Cold Magics (39 page)

John stepped off the fencing floor and stripped away his protective gear. “I must go. The match was very amusing. Baron Goshawk, your turn, I believe.”

The baron bowed to Lord John and waited until the other man had left before coming to the edge of the floor. “Did you want to have a match today, Thomas? You don’t look well.”

The baron wasn’t fat or wasted like many of the young lords; he was trim and strong and carried a fair bit of muscle.
And annoyingly handsome. And older than Henry. And given to flirting with young girls.
Thomas felt his jaw tightening. “One more.”

“All right.” The baron padded himself and buttoned his blades.

“All out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All out. Like Henry and I did.”

The baron gave Thomas a long look before saying, “If you wish.”

Baron Goshawk was quite good; Thomas knew that from their previous matches. Today, though, fuelled by anger, Thomas fought harder. The baron felt Thomas’s mood and gave as good as he got. The two fenced back and forth across the floor. Then Thomas changed tactics.

When the baron attacked again, Thomas parried the other’s blade away and closed the distance, hooking his arm under the baron’s. With a quick motion, he sent Baron Goshawk flying. The man hit the ground in a heap and Thomas leapt forward, planting his point in the middle of the baron’s chest. “Kill!”

Goshawk knocked Thomas’s blade away with his own and scrambled to his feet. “That was hardly fair play!”

“All out means all out,” said Thomas, enjoying the look on the other’s face. “No rules except calling the hits when they come.”

“And telling me that at the beginning would have been useful!”

“I would have thought it was obvious,” said Thomas. “Do you want to go again?”

“Yes,” said the baron, getting to his feet. “I do.”

“When you’re ready.”

The baron charged, nearly skewering Thomas. Thomas dodged, and Goshawk stepped in close, punching him solidly in the side of the head, the dagger in his hand adding weight to the hit.

Thomas staggered back and kicked the baron in the thigh. The baron stumbled away and Thomas shook his head to clear it. A moment later they clashed again, first with swords, then closing to fisticuffs distance. They fought with dagger blades, pommels, fists and feet; kicking at each other’s legs, pummelling the other’s face and body, and all the while stabbing and cutting with the daggers. It was a game of pain; who could take the most before backing off and letting the other man get the use of his sword first.

 The baron shifted his feet, dropped his sword, and grabbed Thomas. Thomas realized too late what was happening and found himself flying through the air to the edge of the fencing floor. The baron picked up his sword in the same motion and charged after. Thomas hit the ground rolling, reached his feet, spun, and in the same motion dropped again to the ground, one leg sideways behind him, one hand holding his weight as the other drove his blade upwards, under the baron’s attack and into the man’s solar plexus.

The air wooshed out of Goshawk’s lungs and he doubled over, impaled by his own momentum. Thomas stayed where he was, blade still out, until Goshawk stumbled back a few paces and fell to his knees.

“Kill,” rasped the baron. He wrenched off his mask and threw it away. “And damn you.”

Thomas collapsed to the ground, pulled off his own mask and tossed it aside. He lay, gasping until he got his wind back.

“Do you mind,” gasped the baron, after a while, “telling me what you are playing at?”

Thomas felt his stomach go sour. Any satisfaction he had at winning the match faded away. He pushed himself to his feet and offered a hand to the baron. Goshawk glared at him, but took the offered hand and got up. Thomas stepped back and, swallowing the bitterness he felt, bowed low. “Baron Goshawk, I need your assistance.”

***

Thomas made it to breakfast before Baron Goshawk, even though he had to stop by his room and clean the worst of the scrapes and bruises. He found Eileen and Lady Prellham already seated, with Rose again standing behind Eileen.
Does the girl ever get the chance to eat?
Thomas wondered.

“Good morning, all,” said Thomas. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” said Eileen.

“He must sit across from you,” said Lady Prellham. “Not beside.”

“Lady Prellham is instructing me on how to act like a lady,” Eileen said in the pleasant, calm voice she always used just before she was ready to explode. She took a hard look at Thomas’s face. “What happened to you?”

“Practice,” said Thomas. “We went a little harder than usual.” He turned to Lady Prellham before Eileen could ask anything more. “What will Miss Eileen be doing today?”

“Miss Gobhann will be spending the morning in study,” said Lady Prellham. “She is understandably behind her peers.”

