Queen of the North (Book 3) (Songs of the Scorpion) (7 page)

“It is at that,” Rathe agreed.

As twilight deepened, Loro weighed the packet of meat in his hand, then unwrapped it. What was to have been Rathe’s meal vanished down his gullet in a few large bites. “Where do you think Nesaea’s sister is?” Loro asked, tossing a greasy bit of fat to a slat-ribbed dog nosing about a midden heap. The dog wolfed it down, then growled at him. In answer, Loro cocked his leg and broke wind, sending the mangy beast running down the alley.

“Seems best to head to Sazukford,” Rathe said, thinking of the last place Nesaea’s half-sister had been. “If necessary, we can call on Lord Arthard, of Dionis Keep.”

“I hope the girl has been sold off before we arrive.”

Rathe gave him a sharp look, and Loro explained further.

“Well, it’s not as if you and highborn get along well. If not for killing Lord Sanouk, we’d not be stuck here in Iceford. You kill another lord, and we might end up running to the far side of the world.”

Rathe could not argue the point. For the last two seasons, trouble with one highborn or another had turned him from being one of the most beloved warriors in Cerrikoth, to a hated and hunted man.

As they moved onto a short street populated with shabby taverns, gaming houses, and brothels, Rathe glanced down an alley and saw a shadow moving within a shadow. His heart sped up, his fist clenched around the hilt of his sword, but he kept walking, as if nothing were amiss.

“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.

Loro looked askance at him before fixing on a group of women laughing raucously on a rickety stoop. They were whores, but dressed nothing like their sisters of the south. The Iron Marches was no place for sheer garments. Here, thick wool hid and warmed flesh, rather than revealed it. Loro’s gaze shifted again, following Rathe’s eyes. The shadows had gone still.

“You’re not still on about that shadowy fellow, are you?”

“He’s still alive,” Rathe said, thinking he must have seen a hunting cat down the alley. “And if he hated me before, he hates me more now that I know his weakness.”

“Don’t fret over that pathetic fool and his fear of the light,” Loro advised. “I expect he scampered back over the Gyntors, and has holed up somewhere to lick his wounds.”

“Pride is a prickly thing,” Rathe said. “I’d wager I stung his sorely.”

They strode past the whores, ignoring their halfhearted invitations. The street slanted sharply downward, taking them toward the quays and the river. The smells of cold moss and old fish grew stronger.

“Have you heard from your spies?” Loro asked, laughter in his voice.

Rathe was not about to argue the merits of employing Stiny and his friends. “None of them have seen anything, save a few straggling merchants and Nina, the randy cobbler’s wife.” He hesitated. “I told them to stop looking.”

Loro nodded approvingly. “First sensible thing you’ve done since we got to Iceford.”

Rathe began to smell tarred pilings about the same time he heard the squeal of pulleys and booted feet clocking over wooden decks, punctuated by Ostre’s curses. A bend in the street abruptly put them in sight of the lone vessel moored at the quays. Dozens of lanterns hung from the ship’s spars, providing light for the bustling crew to coil lines and store cargo about the main deck of the fat-bellied cog.

“Looks like she’s ready to sail,” Loro said.

“The
Lamprey
has looked much the same for a fortnight,” Rathe said flatly. As far as he could tell, Captain Ostre seemed intent only on keeping his crew busy enough to stay out of trouble.

“Do you have to be so gloomy? We’ve not yet talked to Ostre, and you’re behaving as if he’ll only have bad news.”

Rathe pointed out the captain, standing at the stern and looking up at the naked mainmast. A fierce scowl etched his craggy features, and his curly black beard seemed to quiver. “His expression tells me all I need to know.”

“So he looks grumpy,” Loro observed. “Nothing new there.”

“Maybe not,” Rathe said, now eyeing the sluggish black waters of the river. The lantern-light showed chunks of ice drifting by. There had been no ice the day before.

As they began up the gangplank, Loro called, “Ho the ship!”

Ostre clumped across the deck, looking like a great oaken barrel fitted with stout arms and legs. “Ship!
Ship?
I’ve shat in buckets with less leaks. My cook can’t keep the food stores from spoiling, though ‘tis cold enough to freeze the teats off a sow. And just today, I find the mainsail rotted, and the spare full of holes.”

