The Iron Ghost Page 5

  Tamlyn paused outside the room, taking a few steadying breaths. For some reason she had rushed the last part of the way and now she almost felt giddy. She put her hand up to knock when a soft, young voice called from within.

  ‘Come in, Tamlyn dear.’

  Inside, the room was cosy, or as cosy as any room in the Tower of Waking ever got. The floor was covered in thick, colourful rugs, and huge tapestries covered the bare rock walls. Braziers were dotted here and there, and oil lamps covered several small tables; the Prophet came from a land of endless sun and warm breezes, and they had endeavoured to make the room as comfortable as possible for her. In the middle of the room was an enormous four-poster bed, draped in several layers of thick, white gauze. Tamlyn could just make out the slim figure of the Prophet beyond the curtains, a ghostly shape sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  ‘They’re here, then.’

  Tamlyn cleared her throat and held her hands clasped behind her back. She never felt comfortable in the Prophet’s room. It was probably the heat.

  ‘Yes. They are just as you described. The woman seems eager enough. The lord is cautious, and the knight is downright reluctant.’

  The shadowy figure rocked back and forth slightly, chuckling. ‘Of course, of course. The Black Feather Three, indeed. They are exactly who you need, Tamlyn Nox, Mistress Crafter.’

  Tamlyn shifted her weight, feeling the first trickle of sweat run down her back. Had there been a hint of derision in the Prophet’s voice?

  ‘I hope you are right. Without the Heart-Stone—’

  ‘Yes, yes, without your precious stone your world will end; it is all very tragic. Tell me, do they look well?’

  Tamlyn blinked. ‘I . . . they look well enough to me.’

  ‘And the knight?’

  Tamlyn shrugged, unsure if the Prophet could see such a movement through her curtains. ‘He had a scar on his face and he looks tired, but they have journeyed from far Crosshaven, they are bound to be weary.’ She bit down on her own impatience. ‘Either way, he looks as strong as an ox.’

  ‘Or a werken, would you say?’ asked the Prophet, a playful note in her voice.

  ‘I suppose I would say that,’ said Tamlyn. ‘They will be leaving once they have their supplies gathered, and Nuava has made copies of all the maps for them. I must go and check their supplies over myself.’

  ‘Oh, just one thing, Tamlyn, my dear.’

  Tamlyn paused, half turned towards the door. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Show them the tomb, won’t you? Before they go.’ The Prophet scooted over, bringing her face closer to the curtains. It was possible now to make out the round shape of her head, the darker shadows where her mouth and eyes were. ‘Take them down there, give them a tour.’

  Tamlyn scowled and touched the beads at her throat. ‘Why should I do that? I mean, why would you have me do that?’

  The Prophet made a gesture, lost behind the curtain. ‘Oh, I think they’ll enjoy it. This lord is a mage himself, after all, and I think he’ll be curious to see such a thing, don’t you? Really, Tamlyn, you must learn how to be properly hospitable to your guests.’

  Tamlyn glanced around at the lavish room. The smell of smoke from the braziers was tickling the back of her throat. ‘As you wish.’

  6

  Siano watched the man come into the room, all shuffling and unaware. He paused, the light from the dingy oil lamp painting a yellow circle on his bald head.

  He can smell it somehow, thought Siano, suddenly certain. He can smell the death in the room.

  But the older man simply took a ragged bundle from the table – wax and string, curls of treated paper for messages – and left, never coming over to the dark corner where Siano crouched, her fingers still pressed deeply into the throat of the man’s son.

  I am too jumpy, mused Siano. She turned the head gently in her hands, listening to the little crunching noises that signified a broken neck. I’m looking for difficulties where there are none. But it is best to be cautious.

  Caution was an essential lesson at the House of Patience.

