Silverglass s-1 Read online

  Silverglass

  ( Silverglass - 1 )

  J F Rivkin

  Silverglass

  J. F. Rivkin

  CHAMBER OF DEATH

  The window was only a few feet to her left, and in a moment Corson had made up her mind and clambered over the sill. If she was going to die anyway, maybe she could at least kill Lord Thierran first.

  But Lady Nyctasia was alone. There was blood on her mouth, and her shirt was torn at the shoulder. She gave no sign of seeing Corson, though her eyes were open and staring.

  Corson hurried past her and flattened herself against the wall by the doorway.

  Lord Thierran was coming up the corridor, still shouting orders to his retainers. “I want guards at every entrance! Search the stables and the gatehouse!”

  He strode across the room to the window and looked out anxiously over the grounds, watching for any movement.

  Corson kicked the door shut. At the sound, Lord Thierran wheeled around and stared at her in disbelief. She was coming towards him, smiling, a dagger in her left hand.

  1

  though corson brenn Torisk had not often been to Rhostshyl, she remembered just where The Lame Fox Tavern was. For some things she had an infallible memory. The Lame Fox was a disreputable den shunned by the respectable people of the city.

  There was a place like it in every town on the coast, and Corson was familiar with them all.

  The crowded alehouse was all one room, filled with trestle-tables and benches.

  The only light came from smoky torches and the great hearth where joints of meat roasted and charred. On every side men and women were drinking and dicing, arguing loudly, cursing and bragging. A singer with a small lap-harp was perched on a table, trying to make herself heard above the din.

  The crowd eyed Corson curiously as she entered, but she was accustomed to that.

  Her height alone usually drew stares, since people so tall were rare in the north-but no one had ever found her ungainly. She moved with an athlete’s grace and power, and her beauty was not hidden by her travel-worn tunic and breeches.

  She had large blue eyes, and skin of a warm, rich gold. After her release from the army, she had let her chestnut hair grow long as a mark of her independence.

  She usually kept it plaited in a braid and bound like a crown around her brow, but when she let it down, it fell over her broad shoulders and straight, tapered back in a rippling tawny wave.

  Corson’s only ornament was a pair of small golden earrings-the trophy of an early exploit. She’d been hired by a merchant guild to rid the roads of a certain dangerous bandit. The earrings had been his.

  She met all stares at The Lame Fox with a look of deliberate challenge that made the curious drop their eyes hastily, or turn away. Her confident manner declared that she was well able to use the battered broadsword that hung at her hip. She took a seat near the singer and ordered a tankard of the best ale. Everyone knew that the ale all came from the same barrel, but the more you paid the less water they added to your portion.

  Corson was feeling very well pleased with herself. She had just been hired by both the leading families of Rhostshyl to assassinate the same person. And neither party knew of her dealings with the other. The rival houses of Edonaris and Teiryn had been lethal political enemies for generations, and the city was on the brink of civil war. It seemed they could only agree on this one thing-both were willing to pay a high price for the death of the sorceress. Lady Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris. The Teiryns accused her of causing a fatal sickness among them, and even her own kin were afraid of her. Corson found the situation amusing as well as profitable, and she meant to celebrate her stroke of good fortune by getting prodigiously drunk.

  The girl with the harp was singing:

  “Oh, I could complain

  That my life is a curse-

  The wind and the rain

  And the hole in my purse!

  But what would I gain?

  Things could always be worse!”

  Corson laughed and tossed a coin to the singer, who caught it in her hand and winked.

  Seeing that Corson had money, every gambler, pickpocket and charlatan in the tavern took a renewed interest in her, and she was at once invited to join in a game of death’s head.

  Corson loved to gamble, but she’d learned from bitter experience that it was fool’s sport. “No thanks, I’ve no luck with dice.”

  “But tonight your luck may change.”

  “Ah, but why trust to luck when you can learn fortune’s secrets?” A slender young man dressed in bright motley leaned toward her across the table. Around his neck hung a string of medallions stamped with mysterious symbols.

  “As well toss your money in the gutter as give it to fortunetellers,” sneered the gambler, who felt that she had established her right to swindle Corson first.

  Though she had no faith in soothsayers, Corson wanted some amusement and paid the youth what he asked. With a grand gesture, he pushed aside the pitcher and mugs, and drew an eight-pointed star on the table with a stump of charcoal. From a leather pouch he took a handful of polished gemstones and handed them to Corson.

  “Will you first hear of the present?” he inquired. At Corson’s nod, he drew a circle around the star. “The mirror,” he explained, “that shows things as they are. Shake the stones in your hand and throw them on the star. Their pattern will tell the tale.”

  When Corson had done so, he studied the scattered stones intently, murmuring to himself, “Green at three!” and, “Just on the line, there.”

  “You are placed at a perilous juncture,” he said at last. “The whole course of your fate depends on a choice you will soon make. If you choose ill…” He shook his head solemnly. “No fortune awaits you at all.”

  “That’s an old story,” said Corson. “And what if I choose well?”

  “To answer that, I must consider the future-thus!” He gathered up the colored stones, then drew a square around the circle. “The window,” he proclaimed, “that shows things far off.”

  Corson threw the stones again, and the fortuneteller contemplated their pattern with evident satisfaction. “Should you choose this way, a dangerous journey lies before you, but at its end fortune will favor you. You will win wealth and honors and become a lady of title and influence.”

  “Oh yes, very likely,” laughed Corson. “And what is this fateful choice I must make?”

  “You will know it when the time comes. If you wish for surer knowledge now, I can only try-but such secrets are not so easily come by…” He paused expectantly. A further payment from Corson would no doubt have cased the difficulty, but at that moment they were interrupted by a shout of indignation from the singer. One of the customers had accused her of picking his pocket.

