Goddess of the Ice Realm (29 page)

“Which way?” said Sharina, squinting against the east wind. She couldn't judge the direction of the cries, let alone the distance. It they'd been blown down on the wind, the fellow might be a mile or more distant.

“The way we've been going!” Beard said. “Not far, mistress, and he needs us badly!”

“Come along, Franca!” Sharina called. She might need an extra pair of hands, especially if the fellow they were going to rescue had been injured in a fall. She thought of herself in the ruined palace; if the walls had collapsed while she was still inside, she might have died in a worse way even than the Hunters had intended for her.

“Don't leave me!” Franca wailed as he staggered to his feet.

Sharina didn't wait for him. Wizardlight pulsing across the heavens gave better illumination than a full moon, so she had no trouble following the path through the woods. It hadn't been used recently, but the encroaching undergrowth didn't keep Sharina from running.

She came out of the trees onto a slope that was still clear. She saw the mill, roofless now, and the inn where she'd grown up; the walls had fallen in and brambles grew from piles of fire-blackened bricks.

Sharina'd found Barca's Hamlet. It was what she'd expected,
but she'd prayed in her heart to the Lady that this time she'd be wrong.

The cries were coming from the ruined mill. A male voice cursed and begged the Shepherd's aid, the sort of foolish mixture that desperation dragged from the throats of ordinary people. He didn't sound as though he really expected help to come.

“He's in that stone building!” Beard said. “But be ready, mistress, for you'll need me to—”

The mill pond stored water from high tides and released it to drive the wheel at a measured pace. It was the oldest building in Barca's Hamlet, built in the Old Kingdom of stones so hard and well-fitted that they'd withstood well over a thousand years of weather. During all that time it had continued to serve the surrounding borough at a handsome profit for generations of millers.

The side door, a hundred feet from Sharina, was double height and wide enough for a wagonload of grain to be driven into the milling chamber. The bear that came through that doorway wouldn't have fit anything sized merely for humans. Franca's scream diminished as he turned and ran.

“Blood for Beard to drink!” the axe cried. “Blood for Beard!”

At the Sheep Fairs there was often a peddler from Shengy with a cinnamon-colored bear. When it stood upright to shuffle in a slow dance, it was as tall as a man.

The rangy animal now padding out of the mill was that tall at the shoulder; it must have weighed more than a large ox. It saw Sharina,
whuffed,
and launched itself at her with no more hesitation than a stooping hawk.

“Blood for
—” the axe called.

There wasn't time to think. Five feet short of its victim, the bear lifted its right forepaw for a crushing blow. Sharina stepped within the bear's reach and brought the axe down in an overhand blow. The blade crunched through bone, burying itself to the helve in the bear's broad, flat forehead.

The bear reared onto its hind legs, lifting Sharina until her hands slipped from the shaft and she cartwheeled sideways.
Will it dance now?
she thought hysterically. She was screaming with laughter when she slammed onto the hard
ground. Her shoulder went numb, and the world around her had a fuzzy haze as though gray mold grew on everything.

The bear voided its bowels in a gush of liquescent feces. The stench was choking. It toppled slowly forward, then hit like a building collapsing. The ground shook. Except for the initial grunt when the bear saw what it thought was prey, it hadn't made a sound.

The man was still calling from the mill; he didn't realize he was free now.

Sharina could also hear Beard's gurgling joy, muffled by the skull it had split.

The castle was both older and more substantial than Ilna had expected to find in a village on the fringes of the kingdom. Though the two- and three-story buildings that housed Lusius's troops and their families were new, the core of the complex was lichen-covered gray stone that must have been as old as the mill where Ilna lived in Barca's Hamlet.

“An Old Kingdom watchtower,” Chalcus said, noticing Ilna's surprise. “Used as a fisherman's hut most of the time since then, I shouldn't wonder, but it seems our Lusius has put it back in shape. A dozen men could hold off an army, as long as they had food.”

He grinned at her. “The right dozen men, mind,” he added. “But that's true of any fight, isn't it?”

“It's true of more than fights,” Ilna said. “Unless to you all life is a fight, and I don't know that I'd argue with that notion.”