  Silently she laid the body of the younger man down on the floor, making sure it lay deep in the shadows, and quickly opened a vein with her smallest knife, filling the slim glass vial in seconds. When she was done, she put out the oil lamp before moving over to the open door. It was late in the morning, the sky a pale blue, and most of this family were already dead. She had killed the aunt on her way up the hill, a sturdy woman with bird shit on her shawl and a face crinkled from years of living in this sun-soaked tower. The old woman had caught sight of the flicker of shadow as Siano danced out behind her but had turned too late, and the long, thin knife had threaded up through her back, piercing her heart. The bags of potatoes and leeks she’d been carrying home for that night’s dinner had slipped from her fingers, and Siano had caught her and dragged her off the road, the only sound the scrape of her boot heels on the stones.

  She listened at the doorway. She could hear the birds cooing and chirping in their chamber at the top of the spindly tower, and the soft music of the flute-shaped weather vanes that sprouted all over like strange bronze plants. She could also hear the old man’s footsteps as he made his way up the spiralling outer staircase, no doubt on his way to attach a message to one of the birds and send it on its way. Siano reached within her belt and removed a shining silver wire suspended between two pegs and, holding it comfortably in both hands, made her way swiftly up the steps behind him.

  Only two more to go, and it was hardly midday. Siano allowed herself a moment of pride. The client had asked that the entire family be killed quickly and without fuss, and Siano was performing as expected: perfectly, in other words.

  Still, the thought of that severed head and, more specifically, the voice that came from it, made her uneasy, so she pushed it from her mind and refocussed. No distractions, no speculation. Only patience.

  The aviary at the top of the tower came in sight so Siano slowed, watching the entrance. She moved up to the top step, her soft boots making no sound at all on the worn wood, and watched as the father of the family moved unconcernedly around the elaborate clay coops, muttering to himself. It was colder up here, and the wind was erratic, so Siano kept especially still, aware that a sound at the wrong moment could easily reach the man on the changeable air. She touched her hand to her belt where the vials were securely attached, each wrapped in its own slip of velvet to stop it clinking against its neighbour.

  The old man bent to one of the coops and came up with a bird in his hands. Siano was watching him attach a message to its leg when a pair of birds returned to the aviary, causing a flurry of squawking and feathers.

  Siano took half a step backwards, more from the sudden waft of bird shit stench than any real alarm, and the old man saw her.

  ‘Who are you?’ The old man let go of the bird and it flapped to his feet. Siano pursed her lips. She hadn’t been trained to talk to the victims.

  ‘I come from the House of Patience.’ She cleared her throat. ‘You—’

  ‘If you want to send a message, you need to pay up below like everyone else. You don’t come traipsing up here, disturbing my birds.’ The man nodded, a dismissive gesture. ‘My boy is below, he’ll take your coin.’

  Your boy is dead and boneless in the dirt, thought Siano. Something in her face or her stance must have given her away, because suddenly the old man looked worried, his skin turning grey almost as Siano watched. Or perhaps he’d seen the wire in Siano’s hands.

  ‘Here, who are you?’ He backed off, scattering birds. ‘You can’t just come up here.’

  The wire was really a weapon of surprise, a lethal knot round the neck when the victim was looking elsewhere. Siano didn’t want to grapple with the old man; there was bird shit on his shirt, and it would ruin her fine black velvet. She tucked the wire away, making sure the old man saw her do it.

  ‘Many apologies, sir. I come from the House of Patience, and it is my honour to attend you today.’


  ‘House of Patience? Never ’eard of it.’ The old man pursed his lips, but the look of fright on his grey face had been replaced with confusion. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Inside her jacket pocket Siano’s fingers closed around the handle of her throwing knife, and this time the old man really did sense something because suddenly he was off, running for the archway on the far side of the aviary. Siano’s arm moved of its own accord and the knife followed him, a deadly silver streak that caught the old man dead in the centre of his wrinkled neck just as he made it to the stairwell. Siano saw the blood fly from his throat in a red shout, so bright against the blue sky, and then the old man was tipping over the side. A brief scramble against the stone and he was gone.

  Messier than I would have liked, thought Siano. And now I will have to go and collect my knife.

