Ice, Iron and Gold

by S. M. Stirling

  The duke nodded. "We need tighter controls," he said. "But what about the yew? And the damned Scotsman, and the lady with the bow?"

  "That was where the wheels came off the coach for them, my lord. You remember the Count of Azay, how he married a woman from the Far West, about thirty years ago, before he inherited from his father? That business with Nantucket."

  "Vaguely," he said. "Quite a fuss at the time. Official Secrets Act, buried deep."

  "That was what prompted my memory," Rutherston said, and explained. "We'll get the details if our mysterious guest recovers, but I suspect from what Vargas—the one calling herself Vargas—said, that the rovers took a ship from there . . . one with a cargo of yew. It grows like a weed over there in Oregon, far more of it than anywhere in Europe—and someone must have decided a cargo of it would pay the long voyage to Europe. There's not much else that would."

  "And didn't kill all the crew?"

  "The dead man we found in the warehouse and the mysterious lady with the starry jerkin must have been on that ship and managed to hide from the corsairs and then from Vadalà's men until it was dropped off here. God alone knows how."

  "Why didn't they contact the authorities at once?" the duke said indignantly.

  "My lord, all they knew was that a plundered cargo sailed in here on a ship that dealt with the pirates who'd attacked theirs, with no apparent objection. They wouldn't know who to trust—but they did know who and what to follow."

  "But it wasn't they who killed Vadalà," Superintendent Arnson pointed out.

  "No. Vargas was watching Vadalà for the Mourides—they knew better than to trust a traitor even when he was working for, or with, them. There are Moors who can pass for a European of the darker kind, and obviously our Vargas was one. The Baye Fall would have been in town disguised as ordinary African sailors—or better still, from Maracaibo or Belize or Bahia, one of the South American countries where men of those looks are common. When she needed them, they'd be on hand to act, but with no obvious connection to her."

  "Clever," Bramble said, and the Duke of Portsmouth nodded. "Who'd expect that lot to use a female agent?"

  "Just so," Rutherston said. "She killed the man in the kilt as he was looking over the yew in the warehouse, but didn't have time to conceal the body—the laborers were on her heels. Instead she very coolly reported it as a murder . . . reporting a crime she'd committed herself! If the mysterious lady who saved my life was watching, the way Vargas was friendly with the police would make her more reluctant still to contact us. But I'm afraid I rather slipped up then. I mentioned that the sight of Hecate's mark and the yew together made me remember something."

  "Not so she could hear it," Bramble said. "You were speaking quietly and she was a good fifteen yards away."

  "But she was looking at me very carefully; I can read lips myself . . . it's a useful skill for an officer and still more so for a detective. That's when she must have decided to have me silenced too."

  "And the merchant?" the duke enquired.

  "From the timing, she decided to do a clean sweep and kill Vadalà and his household too when the stranger prevented those Baye Fall from knifing me just a little while ago. She must have realized at once that Vadalà would turn King's evidence to save his skin. From what she said, the Marabouts are interested in putting us and Emir Jawara at loggerheads, as well as simple piracy."

  Bramble nodded. "There must have been a pretty little dust-up in that house when our bouncy-bouncy friend arrived. Funny it's a girl, sir." He shook his head. "I'll never forget the way she went up that wall!"

  "Just so," Rutherston repeated. "At a guess Vargas planned to disappear afterwards with her Baye Fall hatchetmen. We'd assume she died in the fire, leaving us nothing but some circumstantial evidence that men from the Emirate were responsible. But our blue-eyed lady of mystery back-tracked the assassins sent to kill me, found the massacre underway, and intervened. We owe her a good deal."

  "And we'll see that she gets it, if she lives," the nobleman said. "Go on, Inspector."

  "Vargas managed to knife her too, not before being clouted across the head, and left her for dead upstairs. She staggered out and shot her own man to prevent him from talking if captured. Doubtless she modified her plan on the spot—she'd be one of the innocent victims, a heroine even. A resourcefully wicked lass."

  Rutherston spread his hands ruefully. "All that's ex-post-facto, of course, and pure deduction at this point. I didn't really know for sure until Vargas tried to kill the stranger."

