Frost was still petulant. “I had to go back and buy the knife. I didn't take one."
Oona seemed not to hear as she studied the hand. She showed no desire to touch it, though. “It's the left one, good.” She looked up suddenly, and her eyes gleamed. “He'd have to be guilty, though, or it won't work. Was he guilty?"
She chewed her lip. “We won't know until we try it."
“That could put you in a bad spot."
Frost said nothing. She laid the hand on the table and backed away from it. Grisly work, cutting off a man's hand with only a knife. Hours dead, there was still plenty of blood in that limb. She'd gotten it all over the skirts Oona had loaned her. That's why she'd thought to buy the shawl, to make up for it. She'd used the bloodiest skirt as the wrapping to carry it in.
“I could read the cards for you,” Oona said suddenly. “Maybe I can get answers to your questions."
She looked at Oona, knowing the reasons behind that offer. Oona was a healer. What she was asking of the old woman went far beyond that, though, deep into the realms of sorcery. A Hand of Glory was not an easy thing to make. She could direct, but Oona would have to do the actual work. Frost dared not touch it until after it was completed or the magic would be nullified. It might be already, since it was she who had done the cutting.
“Read,” she said, then.
Oona restacked the cards on the table, shuffled them, and dealt. When they were all laid out, she frowned, reshuffled, and spread them again. Frost pulled up a stool and watched, a dull hope throbbing in her chest. She did not want to make a Hand if there was another way.
“How did you learn the Descroiyo's art?” she whispered.
The old woman shrugged, gathered the cards, and reshuffled again. “How does one learn anything?” she answered cryptically. She touched the cards to her breast this time, then to her lips. She breathed on them. Then, one by one, she turned them up.
First card, the half skull crowned with gold; then, a rose with bloodied thorns.
“I can see!” Frost muttered tersely; she bent closer to see the casting. “I can see! Korkyra's monarch and that's the rose garden at the palace! But is it Aki or Thogrin, and is that Aki's blood?"
Oona said nothing but turned another card: the hermit, dark-robed and alone on a mountain.
“The dark-robed figure by the throne,” Frost cried excitedly, then scratched her chin. “Or maybe the intruder."
Oona looked up from the cards. Her hand paused with the next one drawn, but not turned. “Samidar, child..."
Frost smiled weakly and leaned away from the table. Oona waited a needless moment for emphasis, then returned Frost's smile and exposed the next cards.
A sword; a magic staff of power; the wheel of fortune; the three stars; the ring of fire. Oona grunted. The lovers; the demon. Oona stopped and stared. “They don't fit,” she said at last. She tapped the last exposed card. “This doesn't fit at all; the position is all wrong."
She swept the cards together and dealt them out again. Nine different ones, this time. Oona slammed her palm on the unfeeling wood and tried again.
“No,” she said at last, her voice heavy with resignation. “A pattern starts to form, but then it breaks down."
“Maybe because I've handled the cards?” Frost offered nervously.
Oona shook her head. “You can handle magical things. Ashur and Demonfang, for instance. You just can't make magic.” Her old eyes drew slowly to the hand still lying on a corner of the table. The flickering candlelight cast shadows of the upcurled fingers across the walls and ceiling. As the flame danced, the shadows seemed to beckon to them.
“I know about this thing you want”—she spoke slowly, her voice strangely muted—“but not how to make it."
“I'll guide you,” Frost answered with a shiver. “I've lost my witch-powers, but not my memory."
Chapter Four
Frost leaned forward in the stirrups and rubbed her backside. She'd made good time, arriving in the middle of the night, though she couldn't tell it by the sky. The stars were hidden behind a dense curtain of gray clouds. Not even the moon peeked through. She lifted her hand, turned the palm in several directions. No wind, either.
