by J. V. Jones
With Effie the shankshounds were as soft and playful as kittens. Sometimes they didn’t realize their own strength, and once or twice she had returned to the roundhouse with nips and bruises from where they had scrambled and jumped all over her in their eagerness to greet her. That never bothered Effie much. The bruises hardly ever hurt at all.
Perhaps sensing some vestige of her earlier fear, the dogs were especially gentle with her as she settled herself back against the closed door. Darknose probed her face with his handsome wet nose, sniffing and concerned. Lady Bee came and sat close, pushing her warm body against Effie’s, giving her heat to the scrawny little thing that had come in from the cold. Effie stroked her fine black-and-orange neck. She had long ago worked out that Lady Bee thought she was one of her pups. Old Scratch simply laid his great old head on her lap and promptly fell asleep. Cally and Teeth worried at her slippers, making small breathy noises as they nipped around her toes. Cat came and sat at a dignified distance from everyone, waiting for a sign from Effie before she deigned to come close.
Sitting on the hard-packed earth of the cote with all the shankshounds around her, Effie finally felt safe. Her lore was quiet now, sleeping. The thought of the man on the stairs no longer frightened her, and she began to wonder if she’d made too much of a fuss over nothing. Already she felt bad about ignoring Jebb Onnacre on the court.
Darknose watched her with his clever dog’s eyes as the other shankshounds settled down in readiness to sleep, each one determined to use some part of her body as a pillow. Effie loved the feeling of their heavy heads and paws on her skin. Even aloof and dignified Cat came to her in the end, tempted by a hand stretched her way and the soft click of Effie’s tongue.
Effie loved the shankshounds. They were good dogs. They smelled a bit, but Jebb Onnacre had once told her that she probably smelled just as bad to them as they did to her.
Snuggling down beneath her blanket of dogs, Effie began to drift off to sleep. She was ever so glad she hadn’t gone running to Drey. The shankshounds would protect her.
Dreams of dogs followed her to sleep.
Grrrrrr.
Effie’s sleeping brain first responded to the sound of a dog growling by making it part of her dream. Yet the growling went on and on, and soon other dogs joined in and the noise became too loud to ignore.
Effie blinked awake. Strips of light from the dirt hole at the back of the cote took a moment to get used to. Even before she could fully see, she became aware of six dogs standing in a half-circle around her, hackles raised, heads lowered, tails flat against their docks. There was a moment where all she could really see was yellow fangs and burning eyes, when she suddenly understood all the bad things people had ever said about the shankshounds. They could kill a man and not regret it.
Then, even as she raised a hand to calm them, she heard voices from outside. Two of them. A man and woman, shouting to be heard above the storm.
“She’s witched, that girl. Witched. Cutty swore she disappeared right afore his eyes. Reckons she knew he was after her the moment he darkened the roundhouse door. It’s that lore of hers. If you ask me . . .”
Effie strained to hear more above the howling of the wind and the snarling of the dogs. Pushing her palms through the air, she worked to silence the dogs without speaking. She had recognized the speaker instantly. That deep mannish voice belonged to the luntwoman Nellie Moss. Cutty Moss was her son. He was about Drey’s age yet had never made yearman. Last summer he had been caught stealing chickens from Merritt Ganlow’s coop, and the winter before that there had been some incident involving the Tanna girls that Effie had only vague ideas about. She hardly knew Cutty Moss at all and was quite sure he didn’t live in the roundhouse most of the year. The only thing Effie could remember vividly about him was that one of his eyes was hazel and the other one was blue.
“Hush, woman!” cried a hard male voice, cutting the last of Nellie Moss’ words clean away. “I’ll listen to no more of your superstitious chaffing. The Sevrance girl is no more witched than you or I. If she did slip away, then it was likely because she heard that worthless son of yours coming.”
All the dog-given heat left Effie’s face. The second speaker was Mace Blackhail, she was sure of it. His voice penetrated the stone walls of the dog cote like icy drops of rain.
“Cutty’s no fool,” snapped Nellie Moss. “He did as he was told.”