Chalcus laughed merrily, but the touch of his hand on hers was more than mere whim. “Not everything's a fight, dear heart,” he said. “I must learn to save my strength for the times it's needed.”

He meant
she
must learn. Well, both of them should; Ilna didn't doubt the truth of that. It seemed very unlikely that she'd ever succeed, however.

The pair of trumpeters stood on the tower battlements, high enough that four levels of arrow slits pierced the stone below them. Their fanfare was slightly out of tune and time with one another. Ilna didn't take a great deal of pleasure in
music, but she had no difficulty in telling good from bad. Most was bad, of course, just as with every other form of human activity. These trumpeters fit in quite well with her expectations.

The soldiers who'd met the
Bird of the Tide
on the quay were now drawn up in a double line framing the walk to one of the new buildings rather than the stone tower. When their officer snarled a command, they thumped the butts of their spears into the ground and shouted, “Hail, Captain Chalcus! Hail, Ilna os-Kenset!”

Ilna's face set. She disliked pomp at any time. Here it was obvious besides that their host was toying with them, pretending deference to the high rank he knew they held.

The humor struck her. She chuckled, drawing a glance and a raised eyebrow from Chalcus.

“You said Lusius wasn't a fool,” she explained under her breath. “You were wrong: only a fool would mock us if he knew who we were, you and I.”

Chalcus laughed again. “True enough, dear heart,” he said. “But there's knowing and
knowing,
you see.”

They walked side by side through the double rank of soldiers—the Sea Guards, Hutena said they were called. Wealthy drovers and merchants attending the Sheep Fair generally had bodyguards, so even before Ilna left Barca's Hamlet she'd seen a variety of men who made their living by arms. These Guards were a sorry lot despite being turned out with plumes on their helmets for the occasion. Most of them were out of condition; they were dirty, and some of them were already drunk.

The tall doors were open. The building was a single large hall, set now for a banquet. The walls were hung with tapestries which'd been chosen for gaudiness rather than quality. They were of very high quality nonetheless, but Ilna found them an odd mixture. There were hangings from Sandrakkan, Ornifal, red silk from Seres, and a large panel from Pare where they wove goat hair into geometric designs.

Lusius and his aides, a few more than a handful, stood on both sides of a table at the short end opposite the entrance; the two places opposite Lusius remained open. The benches down either long side were for the soldiers; they tramped in
after the guests. Servants waited with drink pitchers and handbarrows loaded with food.

“Come in, my honored guests!” Lusius cried. “I greet you not only in my own name but in that of Prince Garric of Haft, whose loyal servant I am!”

Ilna thought of how easily she could kill this smirking man; kill him or better yet knot a pattern that would show him his own soul—thereby causing him to kill himself in horror and despair. She smiled, cheerful and assured.

Chalcus gave his sash a little hitch that settled the sword and dagger held in its folds. For the occasion he wore a short woolen outer tunic of Ilna's own workmanship. From a distance it looked plain, but there was a subtle pattern to the threads that distracted an eye trying to focus on it. It wouldn't protect Chalcus from a chance arrow or a thrust in darkness, but it was the best gift Ilna knew to give to a man like her man.

His inner tunic was orange silk, cut a little longer and higher than the wool one; it matched his sash and the twist of silk about his temples perfectly. His sandals were gilded leather cutwork, a trifle larger than a perfect fit. Ilna knew that if there was trouble Chalcus would kick off his footgear and fight in his bare feet just as he worked on shipboard, but they looked festive.

Ilna's only concession to the occasion was to wear an outer tunic over the woolen undergarment, which would suffice alone on shipboard or in a rural village. The unadorned garments were clean and of the finest craftsmanship—her own. In place of a belt or sash she wore a loosely gathered silken rope that doubled as a noose when she needed one. Because of the cobblestone streets she wore shoes, though she'd have preferred to be barefoot in this warm weather.

Chalcus offered Ilna his elbow for her hand; together they walked to the seats prepared for them—her primly, Chalcus with a swagger. “I'm honored indeed to be the guest of great men like yourself and Prince Garric,” he said. “But do you deal in so openhanded a fashion with all your visitors, Commander?”

