls, strutting to the stable gate, and
declaring herself a prostitute!" Iss paused, his pale hand
knotted around the poker shaft. "The servant girl
must
be involved in some way."

He looked at the Knife without seeming
to. The man's face gave nothing away as he murmured, "I'll take
the truth from her."

"Call her now."

Iss released his grip on the poker as
Marafice Eye left the room. The Roundroom was bright and warm,
decorated with silk hangings and silk rugs and thirteen black pewter
lanterns that burned the fragrant flume of sperm whales, giving off a
sweet childlike scent. Iss had taught Asarhia to read and write here,
beneath the light of the pewter lanterns. Once when she was nine
years old her feet had frozen to blocks in the quad, and he had
stripped her down in front of the fire and warmed her pale little
toes in his fists.

"The girl will be here soon."
The Knife strode back into the chamber, shaking tapestries and
wall-mounted weaponry as he moved. "Ganron has reported back.
Watch has been tripled on Almsgate, Hoargate, and Wrathgate. The
east—

Iss flicked a wrist, silencing the
Knife. "Vaingate must also be watched. I want a triple guard
posted there as well."

"Vaingate leads nowhere. No one in
their right mind would leave the city by way of Mount Slain. I'll not
waste my men setting them to guard a dead gate."

"Indulge me," Iss said.
"Waste them."

Marafice Eye glowered. His big hands
crunched the Killhound broach at his throat, forcing the soft,
lead-based alloy into a shape that looked more like a dog than a
bird.

The Surlord explained himself only once
his Knife had nodded and said, "Aye."

"You know Asarhia's history as
well as I do, Knife. She was abandoned outside of Vaingate.
Vaingate
.
Now, for the first time in her life she's free to go where she
chooses. If you were in her position, wouldn't you be curious about
the place where you were found? Wouldn't you like to stand upon that
frozen ground and spend a moment wondering why your mother left you
for dead? Asarhia is a sensitive girl. She hides things even from me,
yet I know she feels her abandonment keenly. Some nights she even
calls out in her sleep."

Marafice Eye took this information and
chewed on it, his hands dropping to his waist where his red sword was
sheathed and hung. After a minute of silence he spoke. "If
you're so sure she'll visit Vain-gate, then I say we don't increase
the guard at all. Visibly. The girl's not stupid—we've seen the
truth of that ourselves tonight—and she won't show herself by
the gate if she judges it unsafe. Let her come. Let her see only
beggars and vendors and street filth. Let her come in good faith,
unawares. And let me be there to stop her when she does."