“Then he’ll have to do it again, for I won’t have that little bitch sneaking around the roundhouse, telling tales and watching me with her father’s dead eyes.”
Hounds from the larger cotes yipped and howled as Mace spoke, yet all he had to do to silence them was whip a piece of leather through the air. The soft jingle of metal followed, and Effie guessed that Mace had brought leashes to the cotes meaning to save his best dogs from the storm.
“Making ye feel guilty, is she?” Nellie Moss sounded pleased.
“Just do as we arranged.”
“’Twould be easier for everyone if she could be caught outside by a cowlman’s arrow . . . like Shor Gormalin.”
A quick series of sounds followed. Boots thudded snow, fabric rustled, and then Nellie Moss issued a low throaty wail.
“You’ll not speak of Shor Gormalin again, woman. Is that clear?” A moment passed where all Effie could hear was the wind and the soft persistent growling of Darknose, then, “I said, is that clear?”
A breath was taken sharply. “Aye. ’Tis clear. No one will hear the truth of it from me.”
“Good.” A sound, like many knuckles snapping, accompanied the word.
Effie sank back amid the shankshounds, deeply shaken. Lady Bee began licking Effie’s ears as she would with a sick pup. Old Scratch, Cally, and Teeth were still intent upon the people outside, spines lowered, snouts bunched and quivering. Darknose and Cat, whom Effie always thought of as the leaders of the pack, were alert, trotting to and fro in front of the door, listening, ready. All of the dogs except Lady Bee continued to growl.
Shankshounds. That had been Shor Gormalin’s name for them. Effie remembered smiling when he’d first called them by it. Now she knew it was their real name. The only one that suited.
A space opened in Effie’s chest. Shor Gormalin had known about dogs. He had known about her, too. He was the only person who understood why she had to run and hide sometimes. He’d even said he did it himself. That meant something to Effie. It helped cancel out some of the bad things Letty Shank and the others always said. She couldn’t be that different. Not when the best swordsman in the clan told her she reminded him of himself when he was growing up.
Now something terrible had happened. Nellie Moss had spoken as if Shor Gormalin wasn’t really killed by a cowlman at all, that somehow Mace Blackhail had arranged it.
Effie began to rock back and forth on her haunches. She felt violently sick, as if she’d eaten a meal of dirt and grease. When Lady Bee licked her ear again, she pushed the dog away. Shor Gormalin. Mace Blackhail had killed Shor Gormalin. He had hurt Raina and . . . Effie stopped rocking as a thought smashed through the others like a rock breaking ice.
Mace had killed Shor because of Raina. Shor loved Raina. He would have protected her, stopped her from marrying Mace. Effie had seen how Shor was around Raina, how gently he’d tended her when she’d first heard about Dagro’s death. Anything he could do for her he had. He’d taken over her duties with the tied clansmen, seen to the stores of grain and oil . . . he’d even ridden out to the Oldwood to check on Raina’s traps.
Effie’s stomach turned to liquid. Shor had been working on Raina’s behalf the day he had found her here, in the little dog cote. Sickness flooded Effie’s head and chest, and she turned away from the dogs to vomit. Even as she ran her fist over her mouth to clean it, Lady Bee began lapping away at what had been produced.
“What was that?” Mace Blackhail’s voice suddenly sounded close.
“Shanks dogs. With any luck a fever’ll take ’em.”
Mace Blackhail grunted
. “Be off with you, woman. And don’t follow me here again. People will mark our meeting.” The leashes he held jingled. “Do your business.”
“Cutty’ll bide his time. He’ll wait till things settle and the girl has long forgotten him, and then he’ll take her in such a place as she canna get away.”
A disgusted breath was almost lost to the wind. “I want her gone, and quickly.”
“My Cutty won’t be rushed. Not now he knows she’s witched.”
Mace Blackhail said something, but the wind drove the words away.
“Me and Cutty need no lessons in trespass from you.”
“And I need no lessons in man-craft from a woman who lights torches for her supper. Go.” The word was spoken in a whisper, but it carried better than anything else Mace Blackhail had said. So strong was its compulsion that Effie found herself obeying it, edging farther away from the door. Even the shankshounds quieted.
