A Sword from Red Ice

Freezing rain sprayed through the entranceway, glowing orange where the stovelight touched it. A figure, thickly cloaked against the cold, stood in the doorway and surveyed the room. After a moment, Silus Craw piped up "Close the door!" but the figure did not heed him. A deep hood concealed the stranger's face. — Gull marked bulges at the stranger's waist and hip that had the look of serious weaponry. Beginning to get worried, Gull set down his shovel. He was going to have to do something about this. The action drew the stranger's gaze his way, and Gull found himself looking into a pair of copper eyes.

With a movement that wasted nothing, the stranger closed the door. At that exact moment Liddie Lott came down the stairs carrying a tray of beer taps that had been soaking all night in lye. Liddie's mind was on her feet and her head was down, and all you could see of her at first was her long chestnut hair. Like a whip-crack the stranger's gaze came down upon her. Gull felt real fear then. He had seen something he recognized in the stranger's copper eyes, and his experience of dealing with men and women over the past fifty years warned him it was the worst of all possible states of mind. Desperation.

Aware that something queer was going on around her, Liddie Lott looked up. The instant her ruddy well-fed face caught the light, the stranger's gaze swept away. Whatever it was he searched for, Liddie Lott did not possess.

"Welcome, stranger," Gull said, aiming for good cheer yet falling a little short. "Have you come to mark the Grass Watch with us?"

Again the stranger's gaze fell on Gull. Slowly, he grasped the center point of his hood and pulled it back. Ice-tanned and deeply lined, his face told of a lifetuff spent outside. Not for one moment did Gull make the mistake of imagining the stranger to be a farmer or eweman. No. The man had a way of standing and looking — a particular type of confidence that only those with martial skills possessed-that told Gull he had to be an adventurer or mercenary or grangelord.

Every patron in Drover Jack's was held rapt by his presence. Looking around, seeing Lottie standing, mouth agape by the beer kegs Burdale Ruff sitting in the comer with his meaty hand ready on his sword hilt, and the two Mundy boys shifting their position to align themselves more truly with the door, Gull suddenly wished for a little peace. His business was to serve food and ale, not tackle dangerous strangers. Trouble was, people expected him to take charge. Whatever drama happened in this tavern, be it a patron sick with the spurting vomits, a drunken brawl over a comely girl, or a lightning strike on the stove—Gull Moler was supposed to take care of it.

So that's what he did. To Liddie he said, "Fill everyone's cups with yellow wheat—on the house." To Clyve Wheat: "I see you have your stringboard with you. How about picking out a tune? It'd be a poor Grass Wateh if we didn't have a song." Then, without waiting for a reply, Gull moved forward to greet the stranger.

"On a night as cold as this a man needs two things A warm stove and a fine malt. I'd be honored if you'd share them both with me." Gull spoke quietly, and although he couldn't quite bring himself to touch the stranger, he did his best to usher the man toward the back of the room where it was quiet and dim.

The stranger let himself be led away. His cloak was steaming, giving off a sharp wild-animal scent.

Out of the comer of his eye, Gull noted that the free beer was going down well: Jon Mundy was laughing with Liddie Lott, holding out his tankard for more. As yet Clyve Wheat hadn't turned out a song, but Gull could hear him picking the strings as he tuned the board.

"Sit," Gull said to the stranger, indicating the chair and tables in the corner. "I'll be back in a blink with the malt."

As Gull slipped behind the tavern's small wooden counter, Burdale Ruff moved to speak with him. "Do you know who he is?" asked the big eweman, wagging his head toward the stranger.

Gull stepped on a crate to reach for his best malt, tucked high out of reach on the top shelf "No. Never see him before in my life."

"I have."

That made Gull spin around. "Where?"

Beardale raised his considerable eyebrows. "Here, in the Three Villages. Saw him talking to some men-at-arms at Spring Faire."

"Do you know anything about him?"

"You mean apart from what's sodden obvious-he's as dangerous as a half-skinned polecat?"

Unsure if that was actually a question, Gull rucked the malt under his arm and said, "I can't keep him waiting." Burdale didn't argue with this. "I'lll be keeping an eye on you." Strangely enough that didn't make Gull feel one bit better as he walked to the back of his one room tavern. The stranger had pulled off his cloak, and there was no mistaking the hardware of war. Three knives arranged by blade-length hung from a wide belt slung across his hips, and a five foot longsword, unsheathed, rested within arms reach, against the wall.