by J. V. Jones
“Enough.” Yiselle No Knife spoke to halt the Spinebreaker’s next blow.
The warrior halted his blade on the upswing. He was breathing fiercely, nostrils flaring. In a perfectly executed motion, he recouched the sword. His gaze never left Raif.
It was an indictment.
Raif rolled to a sitting position. He was shaking. Two knuckles on his right hand had begun to swell. He still couldn’t understand how the Spinebreaker had shifted from one form to another so swiftly, but he did understand he had underestimated the speed and intelligence of his opponent.
“He attempted the heart-kill?” No Knife’s voice was almost soft.
The Spinebreaker nodded in response. He did not speak. Raif received the impression that the Sull warrior believed the exchange that had just occurred was beneath him. He was probably right.
Yiselle No Knife perhaps understood this too. “Go,” she told Spinebreaker. “Ask Sora and Gloran to attend me.”
The warrior bowed. “A man who has been kept in a cage for twenty days cannot be expected to fight.”
“Go.” No Knife repeated quietly. “Prepare for the quarter moon.”
Twenty, Raif repeated to himself as the Spinebreaker crossed the clearing. It seemed important to remember the true number of days.
Yiselle No Knife approached him. The snow had stopped and the increase in light made her skin shine like metal. She appraised him, her gaze alighting on the newly opened wounds on his face, the muscles beneath his coat sleeves, his eyes. No one spoke. Within minutes, two warriors, male and female, emerged from the forest. Raif was beginning to get his bearings. He was in the stone ring he could see from the cage. The Sull settlement lay directly to the east.
‘Take him to the stone chamber,” No Knife said to the two warriors. “He will be able to stand there.”
Hands yanked Raif from the ground. His knees wouldn’t lock and the Sull had to support his weight on their shoulders.
“You will fight every day now,” Yiselle told him once they were eye-to-eye. “If you refuse your friend will die.”
Raif hissed at her.
She stepped back in fright, reappraised him, then smiled.
As the two warriors led him east, he was struck with the idea that she had won some sort of victory from him.
CHAPTER 12
A Maiden’s Head
THE TOWN OF White Kiln was located six days’ foot travel east of Ille Glaive. Pottery made from a composite of local clay and ground dog bones weighed the banquet tables of lords and merchants across the North. The kilns fired day and night, reaching temperatures so hot they melted rock. Giant plinths of basalt had been floated upriver from the west as bases for the kilns. The native sandstone buckled under the relentless heat.
You could tell the kiln workers from the burns on their hands and faces. Angus Lok walked the market square and watched them, strong men dressed in their God’s Day best, bearing the scars of their work with something like pride.
Unremarkable in a brown deerhide coat, squirrel skin hat and scuffed boots, Angus drew little attention in return. His weaponry was smaller now. Leaner. He no longer had use for the implied threat of a sword. The hat was the one item that had become indispensable. Brimmed with a wedge of squirrel fur, it prevented casual observers from seeing the hell in his eyes.
As he approached a glovemaker’s stand Angus made himself smile. The midmorning sun did the glovemaker no favors, sending light into the interior of his mouth, illuminating the rotten stumps and black absences that resulted from a poor diet over a long life.
“Day, sir.”
Angus nodded in return. In preparation for his approach, he had stripped off his gloves and tucked them into his gear belt under his coat. They were old and worn but made of the kind of pieced swanskin favored by master bladesmen for its articulation. The glovemaker was probably the only person in town who could correctly identify their purpose.
“Looking for anything particular?”
Angus shrugged. The stand consisted of two handcarts with a plywood board balanced between them. A three-foot square of orange silk covered half the board, unequivocally dividing the glovemaker’s wares into two camps: fine goods on the silk, serviceable on the wood. Angus reached for the serviceable.
The glovemaker had been doing this too long to show disappointment. “Nice thick boarshide. Good for farm work. They’ll soften if you oil them.”
Angus turned over the gloves to inspect the stitching. Not bad for work wear. “How long does it take to make them?”