Footsteps receded toward the roundhouse. All was silent for a long moment, then Mace called to his dogs. A door creaked open, dogs shrieked and howled and dashed through the snow. A wet nose probed the door to the little dog cote. And then a command was spoken and Mace Blackhail led his killers away.
Deep inside the cote, Effie hugged her knees. The shankshounds formed a barrier of dogs around her, yet for the first time in all the months she had been coming here she no longer felt safe.
THIRTY-FOUR
Men Buying Clothes for a Girl
How do you feel?” Raif’s face was grave as he asked the question. A scarred hand smoothed the edge of the blanket that covered her.
“Well . . . I think.” Ash rubbed her eyes. “I feel a bit knotted inside, as if Heritas Cant had bound all my organs with string.” Raif didn’t like Heritas Cant; Ash could tell that from the brief twitch of muscles around his mouth as she mentioned his name.
“Are you well enough to ride?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Raif made no answer. He looked at her with dark eyes then turned away.
They were sitting in the room Heritas Cant had first greeted them in last night. Judging from the bands of gray light that shone beneath the shutters, it was sometime after midday. Ash had slept on a padded bench close to the fire. She had no memory of being brought here, didn’t even know if she had walked on her own two feet or been carried inside. The last thing she remembered before waking and finding herself snug and well wrapped by the fire was the sound of Heritas Cant’s blood dripping into a bowl. Ash shivered. She could still taste the fear in her mouth.
“I’ll leave you for now,” Raif said. “Eat your breakfast.” He frowned. “Angus and I went to the market this morning. We bought you some new clothes. They’re in the basket by the table.” He opened the door. “And there’s a pony outside, too.”
Ash raised herself up from the bench. “A pony?”
“Yes. She’s mountain bred. Gray as a storm cloud.”
“You picked her?”
Raif nodded. Their eyes met.
A moment passed. Then Ash said, “I won’t hold you to any promise you made last night. It was all so . . .” She shook her head. “I had no right to ask for your help.”
An expression that Ash didn’t understand glowed with cold light in Raif’s eyes. For a moment he looked older, harder, like someone she might cross the street to avoid. “I’ll take back no promise, spoken or unspoken. I owe loyalty to my uncle and will say no word against him that is not to his face. Nor will I speak ill of Heritas Cant, for I respect his strength of mind and am grateful for all he has done. Yet know this. My reasons for helping you are not the same as theirs. I have no interest in the Reach.”
“I know. That’s why I turned to you last night. That’s why I told you the truth by the Spill.”
Raif looked at her and did not speak. After a moment he turned to leave.
“I’m sorry,” she said, halting him.
“For what?”
Ash found herself struggling for words. He was giving her so much . . . quietly and with no fuss. “For letting you touch me that day by Vaingate.”
Raif’s hand rose to his throat, where it probed until it found the black bit of horn he called his lore. Surprisingly he smiled, and it was such a beautiful thing to see that Ash caught her breath. “You are worthy of respect, Asarhia March.”
Before Ash could decide what sort of answer he had given her, the door clicked closed and he was gone. Stupidly she stared at the space he had left behind.
She took her time getting ready after that, pausing to eat slices of cold fried bread and sour winter apples. Someone, probably Cloistress Gannet, had seen to it that she had everything she needed to take a bath. It seemed a long time since she’d last had the luxury of soap and water, and she stripped off her clothes and stood naked in the copper tub and let the hot steam soak her skin. After a time she scrubbed the grime from her body and worked her hair into a frothy lather that smelled of oats and winter mint. The water beneath her soon turned gray, and for the briefest moment she considered calling to Katia to bring more.
Ash stepped out of the tub. The water seemed suddenly cold, and she could not dry herself quickly enough. Katia was dead. Gone. Hung on the gallows for crows to pick at and all the world to see.
