Watcher of the Dead

by J. V. Jones

  It wasn’t worth asking whether or not she had paid for his services. Money was seldom the reason people served the Maiden. “Did she send any messages?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “Did she receive any visitors?”

  Crane studied his wrist. It had not occurred to him yet to remove the onyx ring before the swelling spread to his fingers and sealed it tight. “No.”

  “What belongings did she have with her?”

  “A small pack.”

  “Did you look inside?”

  A beat passed. Crane dropped his gaze. “Yes.”

  Angus kept very still. “And what did you find?”

  “A change of clothes. Boots with felt soles. Coins and jewels. A knife.” He shrugged. “Nothing much.”

  “Where were the coins from?”

  Crane thought for a moment. “Most were gold suns.”

  Morning Star then. It matched the rumor that the mountain city to the east was her base.

  The surgeon hadn’t finished. “The rest were those strange flattened coins from Spire Vanis.”

  Almsgold, flattened under the gate of the same name. The currency of surlords. Angus was not surprised. Penthero Iss had reason to punish him. As Iss had seen it, Angus Lok had stolen his daughter from Spire Vanis, took her north toward Ille Glaive and the clans. Iss had sent his chief henchman Marafice Eye to track them. Eye had pursued them as far as Ille Glaive.

  Angus breathed deeply and wished for death. He should never have taken Ash and Raif to the farmhouse after Ille Glaive. There had been a sorcerer in Eye’s party, someone powerful enough to part the mist on the frozen lake. A man like that had infinite ways of uncovering truth. Sarga Veys, that was his name. He’d acted as Iss’s proxy in negotiations with the Dog Lord. And there had been some incident in the Bitter Hills, after the Dog Lord had transferred custody of Ash to Marafice Eye and his hunt party. Angus had been prisoner of the Dog Lord at that time, and he clearly recalled Hammie Faa, the man who brought him food twice a day, telling him that five of the party had died. Eye, Veys and Ash were the only ones who walked away.

  For less than a second Angus thought about Ash March, considered the perfect symmetry of her face, and then shut away the memory in its deep and secret place.

  “Was Stoop aware you looked through her pack?” he asked Crane.

  The jittery energy that had possessed Crane upon receipt of the blow appeared to be draining away. His face looked tired and miserable. A lump the size of a quail’s egg now bulged from the top of his wrist. “I don’t think so. It was that first night, after the stitching, she’d pretty much passed out.”

  “What did she tell you about herself?”

  Crane opened his mouth to speak and then hesitated. It was a phenomenon Angus had seen before. People thought they knew the Maiden, believed she had been as open with them as they had with her, but when it came time to list the results of that openness they came up blank. It was the same with her appearance. The Maiden hid in plain sight.

  Angus moved on. “What state where her hands in when she left?”

  “Still poor. I’d taken most of the stitches out. The skin flaps needed longer. They’re tricky. Two of the three had begun to mesh with the damaged skin, but they were still in a delicate state. The wrong kind of pressure could shear them off, and she’d be right back to exposed flesh.”

  “That was four weeks ago. How would they be today?”

  “She’s strong. Healthy. Likely she’s removed the remaining stitches: I showed her how. The skin flaps would need to be severed from their original blood supply once they’re meshed. I advised her to visit a surgeon for that.”

  “Which surgeon? Where?”

  For the first time it occurred to Crane that he was providing information that would be used in tracking down his patient. Angus saw the realization in Crane’s eyes and was immediately ready to refocus the man’s loyalties. Crane saw the readiness; by deliberately shifting his weight, Angus made sure that he would.

  But he still lied. They always lied. “She was heading east for Morning Star. I gave her the name of a colleague in the city. Hermit Small. He’s a fine surgeon, skilled in wound care. He’s tended the Lord Rising himself. Of course he’s not the lord’s official surgeon, but . . .”

