A Sword From Red Ice (100 page)

Aware that something queer was going on around
her, Liddie Lott looked up. The instant her ruddy well-fed face
caught the light, the stranger's gaze swept away. Whatever it was he
searched for, Liddie Lott did not possess.

"Welcome, stranger," Gull said, aiming
for good cheer yet falling a little short. "Have you come to
mark the Grass Watch with us?"

Again the stranger's gaze fell on Gull. Slowly, he
grasped the center point of his hood and pulled it back. Ice-tanned
and deeply lined, his face told of a lifetime spent outside. Not for
one moment did Gull make the mistake of imagining the stranger to be
a farmer or eweman. No. The man had a way of standing and looking—a
particular type of confidence that only those with martial skills
possessed—that told Gull he had to be an adventurer or
mercenary or grangelord.

Every patron in Drover Jack's was held rapt by his
presence. Looking around, seeing Lottie standing, mouth agape by the
beer kegs Burdale Ruff sitting in the corner with his meaty hand
ready on his sword hilt, and the two Mundy boys shifting their
position to align themselves more truly with the door, Gull suddenly
wished for a little peace. His business was to serve food and ale,
not tackle dangerous strangers. Trouble was, people expected him to
take charge. Whatever drama happened in this tavern, be it a patron
sick with the spurting vomits, a drunken brawl over a comely girl, or
a lightning strike on the stove—Gull Moler was supposed to take
care of it.

So that's what he did. To Liddie he said, "Fill
everyone's cups with yellow wheat—on the house." To Clyve
Wheat: "I see you have your stringboard with you. How about
picking out a tune? It'd be a poor Grass Watch if we didn't have a
song." Then, without waiting for a reply, Gull moved forward to
greet the stranger.

"On a night as cold as this a man needs two
things. A warm stove and a fine malt. I'd be honored if you'd share
them both with me." Gull spoke quietly, and although he couldn't
quite bring himself to touch the stranger, he did his best to usher
the man toward the back of the room where it was quiet and dim.

The stranger let himself be led away. His cloak
was steaming, giving off a sharp wild-animal scent.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gull noted that the
free beer was going down well: Jon Mundy was laughing with Liddie
Lott, holding out his tankard for more. As yet Clyve Wheat hadn't
turned out a song, but Gull could hear him picking the strings as he
tuned the board.

"Sit," Gull said to the stranger,
indicating the chair and tables in the corner. "I'll be back in
a blink with the malt."

As Gull slipped behind the tavern's small wooden
counter, Burdale Ruff moved to speak with him. "Do you know who
he is?" asked the big eweman, wagging his head toward the
stranger.

Gull stepped on a crate to reach for his best
malt, tucked high out of reach on the top shelf "No. Never see
him before in my life."

"I have."

That made Gull spin around. "Where?"

Beardale raised his considerable eyebrows. "Here,
in the Three Villages. Saw him talking to some men-at-arms at Spring
Faire."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"You mean apart from what's sodden
obvious—he's as dangerous as a half-skinned polecat?"

Unsure if that was actually a question, Gull
tucked the malt under his arm and said, "I can't keep him
waiting." Burdale didn't argue with this. "I'll be keeping
an eye on you." Strangely enough that didn't make Gull feel one
bit better as he walked to the back of his one-room tavern. The
stranger had pulled off his cloak, and there was no mistaking the
hardware of war. Three knives arranged by blade-length hung from a
wide belt slung across his hips, and a five-foot longsword,
unsheathed, rested within arms' reach, against the wall.

The stranger watched Gull assessing the sword.
"You have nothing to fear from me," he said quietly.

Gull could think of no reply. The stranger's voice
was deep and weary, and it had a familiar lilt. Bear was right: this
man came from around here. Setting down two wooden thumb cups, Gull
said, "My name is Gwillern Moler and I own this tavern. How can
I help you this night?"

The man's face remained unchanged as Gull spoke,
and Gull realized he had told the stranger nothing he did not
already know. Silence followed. Gull made himself useful by pouring
the malt. Behind him, the stove was still sending out black smoke
that smelled faintly of damp. Liddie must have fed it more wood.

