Mistshore Page 4

  Icelin stepped around the side of the building and glanced at the sign above the door. She saw with some surprise that it was the butcher’s. “Sull’s Butchery,” it stated, in blocky brown letters over a painted haunch of meat.

  I didn’t even notice where I ended up, Icelin thought. A dangerous lapse, in Blacklock Alley. Well, she’d wanted meat…. Maybe the everyday chore would calm her. Anything was better than being in the street alone.

  A bell jangled loudly when she entered. Icelin gritted her teeth at the sound. She wanted to be home where it was quiet and safe.

  “Be right out!” The bellow sounded from somewhere in the back of the shop, a cross between a lion’s roar and a ram’s gravelly tenor.

  A breath later, a giant human figure crowded the doorway. He carried a half-carcass of deer, dangling by a metal hook. Grunting, he heaved it down on a covered portion of counter at the far end of the room.

  “Sull?” she inquired. She half hoped the imposing man wasn’t the name above the door.

  “That’d be me.” He turned to give her a friendly smile, exposing a wide gap between his two front teeth. Red, frizzy hair covered his head, ending in two massive sideburns at his jowls. A shiny bald circle exposed the top of his head. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some….” she trailed off, watching him wipe the animal blood on his apron. The streaky red stains reminded her of the dead horse.

  “Aye?” He looked at her expectantly. “Are you all right, lass?”

  “I’m fine.” Icelin swallowed. “I’d like two cuts of boar and one of mutton, if you have them.”

  “I do, and you’re welcome to ’em. Just let me take care of this beauty.” He took a long cleaver from a padded pocket in his apron and cut into the carcass on the counter. “Lass a little older than you is comin’ in for this one.” He took a fistful of salt from a jar on the counter and sprinkled it like snow on the cut meat.

  “Aw, you can make a hearty stew with deer or boar, and that’s the truth. I got my own seasonin’s—best recipe you’ll find at any fine inn. Most folk have me prepare ’em in advance, tenderize ’em, let the juices mingle a while. Delicious.”

  The big man reached into another apron pocket and pulled out three small jars. “Peppers, some ground-up parsley, and more salt. Nothin’ fancy. The key’s in the quantity. I’ll show you what I mean. It’s best on the raw meat, when it’s drippin’ just a bit.”

  The bell at the door jangled again as the butcher headed for the back room. “Be right back,” he hollered.

  Icelin turned. A pair of gold elves stood in the doorway. They were dressed in servants’ liveries. Neither paid her any attention, but Icelin felt sick in her gut.

  They were Cerest’s men. She knew they were.

  CHAPTER 3

  The shorter of the two elves took up a position by the door. The other came forward to lean an elbow against the long counter.

  They all move like dancers, Icelin thought, as if the ground beneath them could be measured and controlled through their feet. Would they fight the same way?

  Pinned between them, Icelin weighed her options. She could run, but they would be on her before she reached the street. If she screamed, would the butcher come to aid her?

  The last thing she wanted was for harm to come to him or his shop. She couldn’t use her magic for the same reason.

  “Your master is persistent,” she said, stalling for time. If she could just get them to move, take the inevitable fight to the alley….

  The elf at the counter regarded her coolly. He said something to his companion in Elvish. Sharp, elegant words to match their looks. The other elf nodded.

  “You know, that’s terribly rude behavior,” Icelin said. She crossed her arms. “Talking as if I’m not in the room. If you’re going to execute a successful kidnapping, the least you could do is be straightforward with your intentions.”

  The pair exchanged a glance. Icelin couldn’t tell if they were amused or annoyed.

  The elf at the door looked her over. “You’ve a blunt tongue,” he said in Common. “I don’t suppose if we were ‘straightforward’ and asked you to come with us, you’d cooperate without resistance?”

  “Ah, if only a woman’s intentions bore any degree of predictability,” Icelin said, smiling. “Let me think. If I kick and scream and conjure fire to boil the flesh off your lovely cheekbones, does that count as resistance?”

  “I believe it does,” the elf said, genuinely amused now. “But I think you’re bluffing.”