“Apparently my manners aren’t good enough,” said Eileen. “Nor do I understand the least bit of what it is to be noble.”

“Do not use that tone,” said Lady Prellham. “A lady never shows her anger. She channels it to further her ends.”

Eileen’s lips pressed together hard. Thomas guessed this wasn’t the first time she had been lectured that morning. He moved on. “And is this going to take all day?”

“The morning,” said Lady Prellham. “This afternoon we will be doing embroidery.”

“Fun,” said Thomas, earning another glare from Eileen. “Is Miss Eileen able to see visitors while she embroiders?”

“She is,” said Lady Prellham, grudgingly, “provided her brother deems them to be appropriate.”

“Her brother is out training with the knights.”

“Then I will decide who I deem appropriate,” said Lady Prellham, her tone making it fairly clear that Thomas was unlikely to be on that list.

Servants began setting out plates of eggs and sausage as Baron Goshawk came in. He was limping, Thomas noted with some satisfaction, and had his own set of bruises. The baron spotted them at once and came straight to their table. “Miss Eileen,” he said, bowing and ignoring Thomas entirely. “And Lady Prellham and Miss Rose. Good morning to you all.”

“And to you, Baron,” said Lady Prellham. “Will you be joining us for breakfast?”

“I was thinking I would,” said the baron, smiling at Thomas. “If Miss Gobhann doesn’t mind?”

Eileen looked over the baron’s bruises, then back at Thomas, who had schooled his face into a neutral expression. “Of course.”

The baron sat. “And what are you doing today, Miss Gobhann?”

Eileen told him and the baron’s eyebrows went up. “It seems a rather dull way to spend an afternoon. Perhaps I could convince Lady Prellham otherwise.”

“And what did you have in mind, Baron Goshawk?” asked Lady Prellham.

“A carriage ride,” said the baron. “To see the ice sculptures in the park.”

“Ice sculptures?” asked Eileen.

“We grow bored in winter, so each year we hold an ice sculpture contest. It will be cold, but I do have warming pans in the carriage. I was planning on going and would welcome the company.”

“I don’t know,” said Eileen. “Thomas—”

“I cannot,” said Thomas. “I have to find Baron Gallen, and learn what I can about the raiders.”

“I would be happy to take all three of you ladies,” said the baron. “There is room for four in the carriage.”

“It does sound fun…” Eileen looked to Lady Prellham. “May we?”

“If the baron is inviting us,” said Lady Prellham, agreeing with a speed Thomas knew would never have happened had he been suggesting the trip, “then we would be unkind to refuse.”

“I’ll send a message to  let George know,” said Eileen. “Thank you, Baron.”

“My pleasure,” said Goshawk, smiling.

Thomas managed to keep any expression off his face, and left as soon as he politely could.

***

The air outside the castle was achingly cold. Thomas shivered even in his thick cloak and warm coat, and he moved through the streets at a quick walk, hoping to stay warm.

People still loitered in the street, shifting from foot to foot, huddling together for warmth and watching the passers-by with eyes squinted against the winter sun and faces pinched with hunger. Thomas had put his purse deep into his clothes to keep it from jingling, and had his rapier ready to hand just under his cloak. There was no need for it. The people were quietly desperate, not violent.

Not yet
, Thomas thought.
But how long?

Thomas spotted new posters only a block from the castle. The first called for the death of all witches. Others called for all to embrace the High Father as their road to salvation. Those were done in the same style Thomas had seen before. There were a dozen new posters beside. Some more attacked the duke for being too cowardly to come out from behind the city walls and face the invaders. Others insulted Lord Richard or John or Henry. Graffiti on the walls made comments about them all, and other names Thomas did not know but guessed to be city councillors.

Thomas kept walking, wondering how he was going to find Baron Gallen. With no other real place to go, he traced his route back to the bookstore he had visited twice before.

“Ah, good day, sir!” said Barry from behind the counter. He was sharpening quills into pens. “Come looking for more books?”

“I have,” said Thomas. “Anything come in?”

“Nothing of magic,” said the bookseller, “or even worthy of note. But a few volumes have come my way, if you want to look at them. Four books stacked together. Back shelf on the left.”