During Grass Watch it was custom to sprinkle rye
seeds on the first meal and drink of the night. Padric the Proselyte
had spent thirty days sitting in a rye field in late winter waiting
for the first shoots of grass to poke through the thawing earth.
Every morning when he awoke to find nothing but bare soil he denied
God. Finally, on the thirtieth day, tiny, pale-green points emerged
at sunset. That was the day Padric received God. Gull was generally
disinterested in the stories of the First Followers, but Padric's
tale always moved him. Something about the man's quiet dignity as he
sat and waited struck a chord with Gull. Not many men would ask for
proof of God and then sit in the cold for a month to get it. It had
always seemed to Gull that Padric had proved himself by waiting, and
that God probably wouldn't have revealed himself to a man who had
waited one day less.

In any event, Gull liked to honor the custom of
the seeds. Just this evening he had stocked an apron pouch with long,
stripy seeds—the best they had in the market. Now he found
himself hesitating to use them.

"Go ahead. You will not offend me."

Taken aback, Gull stared at the stranger's face.
The copper eyes glinted for a moment, sharp as tacks, before he
veiled them.

How could he know what I'm thinking? Gull wondered
if perhaps the stranger had seen him reach briefly for his apron
pouch. But no that couldn't be. No one watched anyone that closely.

Anyway, he had to do it now. As he scooped up a
dozen seeds and sprinkled them over the two thumb cups, the first
strains of Clyve Wheat's song filled the tavern. Clyve was not a
great thinker and couldn't hold his drink, yet no one could deny he
had a talent for music. Nothing fussy or complicated, mind, that
wasn't his style. He knew the simple shepherd songs and played them
well. This one, Gull recognized, was an old cradlesong.

Sleep and in the morning all will be well, my
daughter.

Sleep and all will be well.

Abruptly, the stranger reached forward and grabbed
his cup. Without waiting for the customary toast, he threw the malt
down his throat. He did not breathe for a moment, Gull realized,
simply tipped his head back and waited. When whatever relief he was
waiting upon failed to arrive he returned the empty cup to the table.

"My name is Angus Lok. And I am looking for
my daughter."

What was it Burdale Ruff had called him?
Half-skinned, that was it. Gull had seen many men in many states
during the thirty years he'd spent running Drover Jack's, but this
man was different. He lived but he was also dead.

Gull took a mouthful of the malt. It was warm,
peaty and golden, and it made him very sad. For a moment he thought
of saying many things to this stranger before him, telling him that
he too had lost a daughter; that not four weeks ago his Desmi had run
off with some freebooter from the Glaive. Silly, headstrong girl.
Barely seventeen. Also Gull thought of showing the stranger to the
door and telling him, I have enough problems. Do not bring me any
more.

Instead, he said, "How can I help?"

Angus Lok searched Gull's face with such force
that Gull felt as if his skin were being pulled across the table.
"What do you know of a man named Thurlo Pike?"

Gull was surprised at the question. "Thurlo?
He used to roof around here last winter. Haven't seen him in a couple
of months."

"What sort of man is he?"

Although he did not normally speak ill of former
patrons, Gull told the stranger the truth. "He was a dishonest
roofer and a short-tempered man. Caused trouble here last time I saw
him. Insulting the good name of my tavern, asking all sorts of
questions, spilling ale." Angus Lok leaned forward in his chair.
"What sort of questions?" Gull shrugged. "About some
women, I think. Women living alone or something. You'd really have to
ask Maggy that. She's the one who spoke with him."

Something happened to the stranger's face as Gull
spoke. His mouth tightened and a muscle in his cheek began to pump.
"Where is this Maggy?"

"Gone. Went missing a couple of days after
Thurlo. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since."

"What was her full name?"

"Maggy Sea. The best tavern maid ever to set
down a tankard in Ille Glaive." Gull couldn't seem to stop
himself from lauding her, and would have continued singing her
praises if it hadn't been for the strange, dangerous look in Angus
Lok's eyes.

"What do you know of this woman?"

Gull opened his mouth to speak and then closed it
as he realized he knew absolutely nothing about Maggy Sea.