  “You think I don’t have magic? I suppose I don’t give much of an appearance of sorcery.” Icelin reached up to grasp the coin-purse at her neck.

  “Hands at your sides!”

  Her head cocked, Icelin obeyed. “But I thought I was bluffing,” she said. “The pouch is too small to hold any useful weapon.”

  “Mefilarn stowil!” the elf at the door said sharply to his companion. “Make her hold her tongue, Melias.”

  “Your friend’s right, Melias, I do talk too much. And that’s a fault to reckon with,” Icelin said. “But don’t interrupt me now, I’ve only just got going. The pouch can’t contain any weapon deadly to you. So what am I keeping in here, if not some dark magic that you both fear?”

  “Empty it,” Melias commanded.

  “Not here,” Icelin said, “in the alley. We can have a nice, quiet conversation—”

  “Sorry to be so long!” Sull’s booming voice cut through the tension in the air like a saw grating on wire.

  “Watch your hands.” The butcher tossed a pair of bundles wrapped in brown paper onto the counter next to Melias. “Seasonin’s, I was talkin’ of.” He uncapped the jar of salt again and poured a fistful into his large hand. He gestured at Icelin and sprayed salt across the counter.

  “Large crystals, that’s what you want,” Sull said. “Not ground as fine as for a noble’s table in North Ward—that bleeds the flavor out—but try talkin’ sensible cookin’ to a noble, eh? The salt’s what teases the tongue. You put some pinches of this on the fire while your boar meat’s simmerin’ in my spices, the whole thing’ll be so tender it falls juicy onto your spoon. Make a man weep unashamed pleasure, that’s the truth.” He looked at the elves as if he’d only just remembered they were there. “Sorry ’bout that, gentlemen, I like to blather. What can I get the pair of you?”

  “Nothing,” said the one by the door. “We didn’t see anything worthy of our master’s tastes. The lass and we are leaving.”

  “Aw, shame, that,” the butcher said, looking crestfallen. “This is prime meat, you know. Here now, maybe you’d like this cut instead.”

  The red-haired giant turned, yanked the meat hook from the deer carcass, and swung it in a downward arc. The hook sank into the countertop, the curved metal trapping Melias’s delicate wrist against the wood.

  Screams of elf fury filled the shop.

  “Told you to watch your hand,” Sull admonished. He threw his handful of salt at the elf by the door, grabbed Melias’s head in his other hand, and slammed the elf’s skull against the countertop.

  Blood poured down Melias’s face. He fell back over the counter, his hand still pinned awkwardly under the hook.

  The elf by the door took the salt in the eyes. Crying out, he drew his sword and scraped a hand across his face.

  Stunned by the violence, Icelin almost didn’t react in time. Reaching into her neck purse, she chanted the first simple spell that came to mind. The elf at the door brought his blade up, but Icelin got to her focus first and hurled a handful of colored sand into the air.

  A flare of light consumed the sand and shot at the elf’s face. Luminous colors filled the small shop; Icelin covered her eyes against the brilliance.

  She heard the elf fumble his sword, but he didn’t drop it. Instinctively, she ducked. Wood splintered from the wall.

  “Run, lass!” The butcher yelled at her.

  Icelin broke for the door, stumbling over her dress. The noise betrayed her.
The elf dived at her from the side and caught an arm around her waist. They went down together, arms and legs tangling.

  Pain lanced along Icelin’s flank. The elf’s weight pinned her to the floor. She kicked out viciously, trying to find a vulnerable spot. He forced her arms against her sides and put his boot on the back of her head. When she tried to move, he pressed down, hard. Icelin thought her skull would crack from the pressure.

  She heard him groping for his sword. He dragged the blade over to them and brandished the pommel. He was going to knock her out, Icelin realized. The fight had come down to kicking and screaming after all, but she was still going to lose.

  The elf’s head snapped to the side. Steel clattered on wood, and he pitched forward, sprawling heavily on top of her.

  Her arms free, Icelin heaved the elf off and kicked his sword across the room. She raked the hair out of her eyes and felt moisture on her back. She could smell the blood.