And Penthero Iss had put her there. Ash dropped the wool towel into the tub and watched as it soaked up the dirty water. She understood more about her foster father now. Last night while Heritas Cant spoke of Reaches and the Blind and the creatures who lived there, Ash had thought of Iss. Everything he had ever done and said to her—every kindness he had shown, every kiss he had given, every little attention he had paid her—was a lie. She was a Reach, and he had known it. It was why he had come to her late at night, asking slyly worded questions about her dreams. It was why he had set Katia to watch her chamber, the Knife to guard her door, and Caydis Zerbina to steal away her things.
Penthero Iss had wanted his own Reach.
Ash stood in the center of the room and let that fact sink in. Gooseflesh pricked along her arms and chest, and after a while she began to shake uncontrollably. Her foster father had planned to lock her away in the Splinter and keep her for himself. Already he had something, someone, imprisoned there, and she was the next piece he meant to add to his collection.
How long had he known what she was? Always? Had it been the only reason he had saved her?
Ash didn’t know how long she stood there, shaking, didn’t even know if she shook from anger, shock, or cold. Heritas Cant’s words had remade her life. Her memories were now as dirty as the water in the tub.
The hard clack of wood hitting wood jolted her from her thoughts. “Yes?” she called, falling back into her old ways of command as easily as if she had never left Mask Fortress.
“It is Heritas Cant. I must speak with you before you leave.”
“Wait a moment while I dress.” Ash’s voice was as cold as her body. She crossed to the table where the basket of new clothes lay and began sorting through them. Two men buying clothes for a girl! Ash smiled a crazy tear-filled smile as she looked on what they had bought. They meant to spoil her. They had thought of everything and nothing, buying red silk skirts and pretty embroidered blouses and the finest, softest woolen cloak she had ever felt or seen. Everything was dyed in bright and lovely colors: a waistcoat of peacock blue, ribbons as green as emeralds, and suede boots the color of rust.
Ash found herself laughing and crying as she held up a needle-point bodice as fine as anything she had ever seen on a grangelord’s wife in Mask Fortress. There were slippers and wraps and fine woolly mittens, lace collars, bone buttons, and shoes: everything two men thought a girl needed. Everything they thought she’d love.
She did love them. She loved them so fiercely, she hugged them to her chest like living things. The thought of Angus and Raif walking around a market, choosing colors, feeling textures, guessing sizes, and talking trim made her giggle like a child. On the other side of the door, she heard Heritas Cant wheezing
. One of his sticks tapped impatiently against the floor.
Time she was dressed. Only she could find neither wool stockings nor small linens in the basket. Ash shrugged. Men couldn’t be relied on to think of those. She’d have to make do with the ones she had.
Having picked out the plainest wool skirt, a white blouse embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots, and the peacock blue waistcoat, Ash began folding the other clothes away. As she picked up the red silk skirt, a small muslin bag fell from its folds. She scooped it up and untied the string. Underthings. The bag contained pretty ladies’ underthings, all scented and fastened with bows. Angus, she thought immediately. Angus remembered to buy these.
Five minutes later, dressed and ready, she opened the door to Heritas Cant.
He did not look well. The twin sticks he used to walk with shook with the force of his weight. Immediately feeling guilty about making him wait, Ash came forward to help him. He shook her away, and they both spent an awkward few minutes as he made his way toward the fire and then settled himself on a high-seated, high-backed chair that Ash guessed had been specially built for his use.
His first words to her were, “Money wasted.” And it took her a moment to realize he was talking about her new clothes.
She said nothing.
“Are you well?” Cant’s green eyes seemed to extract the answer from her before she spoke, and the nod she gave had the quality of an afterthought. “Good. Good. The bloodwards I have set are in place, then. Can you feel them?”
“I think so. My insides feel tight, almost as if they’ve been battened down.”
“In some ways they are.” Cant struggled to adjust his right leg, which rested in an odd way beneath him. “Wardings do two things. First, they conceal you, making it difficult for magic users and the creatures of the Blind to track you down. Now this doesn’t mean they won’t or can’t find you, for if you draw upon your Reach power, you might as well light a beacon on the highest hill, put a horn to your lips, and blow. No. The wardings are just a trick to fool those who don’t look too close.”