  Angus let him drone on. Crane wasn’t a good liar and was now spouting an unnecessary quantity of honest detail, as if by lowering his ratio of lies to truth he could somehow conceal the deceit. There was truth here though. The Maiden would never have let this man know her true destination. Whatever she had told him would be misdirection. So that meant she had revealed some other city as her intended destination—probably Ille Glaive or Spire Vanis—and by speaking up and naming Morning Star, Crane sought to send her pursuer elsewhere. Which ultimately meant that Morning Star was still a fair bet. The Maiden was a wounded animal. Chances were she’d chose a familiar hidey-hole to lick those wounds.

  “The clothes in the bag,” Angus said, “describe them.”

  Sudden changes in the direction of the interrogation no longer surprised the surgeon. “A dark green wool cloak lined in velvet, a dark green dress, fur collar.” He lowered his eyes. “Lace small clothes.”

  The fool hoped to see her again. Even now he did not fully understand two fundamental things. One, that the Maiden would never return to this place. And two, he was looking at the man who was going to destroy her. The surgeon lived in a world of cushioned privilege, one where his profession bestowed authority and respect. He knew how to heal wounds and stitch skin but he could not begin to imagine the deficiencies of the two people who had broken into his rooms. They did not live for the same purpose he lived for: for success, money, family, respect.

  We live to end things.

  Angus crossed to the door. Stand too long in one spot and his thoughts could unmake him. He was done here. Crane had nothing more to tell. The surgeon had thought himself an intelligent man and his encounter with the Maiden was slowly unraveling that illusion. Who falls in love with a woman who breaks into one’s house, accepts help, shelter and confidences and gives nothing of herself in return?

  Realizing Angus was leaving, Crane stood. Was it possible he looked disappointed? Once he’d begun talking about the Maiden was it difficult to stop?

  Angus Lok had no sympathy for him. “Be glad you are alive,” he told the surgeon in parting.

  In under a minute, Angus had stepped from the building and made the turn east toward Morning Star. He’d already forgotten the look of quiet desperation in the surgeon’s eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Enemies All Along

  “YOUR MARE HAS Sull in her,” Chella Gloyal said, mounting her own glossy gray stallion. “Does she have a fifth gait?”

  Raina patted Mercy’s head. “Yes. When she has a fancy to she can move forward and sideways at the same time.”

  “That would be something worth seeing.” Chella kicked her boot heels into her stallion’s belly and walked the horse across the hard cattle court at Blackhail.

  Raina followed on Mercy. Even though she was wary of the Croserwoman’s flattery, she couldn’t help but be pleased by it. Mercy had been a gift from Dagro: praise the horse he’d chosen and you praised him too.

  “Have you been to the Wedge?” Raina asked, nodding toward the upland to the east.

  “Several times. Let’s go north instead.”

  Raina was surprised but did not show it. Chella had been in the roundhouse under twenty days yet had managed the four-hour roundtrip to the Wedge several times? Who had taken her? Glancing at the Croserwoman’s cool, self-possessed profile Raina suspected she had an answer. Chella Gloyal had taken herself.

  With a squeeze of her thighs, Raina coaxed Mercy into a canter and pulled ahead of the Croserwoman. It was an hour after dawn and the frost was still sparkling. Sheep were cropping tender shoots of oatgrass and wild carrot along the trail, and Raina grinned as the fuzzy creatures sprang into motion to avoid Mercy. She seldom rode due no
rth from the roundhouse. The forest of great black evergreens did not please her. Yet that was what Chella had requested, and Raina was reluctant to let the Croserwoman know that she found the dimness of the blackstone pines unnerving.

  They rode an hour in silence before entering the trees. Chella was a natural horsewoman, back straight, shoulders relaxed. Ewemen stopped in their tracks to admire her. Somewhere along the way her hair had slipped free of its ties and dark chestnut tresses spilled down her back. Raina envied her. She was young, beautiful, newly-wed to a good man who adored her. Her life stretched out before her, full of possibility and hope.

  Was that how I looked when I first wed Dagro? Raina wondered. Surely not. I was never that confident.

  Chella took the lead on the forest trail. Snow was still thick on the ground here. Dry, crunchy and littered with pine needles, it crackled as the horses’ hooves punched its surface. Mercy followed Chella’s stallion so closely their prints formed a single line.