  Bramble grunted. "Fortunate the lady could tell you enough to put you on to Vargas, hurt as she was, sir," he said.

  "Very fortunate indeed," the duke said. "If Vargas hadn't revealed herself she could have covered her tracks and escaped in the next few days and we'd never have figured out what really happened. Or even carried out her plan to remain as the heroine of the piece, if the stranger dies."

  The detective smiled thinly. "The lady didn't say a word; she never recovered consciousness. I simply gave Vargas the . . . ah . . . hairy eyeball . . . and pretended the stranger had whispered something. I wasn't at all sure—but something made me suspect our putative Gibraltarian wasn't what she seemed."

  "What?" Arnson said. "The way she was wounded, it must have looked as if the same people who killed Vadalà went after her?"

  "No. The wound on her head came from a straight longsword, not a scimitar; and the mysterious lady from the west carried a straight blade. And there was something that happened in the warehouse; Bramble pointed it out. When I mentioned witchcraft, she didn't cross herself . . . which someone pious enough to wear a crucifix of that sort would have done. Those two clues were little enough, but if I could spook her into breaking cover, as it were . . ."

  The duke nodded somberly. "Clever, Inspector. Very clever indeed."

  He extended a hand, and Rutherston shook it. The detective went on earnestly:

  "My lord, I think you'll find that she's not actually an agent for the Emir, only for the Mourides and the corsairs. As I said, it appears the Mourides are trying to provoke hostilities. Doubtless Jawara has been taking a cut of the corsairs' profits, indirectly, but . . . well, he wouldn't be sorry to see the Marabouts of the Brotherhood cut back a bit either, I suspect. He might even help us with a punitive expedition against them, if the alternative was war with the Empire, and then we'd have no reason to attack the Emirate as a whole. It would be a simple punitive expedition writ large, not a proper war."

  The duke turned to one of his officers. "Lieutenant, take charge of that woman; we're removing her from civilian jurisdiction under the Defense of the Realm Act. Have her conveyed to the holding cells at the naval station and prepared for interrogation—I'll supervise that myself. If she succeeds in killing herself before she talks, rest assured that you will soon be envying her."

  The smile that followed as he turned back to the three police officers was remarkably unpleasant.

  "Don't worry, Inspector: we'll get the whole story before she hangs. Oh, yes, every jot and tittle of it."

  Bramble and Rutherston and Inspector Arnson nodded, with varying degrees of relief; it was out of their hands now. The nobleman began to draw on his metal-backed gauntlets, cocked an eye at the detective, and went on:

  "And if her testimony confirms your . . . theory . . . Inspector Rutherston, you've prevented a war as well as solved a murder. Or at least made it considerably smaller, and saved a good many lives."

  Rutherston bowed in return; the soldiers formed up and tramped away, and the policemen left the burning house that shed black smoke into the white-gray blur of the snow-ridden sky. It was a relief to escape from the harsh smoke, full of the smell of things that should not burn.

  "And now we can go back home," Rutherston sighed, pulling the coat across his chest where the injured arm rested in a sling. "That was a short investigation, if a remarkably . . . strenuous . . . one."

  "You're not going back to Winchester before you write up the repo
rts!" Arnson said. "I'm not putting this lot on paper all by myself."

  "Well, at least you could buy us breakfast, then," Bramble grumbled.

  "The Anchor has the best kippers on the coast."

  The Mage, the Maiden, and the Hag

  (with Jan Stirling)

  A premonition of death touched Narvik the Sorcerer as he walked through the fair, the feather-light brush of a dark wing across his eyes. He turned and followed as the feeling drew him across the fairground; it was never wise to neglect the unsought omen.

  He tossed long blond hair from his face as he walked, intent on the inner vision, blue eyes thoughtful and slitted against the sun, heedless of those who stepped warily aside from his passage.

  The vision drew him to a fortune teller's booth; he stood surprised and a little at a loss. A woman dressed in gaudy rags hunched over her rune sticks like an arthritic crone, casting the carved wood and mumbling. Two boys crouched before her, listening avidly. Suddenly the chubby boy turned cherry pink and his friend stark white. She leaned towards them and they recoiled a little, like dogs before a snake.

