A Sword from Red Ice

Quill, realizing the way things were, wisely made no objection. "Storm's coming," he said to Baralis as he entered. "Not going to be much of one, though. Reckon it'll be up and out before sunset."

"Sit," Baralis replied. Now that he had more strength in his lungs his voice sounded richer and more resonant. He had regained his ability to send a word softly yet make it act like a command.

The thief pulled up a stool, using the time it took to send his gaze darting around the room. "You'll need more coals," he said, "for the stove."

Crope was on the verge of agreeing with him heartily, but a tiny flick of Baralis' eyes stopped him. Quill had taken the stool Crope usually sat on to feed the stove and care for Baralis, and Crope had nowhere to sit. Awkwardly he shuffled backward so he could rest against the wall, hoping all the while that once he was there they'd both forget about him.

"Tell me the news in the city," Baralis said to the thief.

"Stornoway holds the fortress. Fighting's mostly done. There's been some trouble at Almsgate but the other gates are sealed." "What trouble?"

"Lisereth Hews' hideclads stormed it. Word arrived yesterday that her son's on his way back from the clanholds, and she needs to control at least one gate so the Whitehog can enter the city."

Baralis closed his eyes for a fraction longer than a blink, and Crope knew he was dealing with a spasm of pain. "Will she succeed?"

Quill thought about this, one of his long thief's fingers circling his chin like a sundial. "All she needs do is keep fighting until her son arrives—some are saying that might be as early as tomorrow. She's managed to get hold of a battering ram and she's a tough mother of a bitch; I think she'll do it."

"And Stornoway?"

"The watch is his. As long as they're loyal to him it's going to be difficult to break the fortress. The old goat's sitting tight. He's told the watch that by supporting him they're supporting Marafice Eye—them strengthen his heart and cool his face with damp cloths. Yet he could do nothing until the thief was gone. His lord's will held him in place Quill sat motionless on the stool, yet Crope was struck with the notion that if he were to touch the thief he would feel him vibrating Energy hummed through the stillness. Quill's gaze rested at a point directly in front of Baralis' face. His pupils were enlarged with revelation.

He had been promised things, gold and treasures—access to the deceased surlord's secret stash—yet Baralis had been slow to deal them out. Hints had been dropped, a piece of information leading to the discovery of a small cache of gold had been disclosed. Crope knew how these things worked. His lord was keeping the thief on the hook. Quill hadn't known it that day in the attic, but any man who struck a deal with Baralis stood on quicksand. What Crope didn't know now was his lord's purpose. Power had been Baralis' sole motivation in the past. He had striven to control a kingdom and then a continent, and failed. Those days had gone though, and Crope felt a knife of fear slide in his neck when he thought about the new days to come.

Evil had been born in the monstrous iron chamber beneath the tower. The man who had clamped it with faucets and pulled it out was dead, but the thing he had brought into this world lived on.

Hell knows me and you cannot understand what that knowing brings. Crope knew his memory wasn't good, but even if he lived to be three hundred years old he doubted if he would forget his lord's words.

Crope wondered if the thief was thinking of them too. Certainly he was thinking of ways to profit from the information that a storm meant to pass through the city in a couple of hours would take an unexpected turn for the worse. Perhaps he was also thinking there was use in knowing that the fighting at Almsgate would be slowed. Or perhaps, like Crope himself, he was wondering if by holding the storm at unspeakable cost to himself, Baralis was serving or resisting hell.

Quill stood. "I'll see you get those coals for the fire."

Baralis nodded, accepting the complicated acquiescence of the.

Once Quill had let himself out, Crope went to tend his lord. He feared what Baralis would lose this day.

TWENTY-SIX The Outlanders

"Where does Thomas Argola live?" Raif asked.

Stillborn did not much like this question. They were standing on the shell-shaped ledge in front of the Maimed Man's cave, shoveling snow. A storm had hit in the night and spring had rolled back into winter. When Raif looked south to the clanholds he saw a world turned white.

"Don't get close to him," Stillborn said, his breath making icy clouds from the words. He was dressed in his normal garb of a sleeveless tunic and a kilt over pants. His concession to the cold was a glossy black sheepskin draped over his shoulders and tied in place with string. Reaching the area where his firestack was buried, he stopped shoveling and began to scrape. He wasn't about to waste good wood. "The outlander's not one of us."