  She walked through the aviary, feeling the half-mad gaze of a hundred birds settle on her back. She had just reached the balcony and was peering over the side to see where the old bastard had landed when someone started shrieking from below. It was a young woman, arms held stiffly to her sides, her mouth wide with shock. She’d obviously just seen the man fall, may even have seen the blood in the air when the knife took him, and she was clearly his daughter; the last name on this particular list.

  ‘One more to go,’ muttered Siano. She took a serrated disc of metal from an inner pocket and curled her wrist. ‘It’s almost too easy.’

  7

  ‘I thought, somehow, that they’d put us up in that big tower. I mean, aren’t we visiting dignitaries or something?’ Wydrin poured a shot from the dark bottle on the table. The scent of alcohol rising from the glass was enough to make her blink rapidly. ‘Not that I mind too much. That place looked draughtier than a whore’s best knickers.’

  Sebastian snorted with laughter. ‘Tell me again when we’ve actually spent a night in these rooms. I think there was ice in my fireplace.’

  The inn was at the far north of the settlement and at the top of a winding, stair-pocked hill, all carved directly from the mountain. It was called, somewhat ominously, The Last Breath Inn, although Bors had assured them that this was in reference to how this unsheltered corner of Skaldshollow caught the winds on certain nights. Cold as death itself, he’d said, and as darkness fell it was living up to its name

  ‘The princeling won’t be pleased,’ said Wydrin archly. ‘He’s probably back at the tower now, demanding a better suite of rooms for his griffin.’

  Sebastian clinked his cup against hers. ‘That’s hardly fair, Wyd. We’ve stayed in worse places in the last few months and Frith has not made a single complaint.’

  As if the words had summoned him, Lord Frith came in through the back door, weaving around the tables, a powdering of snow across the shoulders of his black cloak. His limp was very slight now, but Wydrin could still see how carefully he moved.

  Sebastian cleared his throat and stood up. ‘I’m going to go get the fire started in that room. It’s going to be a while before it warms up.’

  ‘If it’s not warm enough by the time I make it up there, I’m setting fire to the whole place.’

  Frith seated himself next to her as Sebastian left. There were a few moments of icy silence which Wydrin used to down another shot of the fiery drink.

  ‘They call it grut,’ she said eventually, gesturing at the bottle. ‘I think that probably describes the flavour and its effect on your insides afterwards. It warms you up some, though.’

  Frith nodded. He poured himself a glass and took a sip. When he’d finished coughing, Wydrin gestured to the barkeep for another bottle.

  ‘What do you reckon to this job, then?’ She pulled the cork from the new bottle and tried not to wince when the fumes hit her. ‘I’m not sure I trust this Tamlyn Nox. Too sour by half, and we’ve hardly had time to upset her yet.’

  ‘She is holding something back,’ said Frith. ‘This may turn out to be a complicated job, as you call it.’

  ‘And you are keen for it to be over.’

  For a few moments the young lord didn’t say anything at all. Wydrin concentrated on pouring another pair of shots for them both.

  ‘The three of us have had some extraordinary adventures since Baneswatch,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve achieved much.’

  ‘We’ve caused some trouble, even done some good,’ agreed Wydrin, not looking at him. ‘The Black Feather Three are the most infamous swords for hire across Crosshaven and the Horns.’ She waved a hand vaguely at him. ‘Or magic for hire, whatever. People are falling over themselves to give us work. You know, we have a letter from the Empress of Leonnosis, offering us as much gold as we can carry away just to go and talk to her. She wants to hear the stories first-hand, you see. We’re at the very height of our game, Frith.’ She swallowed, the grut burning in her throat like a hot coal.

  ‘This is a great opportunity for the Blackwood, one I have to consider. It was what my father wanted, and I have certain responsibilities.’

  ‘Responsibilities? What about your responsibility to us?’

  ‘You and Sebastian will be fine. And when the brood army are ready, there will be none to match you. The Black Feather Three will still be infamous.’

  ‘What is left of the brood army.’ Wydrin shook her head. ‘You know what happened as well as I do.’ She chucked back another shot, and struck the glass on the tabletop. ‘The whole thing is a bloody mess. Besides which, people won’t call us the Black Feather Three any more, will they? There’ll only be two of us, for a start, and you’ll be taking Gwiddion with you.’

