A Cavern of Black Ice (8 page)

Something else was. Ten nights in a row
she had dreamed of ice. Always she awoke to find sheets damp with
sweat twisted around her arms like rope. The dreams were so
real
,
and the voices of the creatures who spoke to her were like nothing
she had ever heard before.
Mistressss
, they murmured, as
sickly pleasing as sweet rolls spread with honey and jam,
come
for us, stretch toward us, reach
…

Ash took a deep breath to stop herself
from shivering. The thought of returning to her bedchamber was
suddenly
there
in her mind, and it was hard to keep moving
forward. Her foster father knew what was wrong with her, she was sure
of it. She was also sure he would never tell her the truth.

He watched her constantly; stealing
into her room when she was sleeping, examining her breasts, her hair,
her teeth, questioning Katia about the tiniest details of her life.
Nothing was too insignificant for him: the contents of her chamber
pot, the amount of goose fat left on her plate after dinner, the
changing dimensions of her corselet and small linens. What did he
want with her? Wasn't being his almost-daughter enough?

Ash pushed the hurt away before it
reached her. He wasn't her real father, she had to remember that. He
never called her daughter without speaking the word
almost
first.

The stairs came to an abrupt halt
between stories to allow access to the battlements, then resumed
after a short ramp. Ash increased her speed. The light level was
rising, and shouted orders and the clatter of steel on steel began to
filter up from the Red Forge below.

Penthero Iss
knew
something,
something about her, her parents, or the circumstances of her birth.
Something that made him guard her closely at all times, set his Knife
outside her door, and call upon her day and night unannounced, hoping
to catch her… doing what? Ash shook her head. She might find
the answer to that tonight.

Every evening in the hour before
midnight, Iss left his private chambers in the base of the Cask and
went elsewhere. Ash had seen him leave and return countless times
over the years, yet she did not know where he went. According to
Katia, he seldom locked the chamber door behind him. It was late, and
the Cask was secure, and only Ash, Katia, and a handful of trusted
servants were allowed access during the night. The Rive Watch
garrison, the mighty Red Forge where brothers-in-the-watch struck and
cooled their bloodred swords, was situated adjacent to the Cask. No
one could enter the tower unchallenged. Iss' chamber was secure
against intruders, but not against someone who was already within the
tower.

All her foster father's private papers
were held within his chamber. If there was any record of the day he
had found and claimed her, it would be buried somewhere deep beneath
his slate books and ledgers, his onionskin atlases and manifests and
lists.

Ash began her descent of the second
flight of stairs, her hand trailing from hook to hook along the
stairwall. Iss' voice followed her like smoke from the greenwood
torches.
Is this how you repay me, almost-daughter? I clothe you
and feed you, and then as soon as my back is turned you betray me
like this. You disappoint me, Asarhia. I thought you loved your
father more
.

Asarhia
. Ash bristled. She was
Ash, just Ash, yet no one within Mask Fortress would acknowledge it.
Everyone called her Asarhia or Lady Asarhia or mistress. It was yet
another thing she owed to Penthero Iss. He had found and then named
her: Asarhia because it was a fashionable name given to ladies of
high birth, and March because of where she was found: on the very
border of the city itself.
Five paces farther south of Vaingate,
almost-daughter, and you would not have been mine to keep.
Protector's Trove ends within a shadow's fall of the gate.

Ash breathed in cold air from the
shadows as she paused upon the final landing to listen for sounds of
brothers-in-the-watch.

Vaingate. Why Vaingate? Spire Vanis had
four gates, each one facing a cardinal point. Vaingate faced south.
South
. No roads led from it, no brothers-in-the-watch
patrolled it, no carts loaded with wares ever trundled past its
posts. Vaingate opened onto the north face of Mount Slain! It had
been built purely for show, satisfying some ancient masonic code of
order that demanded a walled city have four gates. Who would leave a
baby outside a gate that was never used?

The answer came to Ash with the same
sickening pull as always: Someone who wanted their baby dead.

Voices. Close by.

