A Sword from Red Ice

The stranger watched Gull assessing the sword. "You have nothing to fear from me," he said quietly.

Gull could think of no reply. The stranger's voice was deep and weary, and it had a familiar lilt. Bear was right: this man came from around here. Setting down two wooden thumb cups, Gull said, "My name is Gwillern Moler and I own this tavern. How can I help you this night?"

The man s face remained unchanged as Gull spoke, and Gull realized he had told the stranger nothing he did not already know. Silence followed. Gull made himself useful by pouring the malt. Behind him, the stove was still sending out black smoke that smelled faintly of damp. Liddie must have fed it more wood.

During Grass Watch it was custom to sprinkle rye seeds on the first meal and drink of the night. Padric the Proselyte had spent thirty days sitting in a rye field in late winter waiting for the first shoots of grass to poke through the thawing earth. Every morning when he awoke to find nothing but bare soil he denied God. Finally, on the thirtieth day, tiny, pale-green points emerged at sunset. That was the day Padric received God. Gull was generally disinterested in the stories of the First Followers, but Padric s tale always moved him. Something about the man's quiet dignity as he sat and waited struck a chord with Gull Not many men would ask for proof of God and then sit in the cold for a month to get it. It had always seemed to Gull that Padric had proved himself by waiting, and that God probably wouldn't have revealed himself to a man who had waited one day less.

In any event. Gull liked to honor the custom of the seeds. Just this evening he had stocked apron pouch with long, strpy seeds-the best they had in the market. Now he found himself hesitating to use them.

"Go ahead. You will not offend me»

Taken aback, Gull stared at the stranger's face. The copper eyes glinted for a moment, sharp as tacks, before he veiled them.

How could he know what I'm thinking? Gull wondered if perhaps the stranger had seen him reach briefly for his apron pouch. But no that couldn't be. No one watched anyone that closely.

Anyway, he had to do it now. As he scooped up a dozen seeds and sprinkled them over the two thumb cups, the first strains of Clyve Wheat's song filled the tavern. Clyve was not a great thinker and couldn't hold his drink, yet no one could deny he had a talent for music. Nothing fussy or complicated, mind, that wasn't his style. He knew the simple shepherd songs and played them well. This one, Gull recognized, was an old cradlesong.

Sleep and in the morning all will be well, my daughter.

Sleep and all will he well.

Abruptly, the stranger reached forward and grabbed his cup. Without waiting for the customary toast, he threw the malt down his throat. He did not breathe for a moment, Gull realized, simply tipped his head back and waited. When whatever relief he was waiting upon failed to arrive he returned the empty cup to the table.

"My name is Angus Lok. And I am looking for my daughter."

What was it Burdale Ruff had called him? Half-skinned, that was it. Gull had seen many men in many states during the thirty years he'd spent running Drover Jack's, but this man was different. He lived but he was also dead.

Gull took a mouthful of the malt. It was warm, peaty and golden, and it made him very sad. For a moment he thought of saying many things to this stranger before him, telling him that he too had lost a daughter; that not four weeks ago his Desmi had run off with some freebooter from the Glaive. Silly, headstrong girl. Barely seventeen. Also Gull thought of showing the stranger to the door and telling him, I have enough problems. Do not bring me any more.

Instead, he said, "How can I help?"

Angus Lok searched Gulls face with such force that Gull felt as if his skin were being pulled across the table. "What do you know of a man named Thurlo Pike?"

Gull was surprised at the question. "Thurlo? He used to roof around here last winter. Haven't seen him in a couple of months."

"What sort of man is he?"

Although he did not normally speak ill of former patrons, Gull told the stranger the truth. "He was a dishonest roofer and a short-tempered man. Caused trouble here last time I saw him. Insulting the good name of my tavern, asking all sorts of questions, spilling ale." Angus Lok leaned forward in his chair. "What sort of questions?" Gull shrugged. "About some women, I think. Women living alone or something. You'd really have to ask Maggy that. She's the one who spoke with him."

Something happened to the stranger's face as Gull spoke. His mouth tightened and a muscle in his cheek began to pump. "Where is this Maggy?"

"Gone. Went missing a couple of days after Thurlo. No one's seen hide nor hair of her since."

"What was her full name?"