  “It’s not yours.” The butcher stood over her, clutching a mallet in his hand. “For tenderizin’,” he explained.

  “I think you killed him,” Icelin said. She rolled the elf onto his back and put her hands over his heart. “There’s no beat. What about the other?”

  “He’s breathin,’” Sull assured her.

  Icelin had to see for herself. The butcher had strewn Melias across the counter next to the dead deer. Blood and bruises darkened his temple. His chest rose and fell intermittently. He would need healing soon, or he would join his friend.

  “Why did you kill him?” Icelin demanded. Fear shook her voice. How had everything gotten so out of control? This could no longer be a private matter. The Watch would have to be called, if someone hadn’t already heard the commotion and summoned them. She would be questioned; Gods, she would have to go through all that again….

  “Lass.” The butcher was speaking to her. She’d almost forgotten he was in the room. “I had to, lass. Beggin’ your pardon, but I was eavesdroppin’ just now. These two, or whomever they serve, meant you harm. No man sends his own men—men he knows might be traced—after a person unless he plans for that body never to come home. After they’d trussed you up and made you gentle, they would have killed me for witnessin’. I’d be just another abandoned shop.”

  Icelin felt light-headed. “I have to go home,” she mumbled.

  “Best to wait for the Watch.”

  “The Watch be damned!” She lowered her voice. “Forgive me, but my great-uncle—he must know about this. I’ll bring him back here—”

  “Wait! What if there are more of them out there?”

  More? She couldn’t comprehend it. She was one small woman squirreled away in a shop, in a city full of folk much larger and darker. Why would someone want her so badly?

  Cerest’s scarred face appeared in her mind—the puckered red skin, the ruined ear.

  “He wants revenge,” Icelin said. “There’s no other explanation.” She glanced at Sull. The butcher looked extremely uncomfortable. “You know who I am,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  Sull cleared his throat. “Aye, I know. I recognized your face when you came in the shop. Someone’s after you because of that business?” He shook his head. “It was years ago.”

  “He has burn scars all over his face,” Icelin said flatly. “He recognized me too.”

  Sull sighed and nodded. “Go then, to your great-uncle. I’ll speak to the Watch. But you’d best be runnin’.”

  Full dark pressed down on the city by the time Icelin reached her great-uncle’s shop. The place was closed up, and there were no lamps burning in the second-level rooms. Brant always left a lantern in her bedroom when she was gone after dark.

  Icelin fumbled her key in the lock at the back door. Sometimes her great-uncle lingered downstairs after closing to review his accounts. Meticulous in his records and his housekeeping, Brant never let anything stray out of order. That patience and painstaking attention to everything—including his great-niece—made her love him all the more.

  Icelin stepped into the dark shop, leaving the door ajar for Selune to light the entryway. The shadow of a tall wooden plant stand caught her eye as she groped for a lamp. The piece of furniture had been moved slightly away from the wall, and the vase of lilies that had been displayed on it lay overturned on the floor. Water funneled through cracks in the floorboards.

  Water, not blood. And no other earthly thing was out of place in the room.

  But Icelin screamed anyway, screamed and dropped to the floor, clutching her hair and sobbing. In the dark, she crawled across the floor of the shop, feeling her way, fighting the dread bubbling up inside her.

  Someone had already been here, seeking her. But how had they known? How?

  “Great-Uncle,” she whispered. Her fingers found a rack of boots, then a stand of belts. Long, leathery softness caressed her fingers. She crawled on, her skirts collecting dirt and dust that her great-uncle should have swept outside at the end of the business day. She found the broom in the next corner; the worn bristles reminded her of insect legs.

  She reached the front of the shop. Clear glass jars lined the counter, each filled with a different herb or spice.

  “Salt, mint, comfrey, basil.” She named each one out of habit, stopping before she reached the wall. Selune’s glow poured in a window and over her shoulder. She put her hand tentatively into the beam of light and followed it down to the floor. At the edge of the light, her hand found her great-uncle’s chest.