Angus Lok rested for a moment, as if Gull's lack
of words were a blow he had to absorb. Gull took the opportunity to
refill his cup.

"How long did she work here?"

For a reason he could not understand, Gull was
reluctant to give the answer. "Thirteen days."

Angus Lok sucked in breath. He had not shaven in a
month and his beard was growing in. The hair on his head was lighter
than the beard stubble. "Tell me what she looks like."

Now, here was a question Gull could answer. Maggy
Sea had simply appeared one day in the tavern and set about cleaning
his copper bath. As he remembered it he had need of help and she was
willing, and he hired her on the spot. Best thing he ever did. Maggy
Sea had been a treasure, a fine woman who knew the value of hard
work. She'd cleaned his pumps, mended his roof and cooked a lamb stew
so fine and dense that it just about ate itself. "Well Maggy's
tall, but not really tall. More medium height, now that I think of
it. But she's definitely slender—except for her shoulders and
hips—which are round." Gull couldn't understand why he was
fumbling. The picture he had in his head of Maggy Sea was
crystal-clear. It just wasn't easy to describe it, that was all.
Gamely, he tried again. "She was certainly comely, but more
often than not she looked plain, if you understand what I mean. And
her eyes."

"It does not matter." The finality with
which the stranger spoke made Gull jump.

"Gull. I need your help. I can't get the tap
in the keg." Liddie Lott drew abreast of the table. Sweat was
beading above her upper lip and she looked a little frayed around the
edges. She had never been left to work alone for so long.

"He will help you later."

Both Liddie and Gull turned to look at the
stranger. Liddie raised an eyebrow and then turned to Gull.

"Go on, Liddie. If anyone complains that they
can't have their preferred beer give them a free pint of something
else."

"But—"

"Go." Gull shooed her away.

Angus Lok waited until she was out of earshot
before he said. "The woman's voice, was it unusual?"

At last. Here was something Gull Moler could get
his teeth into. "Yes. Yes. Golden, like maple syrup. Made you
start nodding your head before she'd even asked a question."

Angus Lok reached for his sword. It was a
beautiful weapon; the blade forged from patterned steel that
scattered light, the single, central fuller cut so unusually deep
that it looked as if it might bisect the blade. Resting it across his
lap, Angus ran a finger along the trench. "What do you know of
the people who died in the farmhouse fire a day east of here?"

Here it was. Gull realized. The reason why this
man had come. The reason he smelled like a wild animal and the normal
sense of time and place was missing from his eyes. He could be
sitting anywhere at any point in the day, Gull realized, and would
mark it solely by what he learned about his family. He was a clock
who kept striking the same time.

Gull glanced back at the tavern, checking. Clyve
Wheat had finished playing his song and Liddie was bringing him the
traditional payment—a measure of malt and a wedge of blue
cheese. Gull was glad to see she had remembered the old custom.
Burdale Ruff was sitting with his chair swung back against the wall
so it rested on its back two legs. Still watching. He was in imposing
sight. Gull reckoned, dark and big and armed, but Gull didn't think
he had a pat of butter in hell's chance of defending himself against
this man.

Angus Lok waited. Gull spoke.

"Happened about two months back now. Was a
bad business. Family of girls, as I heard it, working the farm while
their father was away. By all accounts the chimney had been causing
them trouble—that's why Thurlo Pike was called in. Those bad
storms last winter had cracked the flue and smoke was coming back
down into the house. Of course, no one will ever know for sure what
happened that night, but the magistrate from Keen rode over the day
after. Said it looked as if the family was trapped inside the house
while it burned and by the time they figured a way out it was too
late." Unable to help himself, Gull made the sign of the Three
Tears against his chest. God help them.

"The bodies were in no state to be
identified. Blackened bones, the magistrate said. He ordered them to
be buried twenty-five feet from the house and posted a warning that
no one was to enter the farm until further notice."

Gull could have said more, gone on to mention
current speculation about the deaths, or the fact that the magistrate
was anxious to locate the owner of the farmhouse, but he stopped
himself. Something had caught his eye whilst he was speaking and the
thought that formed after it set him spinning.