  “Is this one of the trails leading to the mine?”

  Raina had been so wrapped in her own thoughts, she was surprised when Chella spoke. “Black Hole?” she said, buying herself a moment.

  Chella glanced over the shoulder. “Yes.”

  Raina wondered about the question, but could see no harm in answering it. “You can get to Black Hole this way, but most miners take the cart road to the east.”

  “I heard the mine is closing.”

  Raina looked at the back of Chella’s head. She, Raina Blackhail, chief’s wife, had heard no such thing. Quickly she searched her memory for recent mention of Blackhail’s sole working silver mine, Black Hole.

  “A party of Blackhail miners arrived at Croser just before I left,” Chella said, reining her stallion to draw abreast of Raina. “They came looking for work in the iron fields. As they told it, the Hailhouse was full to the rafters and there wasn’t enough room for them”

  Raina got the distinct impression that Chella was well aware this was news to the chief’s wife. “There is always room for tied clansmen at Blackhail,” she said stiffly. “They were mistaken.”

  Chella executed the smallest possible shrug. “Of course you are right.”

  Agreement flummoxed Raina: she had been stirring for a fight. What was it about Chella Gloyal that provoked her so? She was an outsider, a clanwife whose only claim to respect was through her husband. Deciding to take control, Raina said, “The trail widens here. Let’s stop and rest.”

  “If we ride on for a few minutes we’ll find a clearing.”

  Raina blinked.

  “You’re correct,” Chella said, plucking the question from Raina’s face. “I’ve never entered these woods before, but I read trail marks. A while back they indicated a site to rest and water the horses.”

  “You hunt?” Raina asked, voice still stiff.

  “A little,” Chella turned in the saddle and smiled knowingly at Raina, “if I have to.”

  There was no way to reply to that so Raina didn’t try. She was beginning to regret inviting the Croserwoman to ride with her this morning. In the stables three days back, Chella had told her she had made two mistakes. Raina had heard the account of her first mistake and could not fault it—she had no experience of planning a war party—and today she had planned on hearing her second mistake. Now she found herself wishing she hadn’t given Chella Gloyal and her opinions so much credit.

  As the Croserwoman predicted, the trail led to a clearing around a small creek. A log had been sectioned to form seats and another formed a bridge across the water. Raina dismounted and led Mercy to the creek. She could smell smoke and char from recent campfires. How could she have lived twenty years at Blackhail and never before stepped foot in this place?

  Resisting the urge to question Chella about the clearing, Raina said, “You spent time in Morning Star.”

  Chella slid off her stallion and joined Raina by the creek. “You have been speaking with my husband.”

  It was not a question and Raina did not answer. Chella must keep close track of her information if she could be so sure that no one at Blackhail save her husband, Grim Shank, could furnish basic facts about her.

  Crouching, Chella stripped off her gray leather gloves and tested the temperature of the water. Raina swore she could feel her thinking.

  “My mother had family in the city and I lived there for three years.”

  “Consecutively?”

  Chella raised an eyebrow. “No. Two separate visits.”

  Raina remained calm. She had hardly known where the question came from, but she knew it was to her advantage to pretend otherwise. She said quietly, “I will not tolerate you spying on me again. Your husband has gone to Bannen and you are alone in my house. Do not make me cast you out.” I have killed a man in cold blood, Raina Blackhail thought. If the Stone Gods are listening this moment they can surely hear it in my voice.

  Chella Gloyal rose to standing. She had a bow callus on her right thumb, Raina noticed.

  “I apologize for my actions in the stables.” The Croserwoman’s voice was level and she looked Raina straight in the eye. “It won’t happen again.”

  She hadn’t been caught, Raina realized quite suddenly. If Chella had chosen to she could have kept her presence in the horse stall a secret. Which made her fine words nothing more than a promise to keep herself better hidden next time. Raina ran a hand across her forehead. Gods, I’m no good at this.

  Waving the apology aside, she said, “You might as well tell me what you believe my second mistake was.”