Lusius snorted. He gave a little wave of his hand; his
courtiers and troops seated themselves with a scuffling of chairs and—for the common soldiers—benches, as Lusius sat down himself. The only people still standing were his guests and the red-robed figure to his right where Ilna had expected to see the Commander's consort.

Her eyes narrowed as she and Chalcus sat as well. She was the only female in the hall, though there'd been women and children in the usual numbers in the dirt plaza in front of the soldiers' quarters. The women were slatterns and their offspring screaming brats; fit companions for men of the quality of the Sea Guards, she supposed.

The figure in red threw back the cowl of his robes. “I am Gaur, the Red Wizard!” he said, making the words sound like a prayer. He wore silk brocade woven in a flame pattern by someone with a great deal of skill. The garments had been embroidered much less ably with gold and silver thread; Ilna supposed the symbols had meaning—very likely were words of power—but they seemed an afterthought.

Gaur was taller than Garric who'd been the tallest man in Barca's Hamlet once he got his growth. He had wiry black hair and black eyebrows that nearly met on his beetling forehead. He looked rangy and powerful, but the whole ensemble was so clearly intended to impress the ignorant that looking at him made Ilna's lips curl in a sneer.

“And I'm Chalcus, the captain of the
Bird of the Tide,
sir,” Chalcus said cheerfully. Leaning back in his chair he went on to Lusius, “So, Commander—you provide entertainment with your banquets, eh?”

Ilna took cords from her left sleeve and had started plaiting them before anyone else understood just how calculated had been the insult Chalcus delivered in his pleasant voice. Lusius had been drinking from his embossed gold cup, watching Chalcus over the rim. His eyes opened. He snorted, spraying wine from his nostrils, and doubled over in a coughing fit.

Gaur's hands moved as though he was holding a globe in front of him. “One day, Captain,” he said to Chalcus in a grating voice, not loud, “you and I will entertain each other. We will see who laughs the louder then.
Eh?”

Ilna saw Gaur's tongue move, but she wasn't sure he was speaking further. Images formed in the air between his hands.
Chalcus ran naked across a barren plain. Things came out of the darkness at him, never quite to be glimpsed even when they struck. Each tore away a strip of flesh. Chalcus continued to run, but he was stumbling . . .

Chalcus laughed. “A good one!” he said. “A touch on me indeed, Master Wizard. Now, Commander—may I hope that your hospitality to your guests extends to the wine I see on your side of the table?”

Gaur sat heavily. Ilna eyed him for a further moment, then put her cords away. The exchange was over—for now. Servants were filling her goblet and Chalcus's with an expensive perfumed wine from Cordin. Ilna didn't like the vintage, but it showed that Lusius wasn't stinting his guests with second-rate drinks.

Gaur was a braggart, a type of person that Ilna found offensive even when she had no better reason to dislike someone; in Gaur's case she was fairly certain that she'd have no trouble in finding better reason. What he had done, however—without preparation or tools—was a remarkable piece of wizardry. Whatever else the Red Wizard might be, he
was
a wizard.

“You ask about visitors here, Captain,” Lusius said as servants set fish soup in front of the diners. “We have very few, as the ships in the Carcosa trade are too large to enter Terness harbor. It's a good shelter for those of us who struggle against the flying demons, though. Have you heard of the Rua?”

The man to Ilna's left seized his bowl and drank the contents down. Under other circumstances Ilna might have done the same, but out of pride she ate her soup with the spoon of silver and alabaster that she'd been offered. It was scarcely a point of pride to show that she was more refined than this lot, she thought with a grim smile.

“Indeed we have, Commander,” Chalcus said. He'd sopped a torn chunk of rye bread in his bowl and was eating it that way. “Saw them as well, on the horizon as we came up on Terness. Odd creatures, to be sure, but I wonder . . . ?”

He paused, chewing his mouthful as his laughing eyes held Lusius.

“Though they're big for anything flying, these Rua,” Chalcus continued, “I wonder that they'd prey on ships so large and well-manned as those that've been their victims. The pirates of the Southern Seas are terrible indeed, they tell me; but they'd never attempt ships the size of those the Rua take. Eh?”