Thomas went to the back of the shop and found the books. None had titles or marks on the bindings, and all were cheaply bound in garish colours. He leafed through them all without stopping to look at the contents. He saw no spark of magic in any of them. Sighing, he looked at the frontspiece of one and found it labelled, “An Account of the Travels of Lord Smelt Ramstad Amongst the Northern Tribes.” Thomas had some doubts at the name, but flipped it open and began reading. The dedication—to Lord Smelt’s father, the Baron Ramstad—promised to examine “…the customs, behaviours and traditions of the northern tribes, as seen by Lord Smelt’s own eyes, during the travels of his youth, for the education and edification of those who wish to learn more of our perennial enemy.”

Thomas paged through the book, catching impressive illustrations of northern warriors and scantily-clad northern women—the second a rather unlikely exaggeration, given the climate. Chapter titles talked of customs, rituals and belief in magic. Thomas took the first book back to Barry. “How much for this one?”

“Ah,” said the bookseller, leaning close to peer at it. “Hubert Smith’s lies about Lord Smelt. That I can let go for a reasonable price.”

“Lies?” repeated Thomas, disappointed.

“Some of the finest,” said the bookseller. “There was no Lord Smelt, no journey north, except under arms, that didn’t end in complete disaster, until the last battle—five years ago, now.”

“Oh.” Thomas put the book down. “I won’t be needing it, then.”

“I thought not,” said Barry. “Any luck in your search?”

“Not so far,” said Thomas. “And speaking of that, do you know the location of Baron Gallen?”

“I do not,” said the bookseller. “Is he one of the refugees?”

“He is.”

“Then you would be best asking in the street, I think.”

“Of course,” said Thomas, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it himself. “Thanks.”

“Good luck to you,” said Barry. Thomas buttoned up his coat and stepped again into the cold air. There was no one loitering on the bookseller’s street, so he retraced his steps to one of the main thoroughfares.

He picked a group of men standing in the shelter of an archway, stomping their feet to keep the cold away and tucking their rag-wrapped hands under their arms. They watched with suspicion as he approached.

“Good day,” said Thomas. “Do any of you know where I might find Baron Gallen?”

The men looked amongst themselves for a moment, then one asked, “And what do you want him for?”

“To talk. Can you tell me where I might find him?”

“Talk about what?”

“About the invaders,” said Thomas. “Lord Henry and the duke are gathering information, and I’m to talk to Baron Gallen.”

“Hmph,” said one of the men. “First I heard of anyone asking anything about the invaders other than, ‘Are they here yet?’”

The men chuckled, and Thomas smiled. “That’s true enough.”

“You’re talking to the wrong men,” said another of the group. “The baron’s in the eastern section. Got himself some proper houses to stay in, instead of sleeping in the streets.”

“At least they’ll share if you ask,” said a third man. “Not like that bastard Sir Wessex. He won’t let anyone not of his town into his compound, and only the merchants at that. Riff-raff like us get to stay outside.”

“Wessex?” said Thomas. “Don’t know him.”

“From the mountain passes,” said the first man. “Used to having them in the west come after him. Of course, this enemy came the other way, took him by surprise. He scampered in here with a train of a dozen soldiers and his family. The rest of his people came later, what was left of them. Bastard left them to fend for themselves.”

“Explains why he’s hiding,” said Thomas. “And where are you from?”

“Us?” the first man snorted. “Stand on the wall, you can see what’s left of our village, halfway along the lake.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thomas. “The east section, you said?”

“Aye. Where the likes of us used to stay when we’d come in to help with harvest or the iron ore shipments.”

“East it is,” said Thomas. “Thanks again.”

Thomas picked a main thoroughfare and headed east. It ended in a large square, and another, smaller street took him into the eastern section of the town. The outer portions of it reminded him of the student quarter; shabby buildings, kept only liveable enough to keep their renters coming back. The further in he went, though, the shabbier the buildings became. A few questions to some passers-by got him glares and muttered answers, and Thomas wasn’t sure he’d have got the second had it not been for the hand he rested on his sword as he asked.

At last, he found a narrow alley that led to a courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings and filled with tents housing men and women and children. No one was moving much, and all eyes were on Thomas as he walked in. There was some muttering, but no hostile movement. Thomas went toward one of the houses and approached the men standing there.