“Holes?” Rathe asked.

“Aye, from rats!
Rats!
” Captain Ostre glared from under the brim of his wide-brimmed felt hat, his brows bushy and black as his beard. “You’d think the canvas had been bathed in honey, the way those vermin went at it.”

“Can it be repaired?” Loro asked.

“Aye, but folk hereabout mostly float log-barges and rafts down to the White Sea. They know little about sailing ships, and have few of the supplies I need. My brother Robere knows a fellow who might have canvas enough on hand to patch the sails.… Abyk by name, tailor by trade.”

Loro groaned, but Oster ignored him. “Worse than the rest,” the captain continued, now looking more uneasy than furious, “the river’s starting to freeze up. Unless we get a warm stretch, we’ve only a few days before the
Lamprey
is locked in tight till spring.”

Before Rathe could say a word, Captain Ostre added, “Might as well head back to the inn, lads. When the
Lamprey
is seaworthy, I’ll send a runner.”

Chapter 5

When Captain Ostre had suggested Rathe and his companions lodge at the Minstrel’s Cup, he had held out no hope for decent accommodations. Having spent the first ten years of his life working a croft with his father, and the next twelve years rising through the ranks of the Cerrikothian legions, Rathe was accustomed to sleeping rough, and eating fare better suited to dogs. The few inn’s he had ever frequented were little more than drafty shacks which offered, at best, a place to rest your head without undo fear of having an adder slither into your bedroll.

It turned out that the Minstrel’s Cup far exceeded his expectations. The common room was large, reasonably clean, and two blazing hearths kept the chill of the Iron Marches at bay. The second-floor sleeping quarters were tidy, warm, and appointed with crude but sturdy furnishings. The oversized mallet hanging on the wall behind the bar, which Master Tyron used as a bung-starter and for thumping unruly guests, ensured that his customers never got too drunk or too rowdy.

Loro called to a reedy barmaid to bring ale and a bowl of stew, as soon as he and Rathe entered the Minstrel’s Cup. “If you need me,” Loro said, turning away, “you know where I’ll be.”

“Of course,” Rathe answered, watching his portly friend plod toward a group of rough men dicing in the corner nearest the common room’s narrow stage. Gaming and ale might entice Loro, but Rathe knew his real desire was to sit close to Fira, who was presently singing a bawdy song and dancing a bawdier step for a small crowd of men and women. Each time Fira’s legs flashed from under her snug green silk dress, the audience clapped and erupted with laughing shouts.

They’re starting early
, Rathe thought, but knew things would only get livelier as the evening progressed. After nightfall was good and settled in, the normally taciturn village folk would throw off their reservations and join in the singing and dancing.

Rathe sought Nesaea, but didn’t see her. Knowing her, she had already done all the entertaining she intended to do for the day, and was in their room readying herself for supper.

Before heading upstairs, Rathe made his way to the bar, eyes passing over the trappers and miners come to the Minstrel’s Cup for a calmer setting and finer drink than what the taverns nearer the river offered. Most of the folk he saw he knew by appearance, if not by name—folk in Iceford tended to keep to themselves, while at the same time, gleaning everything there was to know about everyone else. Especially outlanders.

Rathe had almost completed his survey, when he spied a corner table surrounded by faces he didn’t recognize. There were six men together, all young, all sporting shaved heads.
They look like Prythians
, he thought, then quickly amended that. While they were pale-skinned and obviously tall, even while sitting in chairs, they were far more slender than any Prythian he had known. All save one, who had the look and bearing of a fighter, if lacking the scars of one. Their unadorned cloaks were of heavy wool, as were their quilted green vests and brown trousers. He would wager these were the wandering merchants Stiny had mentioned seeing.

Rathe took a stool at the bar and motioned to Master Tryon for a tankard of ale. When his drink arrived in Tyron’s thick-fingered hand, Rathe slid him a pair of coppers—Tyron might not offer whores under his roof, but his drinks were top quality, and cheap.