“Pair like that, quarter of a day.”
“And those?” Angus indicated an especially fine-looking pair of lamb’s leather gloves, pin-tucked at the top for a snug fit.
“If the leather’s in my shop, a full day.”
“Did you receive a commission six weeks back for a pair of small, fine gloves from a woman passing through town?”
The glovemaker’s head was shaking even before Angus finished speaking. “No.”
“Did she purchase a pair of ready-made gloves?”
Again the glovemaker’s head shook. “No. Yes. How would I know? Women stop and buy my gloves all the time.” He was getting agitated, which was just fine with Angus Lok.
Agitation was counter to deceit. “If you met this woman you would remember her voice, sweet and gold like honey.”
The glovemaker threw his hands in the air. “No such woman stopped by here.”
Angus took a good long look at him. Honest work was not always done by honest men. “Who is the best surgeon in town?”
This question did not surprise the glovemaker as much as relieve him. “Walther Crane. He has rooms above the inn.”
Angus slid a hand inside his coat, gaze steady upon the glovemaker.
The glovemaker’s eyes widened. “I told the truth. I swear it. I sold no gloves to an out-of-towner. I swear it.”
Angus drew his hand from his coat and placed something on the table, on the square of orange silk.
“For the gloves,” he said, turning and walking away.
If the glovemaker was surprised by the silver piece or by the fact that his interrogator had kept the boarshide gloves, Angus Lok would never know it. He did not look back. Pulling on his new gloves, he wound through the crowd in the general direction of the inn.
The glovemaker had been a longshot. If the Crouching Maiden had been in this town and had needed gloves she would have likely sent a boy to make the purchase. Still. Old habits died hard. Information was the lifeblood of the Phage and procuring it became a reflex. Move from the outside in. That had been one of the first lessons Hew Mallin had ever taught him. You never arrived in a town and made a beeline for your mark. You sauntered, spoke with fruit sellers, old women and drunks, got a feel for the rhythms of the place, listened to local gossip, calculated the geography of the streets.
White Kiln was prospering. The God’s Day market was large and stocked with all manner of items from the mountain cities and clanholds. Gravel had been spread between the stands to firm the mud, and a roofed arcade with tie posts provided all-weather shelter for the horses. The Wheel was located across the street from the arcade, a whitewashed freestanding building three stories high. Its doors were open and the sunshine had encouraged a handful of patrons to drink on the stoop. As Angus drew closer he heard music—pipe and fiddle playing a bawdied-up version of an old spiritual—and caught the scent of roasting game bird.
He walked to the end of the street before crossing. From the side, the inn’s horse court and stable block were clearly visible. A groom was sloshing water over the cobbles. Angus took a detour to speak with him.
“Fine day,” Angus said.
The groom looked up. He was young and soft-lipped like a girl. The hand that held the bucket appeared remarkably free of blisters.
Good.
Wagging his chin toward the stables, Angus said, “Is Walther’s horse playing up again?”
The groom looked from Angus to the stable. �
��He’s quiet now but he was giving me grief at feeding.”
Angus nodded with understanding. Spend a lifetime with horses and you learned many things. The important one for interrogators was the fact that they were always playing up. You could count on any given horse on any given day causing some sort of trouble to its caretaker. The groom was too new at his job to know it.
“Walther’s in his room?”
The groom set down his bucket. “Aye. He should be finished with his meal by now.”
Glancing at the upper stories of the inn, Angus executed a self-deprecating smile. “Last time I was here I . . . er . . . was a little too deep in my cups if you know what I mean.”
The groom did and nodded.
“I’ve clean forgot which room’s Walth’s.” Angus squinted. “Is it to the right of the stairs?”
“No. Straight ahead, at the top. You can’t miss it. We put a bench outside so those too sick to stand can sit as they wait.”
Angus was all smiles. “Appreciate your help.”