Down below Mirashai lay, barely visible, seeming unchanged in the month she'd been gone. She'd ridden half the night, skirting Shadamas and all other towns to get here at this particular hour. Her work must be done between midnight and dawn. Certainly it was late enough. Her hand wandered to the cloth pouch that hung from her weapon belt. The outline of the contents showed through the thin material.
With a gasp, she jerked her hand away.
“No.” she whispered firmly, getting a mental grip on her reaction. “You know what it is; you helped make it; it can't hurt you.” But she had grown unused to arcane ways and the strains they sometimes demanded. Twice, Oona had nearly fainted at the instructions the younger woman had given her. From the beginning her old face had remained a pale, wrinkled mask of horror. Frost herself had had trouble keeping food down and had nearly quit the making. But once begun it could not be left unfinished.
She forced herself to touch the pouch again, to feel the outline of the thing inside. Soon she would have to hold it in her own hand. Best get used to it now.
When she was rested, she urged Ashur down the low ridge and out onto the broad plain that stretched all around the sleeping city. Her gaze combed the darkness, and she was alert for any movement. Nothing, just the quiet.
She looked up at the sky again. At least there was no moon to give her away to watching eyes. The clouds, so low and oppressive, hid everything.
Outside the city's wall stood a collection of the dirtiest inns and taverns Frost had ever seen, places that prostitutes and criminals of all nationalities called home; where ancient sailors too old to ride the waves anymore littered the streets with their drunken bodies; where wealthy men with enemies in high places bought quick solutions to their problems. Aki had tried to rid Mirashai of this cesspool and failed. So had her father and his father.
She touched the pouch at her side, then reconsidered. Not yet, she decided. It must last.
She passed the first tavern. The hand that had touched the pouch now shifted to her sword. She searched the windows and doorways as she rode by. No light, no noise, no faces peered out. She drew a breath and rode on. Two buildings stood clustered together. She watched them carefully, alert, ready.
No one stirred. It was late, yes, but would everyone be sleeping? She nudged Ashur on, releasing her sword long enough to wipe the sweat from her palm.
She might have sneaked in more quietly on foot, but she was going to need the unicorn's height.
The buildings were closer now, mostly dark. Here and there, a thin light flickered through cracked wooden shutters. She passed by as silently as possible.
A blast of laughter echoed from a tavern up ahead. She saw the door to the establishment push open. Quickly she turned her mount down a narrow alley and out of sight. She rode on through to the next street.
Someone stumbled toward her. She stopped. He stopped, too, and stared. A whimsical expression twisted his face. He lurched against a wall suddenly, sank to the ground, and closed his eyes.
She hesitated. Should she kill him and shut his mouth, too? He might awaken and talk, later. She rode closer, drawing the sword from its sheath. She leaned down and nudged the man with the point. He didn't stir. She nudged him again, gasped, and drew back to thrust, but he merely fell over on his side and started to snore.
She put her sword away and moved on.
The next street was lighted with a reddish glow. Frost looked up and down. Candles encased in lanterns of scarlet cloth and paper hung from every door. She heard strange, muffled sounds from the windows above her and blushed. The nighttime is theirs, she thought. No one sleeps on this street. She turned to seek another way.
At last she came to the great gate in the city's western wall. It was shut, as she knew it would be, and barred on the inside with a
mighty beam. But above the gate four posts stuck out from the masonry. She had remembered those, too.
If she stood on Ashur's back and jumped, she could just reach those posts. But first she reached into her saddlebag and took out a length of rope. A slender log was tied to one end. She slid the coil over her shoulders. It made a clumsy burden, but she would manage.
She stood carefully on the saddle. It wouldn't require much of a jump. Her fingers were only inches from the post she'd chosen. She pushed off and grabbed.
The weighted end of the rope began to slide. The fibers stung her bare neck as the rope rushed downward, tightening the coils around her. She grabbed for it, clinging to the post with one hand. That lasted all of two heartbeats before her grip gave way on the rough wood.
Ashur sidestepped away. She landed hard, tangled in the rope, the log pressing painfully on her spine.