“Getting colder,” Master Tyron observed.

Rathe sipped the ale. “And Captain Ostre is none too pleased about it.”

The stout innkeeper used a rag to mop a dribble of foam off the blackwood bar, then tucked it back into the apron tied around his ample waist. “Well, Capt’n Ostre need not fret overmuch about the cold—not for a few more days, at least.”

Rathe took another sip, eyebrows raised in question.

Master Tyron tugged his rag free again, swabbed another spot. “Storm’s comin’. Feel the damp of it in my bones, I do. Be wet and muddy, come morning.”

“Do your bones say how long the storm will last?”

“They’re mute on that, lad—” Tyron rapped his knuckles against his skull “—but this old chunk of wood’s been around enough years to know late autumn storms have a way of stayin’ on a goodly stretch. Snow’ll fall deep in the high country, but in these parts, it’ll be naught but rain and slush for days and days, till you think winter passed us by and spring’s returned. After that, the cold’ll sweep in, bringing snows that’ll stay until you’re mad from all the endless frozen white of it. If Capt’n Ostre ain’t on his way afore
true
winter sets in, why, he won’t be on his way at all. Though, I can’t say as I’d be opposed to that.”

“No?” Rathe asked, finishing off his ale and wiping his lips.

Master Tyron nodded in Fira’s direction. She had given up dancing for a chair and a lute. “That lass and Nesaea have brought in more coin than I usually see in a year. Hate to see ‘em go.”

“I’ll miss you too, Master Tyron,” Rathe said, laughing.

The innkeeper gave Rathe a familiar clout on the shoulder. “Lad, you know if I needed someone to tame a few scoundrels, I’d call on you and Loro straight off.”

Rathe nodded, but his mind had shifted. “Seems Fira has brought in a few new faces,” he said mildly, cocking his head toward the men in the corner he had seen earlier.

“I’d name ‘em young adventurers,” Tryon said.

“Why is that?” Rathe asked, curious. As far as he knew, he had never actually met an adventurer.

“You can tell by those fancy clothes they wear. Like as not,” Tyron said in a conspiratorial whisper, “they’re noble brats up from south of the Gyntors—Qairennor, mayhap, pale as they are. I’ve seen it before. They get bored dandling wenches on their knees, get tired of buying up baubles in the city, and set out on nonsense quests. Mostly, I think they’re just looking for wenches who’ve never heard their lies.”

Having considered their garb rather drab, Rathe self-consciously fingered his new garments. Master Tyron saw him.

“Didn’t mean no offense, lad,” he said hastily, as if mortified by his flapping tongue. “I’d
expect
a man who’s walkin’ about with a lass as comely as Nesaea to dress in his finest. But, as you can see, those peacocks yonder ain’t got no women. Far as I can tell, they’re not lookin’ for any.”

“No offense taken,” Rathe answered, noting how the men in question had put their heads together over the table, and were speaking with quiet urgency. After a moment, one of them gestured sharply, and they all sat up, eyes downcast. The one who had gestured sipped from something—a tiny golden flask, Rathe thought—and his face twisted into a hellish grimace. Between scrubbing his lips with the back of one hand, and tucking the flask under his cloak with the other, he glanced toward Rathe. He froze when their eyes met, looking startled, then looked away. He must have said something, because his companions abruptly shifted their chairs about until he was almost lost from sight. Rathe swept his eyes toward Fira, as if looking at her had been his intention all along.

“How long have they been here?” Rathe tried for a casual tone, but heard an edge in his voice, felt a tightness in his posture. Whether they were wandering merchants or adventurers, these fellows might be the reason he had felt eyes on him all day.

“Since noontime, or thereabouts. Come to think on it, they’ve been nursing the same ale I give ‘em two hours gone. If they’re highborn brats, they must’ve spent all their coin.”

“No one spends so foolishly as a highborn or his brat,” Rathe agreed with a rueful smile.

“There’s the truth,” Master Tyron laughed. “S’pose if they’re still here on the morrow, I’ll warn ‘em they ought to head back to wherever they come from, afore their stones turn black with frost and drop off.”