When he turned away from the groom the smile stopped so abruptly anyone looking would have thought tendons in his jaw had been cut. Although there was a door connecting the inn to the horse court, Angus opted for the more public front entrance. After this long practicing stealth, he was acting on pure instinct. The kitchen noises coming from the back door meant the cook was in residence, and cooks the world over were aggressive about their territory.
Angus briefly appraised the two prostitutes at the front door. One was younger than Cassie, a plump and spotty girl of fifteen dressed in her God’s Day best. Go home, he wanted to tell her. Evil is everywhere. I am proof.
The interior of the Wheel was lit by the block of sunlight streaming through the door. It smelled of stale ale, woodsmoke and roast pheasant. A handful of kiln workers were eating their midday meal at a trestle table covered with a passably clean cloth. Three old women were embroidering silk panels and sipping hot wine by the fire, and in the far corner a Bone Priest sat alone with neither food nor drink to occupy his hands. Angus tucked his head low to avoid inspection. He was surprised at the presence of a Bone Priest, but did not consider it a problem. They had their own world of secrets to protect.
The stairs were to the left of the beer counter and as neither alewife nor innkeep stood guard, Angus felt free to head upstairs. The groom had made it clear that the surgeon’s rooms were on the third story but Angus stopped at the second to take a look. He’d seen better and worse run places. The floorboards were parched from lack of wax but they were free of dust. As he passed one closed door he heard rhythmic knocking, wood against plaster. A couple having sex.
Angus headed up the second flight of stairs. A quick reconnoissance of the third floor revealed four closed doors, and one open door. The open door led to a tiny room with a sloped roof and a north facing window furnished with a basic straw-filled mattress and a pine chest. Angus ghosted past, coming to rest at the surgeon’s door. No one sat waiting on the newly installed hickory bench. A floorboard creaked on the far side of the door. A voice spoke and a second replied. Male and female. Angus relaxed the tension in his shoulders and lowered his weight back onto the heels of his feet as he prepared to wait. He didn’t speculate on the relationship between the man and the woman nor did he listen at the door. His entry was guaranteed now—at some point in the future the door would open to allow the woman to exit—so he let the stillness take him.
The stillness wasn’t calm and it wasn’t peace, but it was the closest a damned man could get to them. It would do.
Minutes passed and the cadence of the voices changed. A floorboard creaked sharply and footsteps tapped toward the door. Angus moved into position. The interior latch was raised with a click.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll send Jess round with the ham.” The door opened and a woman with gray hair and ruddy cheeks stepped out. Angus immediately stepped toward her, entering the space once occupied by the door and preventing it from being closed on him.
The woman stepped back. “Sweet God!” she said to Angus. “You gave me a fright.”
Raising his head, Angus allowed the woman to look into his eyes. “Go,” he mouthed, moving past her into the room.
She wasn’t young and she recognized affliction when she saw it. Closing her mouth, she took herself away.
Angus was already focused on his mark. Upon hearing the woman cry out, Walther Crane had risen from his desk. Angus saved him the effort of closing the door. Crane was in his forties, tall and thin and clever-looking. A knife belt slung crosswise across his chest held a sizable piece of steel.
“I have some questions,” Angus said, lowering the latch and sealing them both inside the room.
Crane’s sharp brown eyes assessed Angus. The surgeon was dressed in black wool pants and a cream linen shirt. A thick-banded silver ring mounted with a sphere of onyx gave authority to his right hand. It made his small gesture of compliance seem like a kingly concession.
Angus claimed more space in the room. “Forty days back a woman came to you with burned hands. How long did you treat her for?”
Crane moved back behind his desk and sat. “I have no memory of such a treatment.” His voice was cultivated and dismissive. He was calmer now he was in his chair.
Angus took himself over to the room’s only window and closed the shutters. “Try and remember,” he said, turning to face the surgeon. “It will be better for both of us.”
The surgeon’s gaze flicked to the door. A second, more subtle glance was directed toward his knife.