“Gods damn!” she muttered, and kicked the stupid length of wood before she picked it up again. She could have hooked a grappling iron in her belt if she'd had one, but it was cursed hard to stick a log in your pants! Instead of slinging it over her shoulder again and risking a repeated incident, she placed the log under her arm against her side and hastily wound the rope around herself, binding it in place. Uncomfortable, but she only had to tolerate it a few minutes.
“Get over here!” she said to Ashur, who stood by watching. The unicorn meekly obeyed. “I think you're laughing at me! I ought to smack your nose!"
She climbed the saddle again, and this time gained the post without difficulty. It was wide enough to stand on if she was careful. She undid her rope. The top of the wall was about fifteen feet higher. She prayed she could reach it. She'd taken Oona's only rope, a short one, not daring to purchase another in Shadamas. Enough time had passed for the smallest towns to know she was fugitive.
She checked the knots to make sure the log was secure. It was stout enough to hold her weight if she could snag the parapets overhead. With a three- or four-pronged grapple, it would have been easy. With a log, she worried.
She listened. No sound of any sentry above. She knew they patrolled the wall but had no idea of their schedule. Her first toss missed. The log was heavier than she thought. She threw again.
Four attempts later, the log caught but made one hell of a clatter. She froze, expecting shouts and the rattle of weapons, soldiers bearing lances to appear over the wall, more soldiers to come charging through the gate below.
Nothing happened.
She'd stormed cities before amid the crash and clang of steel and the shouts of warriors and Gath's own chaos raging all around. Doing it silently was something quite different, and she cursed every little sound, every creak of the rope, every scrape of her boots on stone as she climbed. At last she gained the top, pulled herself over, and dropped in a deep crouch onto a broad walkway.
She touched the pouch on her belt to make sure she hadn't lost it.
Far down the walkway she spied a pair of torches. Sentries about their rounds, she guessed. She wasted no time but gathered up the log and the rope, coiled it tightly, and stashed it behind a rain barrel. In the darkness, she was sure no one would find it. The torches drew nearer. She heard voices but could distinguish none of the words. She moved quickly, found the stone stair that took her down to the street level, and dived for the nearest shadow.
She cowered there for long minutes, unmoving, listening. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath came quick and shallow.
Now, it was time.
She reached into the pouch and extracted the Hand. The skin of it was dry and brittle to touch except for the fingers, which were slick with a fine oil. It exuded an awful odor of decaying meat and strange herbs. Even in the darkness, the bones and bloated veins showed. She shivered again, recalling the thing's making.
Her hand dipped into the pouch again, and she brought out a small vial of thin black powder. Before opening it, she rubbed her hands on her trousers, wiping away any traces of the oil that coated the dead fingers that might have spread to hers. Then she unstoppered it and sprinkled a small quantity on the tip of each digit.
A tiny flame ignited where powder and oil made contact, five fingers and five flames. Frost felt a tingle spread from the Hand through her hand along her arm and all through her body to join with a different tingle that crept up her spine. The shadow where she crouched vanished. It no longer mattered.
She rose and stepped into the open, holding high her Hand of Glory.
The voices on the parapet continued for a moment, then ceased.
She bit her lip and stared at the five-fingered candle. The man was guilty, then. But of what? she wondered. Debt? Theft? Murder? She shifted the Hand of Glory to her right hand, laid her left on her sword's hilt. She wouldn't need the sword, though; it was just for reassurance.
She started down the street, walking slowly, using the Hand to light her way. Her heart thumped with every step, the blood pulsed in her veins. The flames danced and flickered, casting her shadow behind her, creating shadows before.
A window opened, a head poked out sleepily and stared at her. Her step faltered, then she passed on, watching the man over her shoulder. He didn't move at all, just stared, unseeing.
He would stare that way until the sun wakened him at dawn, as would anyone who gazed on the Hand's light. But that was only part of its power. Any who were already asleep would remain so, unable to waken for any reason until the first light of day. Some would awaken in mess and damp beds.
