The City of Ice Page 21

  “The female, was she close to you?”

  “She was a bitch of no consequence. I bear her loss lightly, but she was part of my pack even so.”

  Vols shuffled awkwardly, feeling that he should ask this noble animal for leave to go, but not being able to bring himself to do it.

  “Will you do me a service?” asked Valatrice.

  “Of course, gooddog,” said Vols in surprise.

  Valatrice shook out his fur with pleasure. “I do like that. I like that very much. Come. This way, she is in here.”

  Valatrice led the mage to a kennel with a door secured by a pin. Inside a dog lay, breathing heavily. Vols could tell she was sick as soon as he saw her. Valatrice plucked the pin out with mobile black lips. He motioned his head for Vols to hold out his hand, and dropped the pin into it.

  “This bitch is my favoured. She is injured. Can you calm her hurts?” asked the dog.

  Vols went into the cage and knelt beside the dog. Her chest heaved unevenly in her sleep. Vols put his hand on her and felt blood in the fur.

  “What happened to her?” said Vols.

  “I bit her,” said Valatrice.

  Vols looked up sharply.

  “If I had not, Antoninan would have bargained her away. She has borne only a few litters, and has in her lineage many pack leaders. She is very valuable, but she is worth less than my son, and he would have traded her to keep him.”

  “You must love her very much to sacrifice her for your son,” said Vols quietly.

  “Perhaps I do, for we know love as well as man. But my actions were born of love for my son, not her. My boy would have gone to make his own pack one day, or been sold by Antoninan anyway. His leaving was inevitable. By biting this bitch, I have determined the circumstances of his departure. Here he can live as our ancestors did, among the ice, in a world we were born to. He will enjoy a freedom here that I experience rarely, and I will continue to enjoy this female.” The great dog sat down on his haunches. It only made him seem bigger, his head higher than a man’s. “Only I bit her too deeply, and now I will lose both.”

  Vols sighed and sucked at his protruding front teeth. “I will see what I can do. Fortunately, I have some talent in the field of healing magics.” He smiled to calm the dog. Valatrice stared at him in that enigmatic manner unique to dogs.

  “Aha, yes,” said Vols, uncomfortable. “Very well. Here goes.” He shoved his hands deep into her fur. She was delightfully warm. Pleasant sensations helped his magic. Vols let himself enjoy the touch of the creature. The bitch shifted under him uncertainly as he attempted to bond with her. Now he must match her erratic heart with his own, to lend her his strength.

  Come in, come in, he thought.

  Again the magic was easier than at any time before. Her consciousness entered into his, shy and halting. He saw her as she should be, proud, eyes alive with the deep wisdom of animals.

  He gained access to her dreams, strange things full of frustrating, phantom scents. He visualised the wound. He must convince the dog itself that the wound could close, or it would not work. Some lingering sense of betrayal stymied him a moment; she was not of the same degree as Valatrice, and did not understand why he had bitten her. But she wished to be unhurt, and that was something he could use.

  Vols whispered his focusing phrases under his breath. A mage’s chants were meaningless cantrips if spoken by anyone else, even another mage. The magisters used the employment of this technique by some mages as validation of their own complex rituals and machines. But whereas they used learnt ritual to channel change of a measured, predictable, but limited nature, what Vols did was something far purer, and far more potent. His words were not a spell, but a tool to focus a mind. Only a mage could see through the veils of reality to the fundamental structure beneath, and overwrite it wholesale by will alone. There were no limitations on a mage, except those coming from within.

  “She is not so badly hurt,” said Vols. “I can heal her.”

  The dog’s breathing steadied. He shared the itchy sensation of the wound closing up. He coaxed the dog’s body to do in minutes what should take days. When he was done, shiny pink skin showed through the bitch’s hairs, the rest of the wound was crusted with scabs.

  Vols sat back on his heels, shaking slightly with the effort. “There. It is not completely repaired, but will be within a day or two. Best let the body’s nature take care of it.”