Ash stilled herself. She spent hours
each day watching fortress cats chase mice and birds in the
quadrangle, and one thing she knew for sure was that a cat never
pounced unless it saw something move. The trick was keeping your
nerve. Mice didn't, birds didn't, but some old hares did. Ash had
seen them, sitting perfectly still on the archers' block as brazen as
you like. The shadows on the stairwell were deep, slanting, and Ash
leaned into them, pressing her shoulders against the limestone wall.
The voices grew louder. Footsteps clicked over tile,
click,
click, click
.

'Don't hold the bowl out at arm's
length like a used chamber pot, you great moose. It'll cool in no
time that way. Hold it against your chest. Can't have His Coldness
complaining about lukewarm beans—not with them being late and
all."

'And why not? It's certainly not him
that eats them. Beans is common fare, and we all know how high and
mighty the Killhound is. Wouldn't eat a pork sausage if his life
depended on it."

'I don't know nothing about that. Beans
in soft butter he's asked for, and beans he's going to get. Now
deliver 'em sharpish—they're long past due as it is. And be
sure to let him know that no one in the kitchen's to blame.
Furnacemen! Hmph! When I find which of those dog-faced devils killed
my stove, I swear I'll…"

The voices trailed off as the two
figures disappeared along the corridor, and Ash pulled back from the
wall. It was just Mistress Wence and

a manservant. They hadn't even glanced
up as they passed. From the sound of things, they were late
delivering food to her foster father. Which meant that Iss was still
in his chamber. Annoyed, Ash brushed lime dust from her shoulders.
What was she going to do now?

Matters were decided for her by the
sound of booted feet descending the stairs. A brother-in-the-watch,
judging from the faint jingle of metal that accompanied each step, so
there was no going back. Leaving the safe haven of the shadows, Ash
took the last of the steps and moved into the corridor below. The
entrance to the Red Forge lay on the south side of the tower, so she
took the way north instead, following Mistress Wence and the
manservant toward Iss' chamber.

At ground level the curvature of the
Cask's corridors was so slight, it was easy to forget they ran in a
circuit around the base of the tower. Only a quarter of the rotunda
was given over to Iss' private rooms. The remaining space was taken
by state rooms: the Hall of Trials, the Blackvault, and the main
entrances to the quadrangle and the Red Forge. Along the entire
length of the circuit ran a series of life-size statues hewn from
marble the color of smoke: the Founding Quarterlords and Impaled
Beasts of Spire Vanis.

Ash shivered hard as she heard the
brother-in-the-watch open the main rotunda door behind her. Cold air
pushed against the backs of her legs. She was beginning to wish she
hadn't started this. But then, doing anything these days was
preferable to sleeping.

Dreams woke her every night. Her mind
drifted… she saw the ice cave, felt the terrible cold breath
that steamed from its shining walls…

Another door banged closed, bringing
Ash back. Voices again. Mistress Wence and the servant returning from
Iss' chamber. They would be here any moment.

Panicking, Ash wheeled around. Smooth
walls, an iron-plated door that led to the unused east gallery and
was kept locked at all times, a lit greenwood torch, and a recess
housing a statue of Torny Fyfe, Bastard Lord, swordsman and glutton,
and least highly regarded of the Founding Quarterlords were the only
things in sight.

Mistress Wence's heels tapped a march
against the limestone floor. Her thin nasal voice piped in
displeasure.

Ash ran for the greenwood torch, tugged
it from its pewter casing, and rammed the burning end against the
wall. The flames died in I stantly, killing the light. Thick smoke
from the charred end curled toward the ceiling as Ash recouched the
torch. The smell of burned resin helped clear her head. Turning
about, she ran for the statue of Torny Fyfe, squeezing herself behind
his great marble thighs and thanking the Maker for every eight-course
meal the Quarterlord had ever eaten. The shadow cast by his
overhanging belly was enough to provide a team of dogs with shade.

'Really! Between you and furnacemen I
don't know who's the dimmest. You were supposed to tell Iss that it
wasn't
the kitchen staffs fault. Not just stand there
mumbling a lot of old nonsense about the lumber and the fire."

Rounding the curve, Mistress Wence and
the manservant came to an abrupt halt several paces short of Torny
Fyfe's likeness. Although light in the corridor was now limited, it
was far from dark, and Ash could clearly see Mistress Wence's sharp
nose quiver.