  “You sent away your friends.”

  Wind moved the trees and lifted Raina’s braid from the back of her neck. Overhead, she caught sight of a red-tailed hawk and she had a sense of how she must look from above: a figure isolated in a forest of dark trees. Orwin Shank and Corbie Meese: her two most powerful and loyal allies had departed the Hailhouse at her request. She had been so intent on caretaking Blackhail’s treasure, she had not thought to care-take herself.

  Dagro, come back to me my love. I need you.

  The wind died and the hawk sailed west. Time did not reverse itself. Raina waited, but it didn’t.

  Looking carefully at Chella she said, “I can look after myself.”

  Chella’s green-gray gaze was steady and knowing. “I don’t doubt it.”

  They moved apart. Raina went to pay her respects to Chella’s beautiful horse. The stallion had found fresh fern shoots on the east side of the clearing and was plucking them delicately with his lips. As Raina approached he raised his head in greeting. Raina patted and scratched him. Something about the sleekness of his cheekbones and nose reminded her vaguely of Mercy.

  “He has Sull in him too. One eighth.” Chella had come to stand beside her. “You can tell straightaway if you look in his eyes.” Holding the horse’s cheek strap, Chella turned the creature’s head, presenting its right eye for Raina’s inspection. “See the tiny flecks of white in the iris? The Sull call them xhi a’lun, the moon and stars.”

  Raina smiled with wonder.

  Chella smiled along with her. “Mercy has them too. Just a few.”

  Something had happened between them at the creek and Raina was still trying to figure out what it was. They had both revealed something to each other, but she could not decide the nature of those revelations. Had they exposed hidden weapons or vulnerabilities?

  Maybe both.

  Raina reminded herself to be cautious. Chella was like no Croserwoman she had ever met. She was secretive and opinionated and too sure of herself by far.

  “I have treats.” Chella said, reaching inside her saddlebag, “to reward ourselves for coming this far.” She pulled out a red tin box, well made with a crafty hinge and clasp, and a small flask insulated with rabbit fur. “Grab the blanket and we’ll sit on one of the logs.”

  She was from Croser and perhaps they lived by different rules there, so Raina overlooked the impertinence of Chella directing a chief’s wife. Raina took the blanket that had bee
n rolled and fastened behind the saddle and spread it over the closest log. She was hungry. And she couldn’t recall the last time she’d had anything that could be called a treat.

  “Drink.” Chella handed her the unstoppered flask and Raina did as directed. The liquid was cool and dry and tasted of pears. Raina felt it moving through her body like smoke through an empty house.

  “My grandfather distilled it,” Chella said, laying out items between herself and Raina on the log. “He owned a pear orchard on the south banks of the Wolf.”

  That meant wealth. “It’s delicious.”

  “He would have been happy to hear that.” Chella took the flask from Raina and drank. For a moment the Croserwoman’s gaze lengthened, and Raina imagined she was remembering the past. “So. We have smoked trout, soft cheese and candied plums from Croser—and fresh bread purloined from the kitchens at dawn.”

  She had thought of everything, including little glazed dishes and a round-bladed knife for the cheese. Raina mashed trout into a hunk of bread. “At Dregg I used to eat smoked fish every day for breakfast. Hailsfolk have little taste for it. They don’t care for water or anything that lives in it.”

  “No clan’s perfect.” Chella pushed a plum between her lips, chewed and swallowed. “Or any chief.”

  Raina turned her attention to the wedge of soft, ripe cheese and did not take the bait. Chella was forward—no one without due respect should speak of chiefs to a chief’s wife—yet although Raina felt offense, she also felt the pull of the younger woman’s lawlessness. Who was she? And why had she chosen to marry Grim Shank and travel north to his clan? Surely she would have seen more of her husband if she’d stayed at Croser? She had to know Grim would return to war.

  “It’s said that Wrayan Castlemilk took the warrior’s oath when she was thirteen.” Done with eating, Chella swiped crumbs from her skirt. “Her brother held her swearstone until his death. She took it from his corpse and now keeps it herself.”