  “I have no money. I suppose a vigorous lick to the face would not be sufficient thanks for your work?”

  Vols looked horrified. “Verbal gratitude will do!”

  Valatrice laughed. “I tease you, mage. Thank you.”

  Vols laughed along with him, mostly from nerves, for the thought of coming closer to Valatrice’s lengthy teeth was disconcerting. He stood and slapped the fur and straw from his palms. “You certainly speak very well, better than any dog I have ever heard.”

  “Many of the other talking dogs could speak so well as I, if they chose to,” said Valatrice.

  “Then why do they not speak as you, if they possess the facility to do so?”

  Valatrice growled darkly. “Because, Goodmage Vols, it hurts.”

  LATER, VALATRICE JOINED his wounded consort. She smelled healthy, and that was good. Before he slept, he licked her wound clean of its crust of blood. She opened her eyes at the disturbance, panted lightly, and stretched into a more comfortable position.

  “Rest, my sweet,” Valatrice said. She looked back at him with dimly intelligent eyes. Valatrice nuzzled her, and laid himself down beside her.

  As he rested his great head in the straw and closed his eyes, he pretended he could neither hear nor smell Ilona creeping around at the back of the kennels.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  An Important Meeting

  HARAFAN WAS WAITING for Madelyne in the House of Small Delights, a coffee shop that proclaimed a fine line in confectionary. The name carried an air of exclusivity the shop lacked, it being situated in a less salubrious part of town. The cakes, however were as good as advertised.

  Madelyne paused before she went in. The old windows of small warped panes of glass, had been replaced recently by a single flat sheet of modern Karsan manufacture. The old windows had been thick and green; the new let in far too much light, robbing the place of its privacy. The proprietor, a certain Messire Lamain, was hoping to take the shop upmarket. Maybe it was working, his face certainly lit up when he saw Madelyne’s fine clothes. But this recent alteration to the shop front upset her, as if her life had changed forever and she visited old haunts now denied her. She threaded her way to their usual table at the back as if in a dream.

  “You’re an hour late,” Harafan said. “I was about to leave.”

  “You gods’ damned bastard!” said Madelyne. “Late? You’ve no idea what I’ve been through.”

  “Alright, alright, keep your voice down,” he said. There were several other customers in there, most in pairs, conspirators like they from their cautious manner and quiet conversation. She had known Harafan since they were children. He had grown into a foppish man, thinly moustached, his hair curled back in a bouffant. He wore the clothes of a rake and the attitude of a scoundrel. Madelyne was greatly relieved to see him, though she was in no mood to say it.

  She gripped the chair rest and leaned in. “Let me be. I’ll not be able to shout very loudly anywhere soon, my friend. Every bastard in Perus will recognise me.” She yanked the chair out and sat down hard. “He’s only taking me to the bloody ball.” She felt like crying.

  “The ball? The big ball with the bigwigs and the Morfaan and all the ambassadors from the Hundred. That ball? The ball?” Harafan whistled. “Holy mothers of the driven gods.”

  “Yes you moron, the gods’ damned ball!”

  “I certainly hope you don’t speak like that around him.”

  “I only speak like this around you. You bring out the worst in me.”

  “Don’t I know it,” he grinned, and reached for her hand. She
snatched it away.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He held up his hands to say sorry.

  Lamain sidled over, fawning in the way of waiters from higher class places than his.

  “Medame, what is your delight, in the House of Small Delights?”

  “What have you done to your hair, Lamain?” said Madelyne.

  He narrowed his eyes, squinting over his spectacles. “Madelyne? Madelyne? Is that you?”

  “Don’t you start. Yes it’s me. And you recognised me as soon as I came in, so stop the act.”

  “You look marvellous!” he leaned closer. “Hit good times eh? I always knew you would, a bright girl like you. What’s that on your neck?”