'Torch has gone out. Take a flint to
it, Grice. We don't want to give His Coldness anything else to find
fault with."

As Grice slapped his tunic looking for
a flint, Ash felt a trickle of cold sweat slide past her ear. Dream
or no dream, she was returning to her chamber as soon as this pair
was gone. She should never have come here. The whole idea had been a
mistake from the start. She'd rather be lying in bed dreaming of ice
than wedged behind a marble backside, hiding from the fortress staff.

Realizing Grice was flintless, Mistress
Wence sniffed with venom. "Really! How can you call yourself a
man and not carry a flint?"

'I can relight it from one of the
torches, mistress."

To Ash's very great relief, Mistress
Wence shook her head, shoulders, and chest. "You will do no such
thing, you great oaf. What if Iss came from his chamber and saw you
hulking around with a smoking torch in your hand at this time of
night?" Three sniffs followed in rapid succession. "He'd
think you were a hideclad come to finish him off, that's what. And
sure as rotten apples bring flies, he'd make you pay for it. You're
coming to the kitchen with me and pick up a flint this minute. Move
sharpish, now!" With that Mistress Wence and the manservant
resumed their journey along the corridor.

Slumping forward against Torny Fyfe's
shoulder, Ash exhaled softly. A wisp of marble dust spilled down her
neck, cold and grainy like powdered snow. Ash shook it away. She was
stiff, half-frozen, and her nightgown was plastered to her back
with icy sweat. Sucking in her chest and stomach, she squeezed
herself free of Torny Fyfe's shoulders and shuffled her ankles clear
of his blocky, basestone feet. As she stepped into the open corridor,
her head jerked back painfully. Turning about, she saw where a lock
of her hair had snagged in the Quarterlord's elaborately worked
scabbard. Cursing all fat men with swords, Ash edged back to release
it.

Besides arming Torny Fyfe with a sword
long enough to impale a horse, the sculptor had also conceived of a
brisk wind to blow at his cape, and sharp folds of marble shaved
Ash's shins as she moved. Letting out a sound halfway between a
squeak and a sob, Ash vowed to run back to her chamber and never,
ever, venture out again.

Sss. A door whirred open in the
distance, making a faint hissing sound. Ash looked up. The noise came
from the direction of Penthero Iss' private chamber. Even before she
could decide what to do, she heard softly soled feet slapping stone.
Iss was coming this way.

Wrenching her trapped hair free, Ash
drew herself into the deepest shadows of the recess. Iss would be
furious if he found her here. Furious. The time she fixed the bolt on
her door was nothing compared to this.

Before she had chance to settle herself
into a position she could comfortably hold, her foster father rounded
the corner. Thin, pale, and hairless except for his closely shorn
scalp, Penthero Iss had the look of something drowned and then pulled
up a week later from a lake. Everything about him was pallid, smooth,
and bloodless. His eyes were green, but barely so; his lips and
cheeks had the color and texture of cooked veal; and the skin on his
earlobes let through light.

Carrying a covered bundle in his left
arm, Iss walked faster than was normally his wont. Blue silk, heavily
embroidered with metal chains and pieces of agate, thrashed against
his thighs as he moved.

Ash held her breath. All of her shrank
back, away from her foster father. She closed her eyes as he passed.

Only he didn't pass. Not completely. He
walked to a point and then stopped. All was silent. Realizing she had
been discovered, Ash opened her eyes. The sleepwalking excuse was a
dead dog now.

Ash blinked. Fully expecting her foster
father's pale green gaze to be upon her, she was surprised to see
that he wasn't even looking her way. His back was toward her, and he
was standing in front of the iron door. Ash saw the tendons in his
wrist rise and fall, and then a muffled
clunk
sounded as
lock and key turned.

In all her years of living within Mask
Fortress, Ash had never once seen the iron door opened. It led
through to the unused east gallery and then to the Splinter beyond.
No one ever visited the Splinter. It was forbidden by rule of law.
Workmen had died there, people said, plunging to their deaths through
gaps in rotten timbers, crushed by falling masonry, and impaled upon
the banister of spikes that wove around the main stairway like a
handrail to hell.