Only Frost and Oona, the Hand's makers, were immune, and the power of the Hand extended throughout the city. She set a straight course for the palace.
Another wall surrounded the palace, separating it from the rest of the city. It spanned half as high as the outer wall, but no sentry walked its narrow top. Only a north and south gate allowed entrance. The northern was reserved for ceremonials, such as visits by outland royalty or state ambassadors, or for the ritual entrances of the elite palace guard. It was an iron drop-gate and heavily patrolled. She chose the southern.
No drop-gate this, but two great oaken doors. She had no rope to scale this wall. Perhaps she would not need one. Two sentries stood constant guard inside this gate, she knew. There was a small, shuttered portal in one gate. She went to it and knocked softly.
“Who's there?"
The portal cracked slightly. She leaped back, holding the Hand well out of sight.
“Let me in!” she said, putting as much urgency as she could manage into her voice.
“On what business?"
She could not see the guard's face; the portal showed no sign of opening farther. What business could she have that would make him open the gate at so late an hour?
“The woman,” she whispered, “the one who killed the queen? I have information!"
“Come back in the morning!” The portal shut.
She pounded on it until it opened again. Again she leaped out of sight, holding the Hand's light where it couldn't be seen. “I have to talk to Commander Sur'tian tonight! Let me in!"
“Let me see you,” the guard said.
What to do now? The guard might recognize her even in the darkness. And if she got close, the Hand's power would see to it that he never opened the gate.
“No!” she croaked. “Don't! Get away!” She slammed her weight against the massive doors, whipped out her sword, and brandished it before the portal. “I'm unarmed!” she screamed at her make-believe attacker. She swung the sword again, taking a chip from the old wood. “Aggghh! You've killed me! Help!"
Then silence. She waited, hidden. Moments passed and the gate did not open. Had her little drama failed to convince? The gate creaked open an inch, then more. A helmeted head poked out.
“Over here,” she said.
The sentry turned to gaze on the Hand of Glory.
She heard a noise, then a voice. The other sentry, she remembered. There were two. She gave the first a push; he toppled over in a heap.
“Help him!” she called
. “He's hurt!"
The second guard popped through the gate, nearly tripping on his comrade's body. Sword drawn, he'd also fetched a shield. It did him no good. He peered over its edge into the preternatural light and fell instantly asleep. She gave the shield a little shove and the two sprawled side by side.
Within the palace grounds, she made her way around to Aki's rose garden, taking no effort to conceal herself or move quietly. She wanted to be seen. More important, she wanted the Hand to be seen.
There were guards on duty in many parts of the grounds after dark. They were all statues by the time she got to their individual positions, for the Hand's light could be seen long before anyone got close enough to recognize her.
There was a door that led into the palace's lower levels. She had used it often with Aki when the little queen wanted to spend time among her flowers. It was not often used by anyone else, and it was away from the palace mainstream. Once inside, she needed to be more selective about who fell under the Hand's spell. Probably it was too late. If Tras Sur'tian were already asleep, nothing would wake him until morning. But if he were not, she wanted to see him. As for Thogrin Sin'tell, it would be nice if he were still awake. It would save her the trouble of carting his body out of the city, but she had no hope of that.
She found the door and stepped inside. The Hand lit the way for her like any common torch. She moved swiftly and quietly, maneuvering the narrow corridors with the precision of experience. When they joined to the main corridor, she hesitated. She was near the tower. There should be a guard at the foot of the stone steps.
She moved into the hall and faced the tower entrance. Yes, there he was. He regarded her down the long passage, proud in his polished armor, stiff of bearing, unblinking of eye.
“Good night,” she whispered, and turned away.
She made it to the reception hall without encountering a soul. There were no sentries there this time of night, as no business was conducted at this hour. Except my business, she thought, and pushed back the doors.
Skull Gate Page 5