“The holster is loose,” Angus told him calmly. “When you draw your knife you’ll force the holster back and then have to yank it forward to free the weapon. You’ll lose seconds.”
The surgeon considered this for a moment and then nodded once, almost gently. He understood the new order in the room now. “Who are you?”
“Angus Lok.”
When he realized there would be no more information, the surgeon nodded again. He placed his right hand on the desk, close to a collection of small bottles made of milk glass. “What do you want?”
“The woman with the burned hands, tell me about her.” It was then, looking into Walther Crane’s clever brown eyes, that Angus felt a moment of relief. Here it was at last: a path into the darkness. She had been here, perhaps in this very room, burned and hurting and at the mercy of this man. A chance comment from a healer in the village of Salt Creek had brought Angus here. “If I were burned I’d head straight for White Kiln. Its surgeons are masters with burns. Those kilns spit out fire every day.”
Seeing a tendon in Walther Crane’s hand twitch, Angus exploded into motion. Two leaps and he was across the room. Curbing his forward momentum, he slammed the heel of his hand into the surgeon’s wrist. The desk jumped. Inhaling sharply, Walther Crane snatched his hand to his chest. Angus waited. Cradling his wrist, the surgeon began rocking back and forth in his chair. The apple of his throat was quivering.
Finally his gaze rose to Angus. Fear of the unknowable made him look like a small boy.
Angus considered explaining two things to him. First, when you are in the presence of an armed and dangerous man keep your body still. Allowing muscle to twitch close to a glass bottle that may or may not contain acid, bleach or poison was a mistake. Second, the force of the blow was controlled. The hurt could have been worse.
Instead, Angus said, “The woman.”
The surgeon sighed. Fluid was rushing into his wrist and the flesh was beginning to swell. “She came here, in the middle of the night. She broke in. I was asleep.” He glanced at the room’s second door, indicating a second room where he slept. “Her hands were in a bad way. The skin was gone from the tips of her left fingers, damage across both palms. There was a ligament exposed. Those sort of burns, you only see when the skin has been doused with fuel. She must have been in a lot of pain, but you wouldn’t have known it. She was exquisitely calm.” Crane paused.
A softening of his expre
ssion told Angus all he needed to know about the Maiden’s mental state. Magdalena Crouch was still at the top of her form, still able to manipulate any situation to her advantage. She had broken in to this man’s residence, demanded medical attention from him under threat of violence, and here he was, forty days later, mooning over her like a yearman.
“What name did she give?”
“Delayna Stoop.”
“What did you do for her?”
Crane massaged his wrist. “First thing I did was clean the wounds. She’d been wearing gloves at the time of injury and some leather still adhered to the flesh. This kind of procedure can be quite painful and it’s my custom to administer blood of the poppy. She refused all painkillers—though she did pass out for a short while as I began to operate.”
Confident now that he was talking about his area of expertise, Crane continued without prompting. “I stitched what I could and cut skin flaps to bridge the missing fingertips. The tendon was badly damaged and I did what I could.” He shrugged. “I doubt if she’ll ever be able to contract her left hand again, though the fingers appeared to retain some independent movement. And the thumb . . . below the second knuckle the thumb was fine.”
“And the right?”
“The burns were more extensive yet more superficial. I’ve seen men with similar injuries lose use, but Delayna . . . she’s so . . .”
Angus did not need to hear Crane’s assessment of the Maiden’s character. “How long did you care for her?”
“She stayed eleven days.” There was an appeal for understanding in the look Crane sent Angus: an admission of frailty, man-to-man. When Angus gave nothing back, the surgeon hurried on. “The stitches and skin flaps had to be cleaned and dressed daily. It is my practice to dress burns with honey—it halts infection and aids healing—and Delayna was in no state during that time to care for herself. Anything touching her hands was agony. She had no desire to stay in public rooms and it seemed natural that she should stay with me so I could watch her. She was discreet. No one knew she was here, not even my patients. She would withdraw to the bedchamber whenever I received patients.”