  She looked up at him then, and saw that those grey eyes – eyes that she had seen brighten over the months as they’d adventured their way around Ede – were cold again.

  ‘I have a place in this life,’ he said. ‘And I have left it empty too long. I cannot spend for ever gallivanting around with you and Sebastian. I have to be responsible. Of course, I shouldn’t have expected you to understand that.’

  ‘That wasn’t even your first mistake.’ Wydrin downed the last shot and stood up, gathering her furred cloak.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Frith glared up at her, his jaw clenched.

  ‘Bors promised to show me some of these werkens, the ones that haven’t been joined to anyone yet. I’ve a mind to ride one myself.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because I’m curious. Because it looks like fun.’ Wydrin pulled her hood low over her face. ‘Neither of which is very responsible, obviously, but I suspect you’ve come to know that about me by now.’

  By the time Wydrin had stomped her way over to the Tower of Waking the hot fury that had been keeping her warm had petered out, and instead she felt tired and, worse, completely sober. A bitter wind gusted against her all the way, pushing stinging handfuls of ice crystals into her face, so that when finally she stood beneath the flinty edifice, she almost didn’t see Bors, who loped towards her out of the dark.

  ‘There you are! Thought you’d decided to stay in the warmth of the inn.’

  ‘Ah, it wasn’t that cosy, really.’ Wydrin pulled her cloak closer over her shoulders. ‘Please tell me these werkens are inside somewhere?’

  Bors grinned. ‘Follow me.’

  They circled around the back of the Tower of Waking until they came to another pair of giant werkens, these two mounted with riders, standing in the middle of a wide, paved area. Bors hailed them and, as one, the enormous stone giants leaned down with huge granite fists and pulled on a pair of iron handles set directly into the ground. In the dark and the snow Wydrin hadn’t seen the door at all, and now there was a set of wide stone steps leading down, apparently directly underneath the Tower of Waking itself. Inside, the staircase was lit with tall thin oil lamps, throwing jagged shadows across the rough walls. Bors led her down, Wydrin casting an uneasy look back over her shoulder.

  ‘Those doors can only be opened by a werken,’ said Bors. ‘Too heavy for anything else to lift, you see. What we keep down here is very va
luable indeed.’

  The stairs eventually levelled out into a long, low room. The floor was strewn with tools – hammers, chisels, other instruments Wydrin couldn’t name – and the sides of the room were divided into deep alcoves, with each alcove housing an inert werken.

  Wydrin paused by the first one. It stood on two legs, and was roughly human in shape although its arms were much too long. There was space on its shoulders for two riders to sit, and ripples of Edeian like green crystal covered it as though it wore its veins on the outside. It had no face as such, save for two faintly glowing pits that served as eyes, and it was covered all over with intricate spiral patterns. These carvings were at their thickest at the joints, the places where rock met rock.

  ‘And this thing is awake now?’

  ‘Well, they’re not awake, as such, but yes.’ Bors stood by her side. ‘You see how the eyes glow? This one has already had its piece of Heart-Stone inserted into the head cavity. Now the corresponding piece waits for a rider to take it, to become joined to this werken. We keep the pieces of Heart-Stone that await riders in a strongbox. Tamlyn has the only key.’

  Wydrin frowned. She was sure she could feel the thing watching her. ‘And what does it do until then? It just stands here, waiting? Not doing anything?’

  Bors chuckled. ‘Of course. As I said before, the werkens have a semblance of life, but it is not real. Without their riders, the werkens are still pieces of rock. Pieces of rock with potential.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘Strange, but beautiful.’

  They walked on down the row. In the next partition was a werken shaped like an enormous bear, its bulky head low to the ground. On its back was a tree trunk, sharpened to a point.

  ‘It took Tamlyn a while to give up on her plan to assault the Narhl directly,’ he explained. ‘It was thought we could carry battering rams, or even cauldrons full of boiling oil, but the logistics of it were a nightmare.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I put forward a few designs myself, but Tamlyn rejected them all.’