  Brant lay on his side, tucked against the back of the counter. There was very little blood; he’d clutched most of it in and made gouge marks in the wood with his other hand where he had held on. The sword thrust had been quick and precise, slipping right between his ribs.

  When she touched him, his eyes fluttered open. Icelin could see he was already going. She had no time, no breath to explain that he’d been killed because of her, no time to say anything of meaning.

  “Great-Uncle,” she choked.

  His eyes widened when he recognized her. He let go of the wood and grabbed for her, catching hair and dress and skin all together. He pulled her close.

  “Get out of here,” he said, his voice a terrible rasp.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Icelin said. “I’m not leaving you.”

  “Get… the… box.” The words came out broken by gasps and blood dribbling from his lips. “The floorboards, by the bookcase. Take it with you. Should have… been yours… before.”

  “You’ve given me everything I’ve ever needed,” Icelin began.

  “No!” He said it so viciously Icelin flinched. He held her tighter. “I lied, Icelin. I loved you, but now he’s going to….” Brant started to sob. She had never seen him cry before, not even when he spoke of his dead wife, Gisetta.

  “I won’t let him,” Icelin said. She put her forehead against his. His lips moved, but she could barely hear what he said next.

  “Run. Leave the city. Make something… new… better. Don’t blame yourself….”

  “Shh, Great-Uncle, please.” Icelin held his hands, but they’d gone boneless in her grip. He had no more strength.

  “Rest now. I… I’ll s-sing to you,” she promised him. He could still hear her voice. Haltingly, the words came.

  The last falling twilight

  shines gold on the mountain.

  Give me eyes for the darkness,

  take me home, take me home.

  “Do you remember, Great-Uncle?” she asked. She cupped his wrinkled cheek in her hand. His eyes stared glassily up at her. He nodded once. She felt the moisture at the corner of his eye.

  “You always remember,” he said. “I’m sorry… for that too.” He closed his eyes, and his head slid away from her. She lost him in that last little breath.

  Icelin curled protectively around the still-warm body, cradling her great-uncle’s head in her hands. She stayed there, hunched, until she couldn’t feel anything except a burning ache in her legs. The pain was the only force that kept her sa
ne. As long as it was there, she wouldn’t have to feel anything else. She would never leave that floor. She would stay there until the world withered away.

  Moonlight still bathed them when Icelin heard the shop door close. She raised her head and saw the butcher’s bulky shape crammed in the doorway. He seemed brought to her from another time, another century, one in which her great-uncle wasn’t dead.

  “Sull?” She didn’t recognize her own voice.

  “It’s me, lass.” The big man knelt beside her and lifted Brant’s head from her lap. “Are you all right?”

  “My throat hurts,” she said.

  “You were singin’.”

  “Was I?” She hadn’t been aware, but now she thought of it, she could recall every song. Of course she could. She would remember them and the look on Brant’s face when she sang. She would carry those memories with her until she died.

  “You always remember….”

  “Icelin, you need to come with me,” Sull said. He took her hands. She was dead weight, limp as one of his carcasses, but he pulled her to her feet easily.

  “He told me to leave the city,” Icelin said. She might have laughed at the jest, but she didn’t want to alarm Sull.

  “I think he was right,” the butcher said. He took her chin in his hand, forcing her to focus on him. “I’ve been to the Watch, but that elf bastard got away while I was gone. Guessin’ he wasn’t hurt as much as we thought. Ransacked every damn tool and stick of furniture in the place before he left, as if you were a mouse he was trying to scrounge up. Maybe to him that’s what you are, but the Watch thinks differently.”

  “They’ve never liked me,” Icelin said, and this time she did laugh. She could feel the hysteria bubbling up inside her. “Small wonder, I suppose. I’m the she-witch of Blacklock Alley, didn’t you know?”

  “Lass, that’s not it,” Sull said. “They’ve instructions to bring you in.”

  “For what?” she asked incredulously. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  Not this time….

  “It’s not like that,” Sull said. “You’re wanted on suspect of jewel thievery. The one who placed the request was named Kredaron, actin’ on behalf of Cerest Elenithil.”