  She adjusted the scarf covering her collar. Of course the damned thing was still locked on, she could cut it off, but that would be that, and she’d have to leave the house for good. “Nothing,” she said. “Stop hovering over me, Messire. Fetch me what I always have.”

  “Immediately,” said Lamain. “A plate of pastries and a coffee for the fine goodlady. Harafan?”

  “Usual for me too, Messire, thank you.”

  Lamain nodded and busied himself behind his small counter.

  “What is that around your neck?” Harafan asked.

  “Nothing!” said Madelyne. Her cheeks burned under her powder.

  “Alright, alright! Seriously, are you well? Has he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. But the things he has planned...”

  “He told you?”

  “I had to sign a document,” she said quietly. She looked up, defiant. “I spent all last night tied up and chained to a wall like a dog!”

  “He is a dirty devil, isn’t he?” Harafan said. He came close to asking if she enjoyed it; it was a failure and strength of his to make light of all things. Her expression stopped him dead. “Is it true what we heard, that you can leave if it gets too much?”

  “That part is true. I can go at any time.”

  “Are you going to?” he asked. “We’ve put a lot of time into this. You’ve worked hard to drop it so close to the end. But if you’re not—”

  “I’ll not go, if that’s what you’re worried about!” she snapped. “Gods, Harafan, it’s not as if I have much choice. I’m not going back to any gaol or pleasure house. I’m done.”

  “Hey, Mads?” he said. This time she let him take her hand.

  She drew in a shaking breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. This isn’t what I expected. I feel... strange.”

  “How so?”

  “He is different. Very different. It is not so simple as I thought, whoring myself out for a few nights in return for riches like all those other women. He is not so straightforward as I expected. He was cruel yesterday, intentionally so, but he did not hurt me, only shamed me. The rest of the time he has been very kind, and honest, charming even. There is no subterfuge to what he does.”

  “Now it sounds like he is getting to you.” Lamain returned with their drinks and cake. When she stirred sugar into her coffee, the spoon rattled against the side.

  “Madelyne,” said Harafan. “Hey, Madelyne, look at me.”

  She looked up from under lashes thick with mascara.

  “We can stop. We’ve had a good run you and I, a lot of successes. We can turn away, go back to the small stuff. You’ve cleared our debts, we’ve a clean slate. We can make lives for ourselves. There’s none so good as us. Perhaps we’ve overreached ourselves this time. You’ve had some big ideas, but this is the biggest yet.”

  The stirring of her spoon slowed. She tapped it on the cup and laid it carefully on the plate of cakes. “No. Not now. It’s not like I need to endure it for years like those other women, just a few weeks. He’ll talk soon. He’s surprisingly voluble.”

  “If he doesn’t talk, you could always stick it out. He rewards his mistresses well.”

  She glowered at him. “Don’t.”

  “Just saying,” Harafan shrugged. “Leave, stay. There’s always choice.”

  “He says the same thing.” She sipped her coffee. Her lipstick stained the rim. She was not in the habit of painting herself so. She felt like a fraud, a doxy pretending to be a lady. Ordinarily she regarded herself as neither—she was only herself, it was her strength. Now she had no idea who she was. She was in danger of losing herself.

  “So? What’ll it be?” asked Harafan.

  “I’ll go back,” she said. “Don’t use the water butt for messages again. I can leave whenever I wish. Pay a messenger boy to deliver me notes, that would be safer. I can be outside at noon every day.”

  “Fine,” said Harafan. “It was hellish work getting up that wall anyway.”

  “You have the easier role.”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand and let go. “Just a few more weeks, like you say, and the job will make us rich! Get him to talk.” He drank from his own coffee, black and unsweetened. “As soon as you have discovered how to get into the Godhome, then you can leave, and we’ll be rich forever.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A Matter of Justice

  A MAN AND a boy approached the gates of the Lemio Cloth and Shoddy Company. Neither of them were anything exceptional, coming as they did with a throng of workers arriving for their shift. They looked like any other members of the urban workforce—heavy clothes, baggy trousers, clogs, thick jackets, all worn and patched but with crisp starched shirts underneath, dazzling white and immaculate in that way of the proud poor.