  A charlatan, he thought. And yet . . . Reluctantly, he dropped into a light trance and probed gently; with a shock of surprise he felt himself skillfully blocked.

  The woman turned her head slowly, unerringly, towards him. Her customers fled as soon as her gaze released them.

  Younger than I! he thought in surprise. But very homely. Her nose resembled a generous wedge of cheese, below was a mouth like a slit cut into raw dough, deep-set brown eyes burned beneath wiry brows under a high, narrow forehead. Her hair, under a brown hood, was a frizz of black curls, but clean. The dark eyes watched him coldly, above a smile sly with malice.

  Surprise turned to an icy prickle of alarm. She's dangerous.

  Suddenly she grinned; a row of big, yellow teeth split her sallow face. Some cold emptiness poured itself into a hidden well behind her eyes, leaving only curiosity and humor.

  Yes, she could be dangerous, Narvik thought with relief. She has skill enough to sense my probe. But she'd also apparently decided not to be offended. No duel arcane in a marketplace!

  "Hello," she called out as he approached, her voice low and mellow as a wood flute.

  "I've no wish to pry, mistress, but I sensed . . . something amiss."

  Some of the cold returned to her eyes. "Never fear," she said, "my wards are strong, I took no harm from your attack."

  "I meant no offense," he insisted, offended himself, resisting the urge to defend his actions. "I came to offer aid if needed."

  The shadow stroked down his spine, held him leaning on his staff when reason told him to leave.

  "You meant to be kind," she murmured. "Perhaps kindness comes easier, when you've a roof of your own." She jerked a chin towards her rags. "I truly dread the winter; like a cat, I hate the cold."

  "You've power," he said cautiously. "And skill as well . . . in more than telling fortunes."

  "I'm a sorcerer," she admitted. "Yet, no town has invited me to stay." She lowered her eyes, her lips quivered with some emotion.

  Disappointment? Anger? Narvik frowned behind a motionless face. It wouldn't take a sorcerer of his skill to see the strangeness in her; not an attribute endearing to town councilors.

  "Where are my manners?" the sorceress said. "I'm Wythen, I apprenticed under Navila the Yellow."

  "I'm Narvik, son of Phocon, apprenticed under Fahon of Kint."

  "Ah," she said, looking down to scoop up the coins her young customers had thrown her. A pupil of the famed Fahon would never tell fortunes in rags. "Where's your town?"

  "Parney's twenty miles south of here," he replied. "Just below the foothills of the Leton Mountains."

  She shook her head, smiling up at him.

  "I don't know it."

  "A beautiful place. If ever your wanderings take you there you must be my guest," he offered politely.

  He froze. The words left his mouth like syllables of burning ash; the deadly shadow of things that were not, things that might be, a fate settling into the groove his act had chosen. He probed the pathways of the future and met only swirling mist. No mage can read his own fate.

  "Wythen," he asked gently, "is anything wrong? Are you in trouble of some sort? Or ill? I'd help if I could."

  Her eyes shuttered and she hunched forward, face stiff with pride. "Wrong?" she said. "Others of no greater skill have homes, and I none." She turned her head away. "A safe journey to you, Master Sorcerer."

  Narvik frowned down at her and bowed, lifting his staff formally. Too changeable by half, he thought. An illness of the mind . . . or spirit-ridden? Instinct warned against probing her wards to find out. I offered help, and hospitality. There is no more I may do.

  "A good journey to you, Master Sorceress," he said, and turned on his heel.

  Wythen watched him go, then spat in the dust beyond her blanket.

  Pah! How fine we are, how noble and good. Come visit to see what you've none of. And when you've filled your heart with longing for things you'll never get—such as my handsome self—then it's "off with you, you great ugly lump."

  She turned and dug through the canvas sack that held her belongings, burrowing beneath leather-strapped books and bags of herbs.

  Her hand found the hammer of polished stone and the long iron nail, moving without her will.