  They were not as they appeared. The man was not a man, but a woman. The boy was not even human. Katriona Kressinda-Morthrocksa and the Tyn Lydar of the Mothrocksey band wore faces not their own.

  Katriona forced herself to hunch and walk with her head down. Nourished well throughout her life, she was bigger than the tallest men. This workforce were muted, cowed almost. Such a swell of people were around her, quietly talking, jostling one another. There was a modicum of relief in their voices, they talked of little but the arrival of the Morfaan in Perus and, more importantly, the final dissipation of the awful fogs. Some of them laughed and made light of things, but as they came closer to the factory gates their chat tailed away into silence. The click of hobnailed clogs striking sparks from the setts was louder than their voices. Katriona was fascinated by them. She had never walked with her own workforce. The scent of carbolic soap and sweat came off their bodies, along with the smell of stew from washed clothes drying in cramped kitchens. No perfumes or other scents, they were too expensive. She peered into faces, wondered at their lives. They were pinched, tired. Did her own people look so glum when she was not about? Did she treat them so badly? She hoped not. They were at the Clothing and Shoddy because the mill had one of the worst reputations in that part of town.

  “Hsst!” said the boy who was not a boy. “Be wary, good Kat! This is not so thorough an enchantment as that on Goodfellow Demion’s thrice-damned cousin, it is but a glamour. Do not gaze into the eyes of another, or they will see through it. Speak to no one, look at no one. If you do, we will be noticed. If we are noticed, more likely than not they will see us as we are and not as we wish to be seen.”

  Katriona shuddered slightly at the disturbing sound of the reedy, whispering voice of Tyn Lydar coming from a child’s mouth, and she hunched lower.

  They allowed themselves to be carried along through the factory gates. The Lemio Clothing and Shoddy factory was a small concern, high up one of the steep valleys that creased the land around the twin bowls of Karsa City. It was not actually on the small stream that carried the Lemio name, but one of dozens of others that flowed one into the other, together conjuring the sizable Lemio river rapidly from the boggy sponges of the highlands. A river not unlike the Mothrocksey, thought Katriona guiltily. The stream was bounded in a tight, jacket of stone. The bed had been levelled and straightened. There might once have been a Tyn band dwelling near its waters, if so they were long gone.

  Still, this nameless brook retained a modicum of wildness and ran alo
ng its artificial course with silent vigour. Like so many others, this factory had been water powered. The remains of its wheel sagged in rusty exhaustion from the original mill building. That was built of stone, the rest, bigger, were of brick. From the mill’s engine houses chimneys fountained magically polluted steam into the sky. They were but a few among hundreds of similar stacks all across the city. The day was cloudless and the blue sky was streaked with browns and whites spewing from Karsa’s ten thousand chimneys like the brush strokes of a careless artist.

  The progress of the crowd slowed to queue outside one of the building’s double doors, high enough to admit a wagon, the glossy mid-green paint flaking off to show blue beneath.

  Such was the factory’s position that Katriona could look through the main gates down the hill into the basin of the Lemio. A brown haze was gathering there to replace the departed fog. On the far side, she could see the fantastical carved stone mansions of the Spires, set out like models on a general’s campaign map. Her own family manse was there somewhere, hidden by the elaborate turrets and gables of others. There was a gap between the Spires and the highlands where the Lemio flowed toward the Var. The Var’s valley was too low to see from her position, but past the river basin the hills rose up again, stepped with streets leading to the high cliffs north of the city. The broad seaward aspect of Var-side Karsa was reduced to a small chink in the wall of hills by her situation. Somewhere to the south and out of sight the rivers fed into the docklands, then into the locks of the Slot leading down to the ocean. She was afforded a glimpse of the glistening endless mudflats, trimmed by the bright, silver line of the distant sea.