  No! Wythen thought. Not that!

  She placed the nail on the circle Narvik's heel had left in the dirt.

  Don't do this.

  Her mouth made words, shaping the stuff of the world. With a single hard blow she drove the nail into the footprint. Her hand started forward to pluck it out and undo the curse, then sank back quivering.

  Death curse, she told herself. A low moan sounded as she pressed her hands to her aching forehead. Death.

  Unless he could find his way to this one footprint among millions and pull the nail out himself.

  Forget! snapped a voice that only Wythen could hear.

  Memory faded into black mist and hungry yellow eyes.

  Wythen looked up at the mountain peaks southward of Parney and shivered at the sight of the snow already creeping down their flanks, turning her hood up against the wind. It was a relief to come to Parney town, past the dark bare-branched vineyards and in among the houses, lights showing yellow and warm through the windows against the gathering night. She passed the houses of wealthy merchants and vintners on the outskirts, set back amid walled gardens, passed on to where brick and timber buildings leaned over narrow streets of worn cobblestone. A sign creaked over one, bearing a pictured mug and sheaf of wheat; beside it was an entrance to an enclosed courtyard rimmed with stables.

  "Innkeeper?" she called, pushing through the doors.

  Warmth greeted her, and tantalizing cooking smells from beyond the common room. There was a big brick hearth on one side, with a pot of mulled wine rich with cinnamon hanging over the coal fire. Booths and tables lined the other walls, save for a counter with barrels behind it.

  "Innkeeper?" The man behind the counter looked up. "Could you tell me the way to the house of Narvik, son of Phocon, the sorcerer?"

  He started. "Would you be a friend of his? A colleague, perhaps?" His eyes went to her staff and pouch, both carved with the markings of her trade.

  "I'm a sorceress, if that's what you mean," she said with an uneasy smile.

  "Please," he said, suddenly at her side. "Sit. You honor this house with your presence."

  He urged her to a table, pushing a cup of the hot wine into her cold hands. A plate appeared as if by Art, heaped with slices of roast mutton and roots in cream sauce, with a fresh loaf and butter and a wedge of cheese. The innkeeper waved aside her protests.

  "No, no payment—an honor, as I said."

  Wythen closed her mouth, except for eating. Chances like this didn't come very often; the server refilled her plate, replacing it with a fruit pie and a cup of wine better than she could afford. As she ate a half-dozen men and women
slipped into the room, standing and talking quietly among themselves. Prosperous-looking folk, in coats of fine dyed wool and shoes with upturned toes, holding their floppy hats in their hands, casting an occasional glance her way. When she pushed away her plate with a sigh, one came over to her with a courteous bow.

  He was the smallest among them, an older gentleman with a neatly pointed beard.

  "I'm Cafrym, good sorceress, Syndic of the Corporation of Parney. I wonder, would you be so good as to allow us to discuss a business proposal with you?"

  Wythen gestured wordless invitation at the seats across from her. The others gathered, clearing their throats.

  Business? she thought. How curious. What about Narvik?

  "We've sent out numerous messengers," Cafrym said. "Are you here because of them?".

  "No." News?

  "Are you, uh, great friends with Narvik?"

  Wythen shook her head again, this time frowning.

  "No. We met at a fair last autumn. He invited me to visit if I was ever in the area."

  "Ah. Well. I'm sorry . . . Narvik, son of Phocon, took ill and died in the early summer. Just . . ." Cafrym grimaced and spread his hands, " . . .faded away, unable to help himself."

  A tearing gasp broke from her. Something cold ran through her body, like a wisp of icy mist. Tears filled her eyes. My fault! her mind accused.

  She'd forgotten. She always forgot when she did something truly evil. Only to remember when, as now, someone told her the results of her wickedness. Despair crashed down upon her like an avalanche. She wanted to destroy herself.

  No use. She'd tried before. Once she'd placed a noose round her neck and tightened it, and once she had a flagon of poison actually at her lips. Both times Wythen suddenly found herself trudging the road, footsore and far from where she'd been, all her possessions on her back, with a headache like a spike driven into her brow.