  “I wouldn’t go near enough to you to steal your purse! I don’t want to get fleas!”

  “Give it back, you thieving slut!” He seized the girl by the arm, but she broke away and dodged behind Corson.

  “Ask her if I took it,” she insisted, appealing to Corson. “She was watching me all the while.”

  “She’s in league with you, then, but I’ll have it out of you anyway!” He turned on Corson. “Just you try to stop me if you dare!”

  “It’s nothing to do with me!” Corson protested. “She’s no friend of mine.”

  “You’re a coward as well as a thief,” he goaded. By now, all other pastimes at The Lame Fox had been abandoned, as people gathered ’round in hopes of a fight.

  Corson was furious. Why did that little chit have to single her out to be her champion? Corson did not for a moment doubt that the girl was a pickpocket, but she was too proud to refuse a public challenge. Reluctantly, she got to her feet and faced her accuser.

 
; “You’ve no sword,” she said, and unsheathed her dagger instead. Though Corson was left-handed, she took the weapon in her right hand and wrapped her cloak carefully around her sword-arm.

  He grinned and drew his own blade, also winding his cloak around his free arm as a shield. The crowd made room for them and there was a murmur of excited speculation. The wagering favored Corson.

  The fighters circled warily, taking the measure of one another’s speed and agility. Corson realized that her opponent was no mere tavern brawler-he handled himself too skillfully and responded too swiftly to her feints. He was in earnest, and she knew that she must either disarm him or kill him. But she couldn’t risk coming before the city magistrates now.

  For a moment she seemed to drop her guard, uncertain, and he lunged forward at once to press his advantage. But even as he closed in, Corson flung out her lowered left arm, freeing the furled cloak, and whipped it up across his face, blinding him. Without a pause she seized his wrist and twisted his arm back, kicking sharply into the side of his knee at the same time.

  When he let his knife fall. Corson stepped on it firmly, then helped him to his feet. “Perhaps you’ve changed your mind,” she suggested. He backed away, then turned and made for the door, shouldering his way through the jeering onlookers.

  Corson kicked the knife away and the tavernkeeper picked it up, scowling at her.

  “Put up your blade,” he ordered gruffly. “I won’t have bloodshed in here.”

  Corson shrugged and sheathed her dagger. “It wasn’t of my seeking. Why don’t you keep a better watch on that harper of yours?”

  He looked puzzled.” I keep no harper here.”

  “The singer,” Corson insisted angrily, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

  Corson felt she’d been made a fool of after all. She hurried out to the street, looking around for the singer. “When I find that little

  …!”

  “I’m here,” called a voice from across the way. Corson could just make out a slight figure, half hidden in the shadows of an alley. As she approached, the girl drew back out of sight and waited in a dark doorway.

  “If you’re that clumsy a pickpocket you’d better keep to your singing, curse you! I should wring your neck for dragging me into a fight with that madman. You owe me a share of the spoils for chasing him off.”

  The harper smiled. “I’ve a better offer to make you.”

  “I thought you might. But I don’t need to take up with bungling pickpockets.”

  “I’m no thief, but I’m not a minstrel cither. Come with me and I’ll explain.

  I’ve a place not far from here.”

  “So you say. If you’ve anything to tell me you can say it right here.”

  “I don’t arrange my affairs in the street. Follow me if you choose-I can give you a better meal than you’d get at the Fox.” She started down the dark alleyway alone.

  Corson hesitated, but her curiosity got the better of her suspicions. And the prospect of a good meal was hard to resist. She caught up with the girl and made her a mocking bow. “Corson brenn Torisk is at your service, milady!”

  “And I’m Nick, of this city. Come, we’re wasting time.” She led the way quickly through the narrow backstreets, but before they’d gone far, Corson stopped and motioned her to wait.

  “He’s following us, that fool! Whatever you stole from him, he means to have it back.”

  “No matter, we’re almost there-hurry!” She pulled Corson around a corner and unlocked the iron gate to a narrow, two-story house.

  Once they were safely inside, she lit two candles and offered one to Corson,

  “Wait for me upstairs. I’ll bring us some supper.”

  Corson was disappointed. So it was only a trick to rob her, after all. No doubt there would be two or three of the girl’s confederates waiting upstairs. She shook her head and turned back to the door. “I’ll do without supper, thanks. The night’s yet young, you’ll find another gull.”

  “It’s no trap. Come, it’s not likely I’d try that game with you after seeing your skill at The Lame Fox. Shall I go up ahead of you?”

  “I’ll see for myself,” Corson muttered, unable as ever to resist a dare. She climbed the stairs warily, ready for any sudden attack, but when she reached the top she found herself alone in a long, low-ceilinged room, dimly lit by a guttering fire. She laid on another log, then lit the heavy silver candelabra that stood on the mantle and carried it with her as she explored her surroundings. This was not the lodging of a petty thief. A thickly woven, patterned carpet covered the floor, and brocaded couches surrounded a table of dark, polished wood inlaid with tiles. An open bookchest held several volumes, and others lay about on the floor, the table and shelves.

  The far wall was hidden by draperies, and Corson approached them suspiciously to see if they concealed a door. She pushed aside the hangings quickly and found herself face to face with a tall, menacing figure that reached out to seize her arm. Corson had her sword in her hand before she realized that the enemy was her own reflection.

  She gazed at it in wonder. Mirrors were a luxury for the wealthy, and Corson had never seen such a large sheet of unlatticed glass. She was still marveling at the mirror’s ghostly mimicry when Nick’s reflection appeared in the glass, entering the doorway behind her. She was carrying a tray of food, and a lantern hung from her arm. Reluctantly, Corson turned from the mirror to join her at the table.

  The meal was as good as promised. Her hostess set out a cold roast chicken and a round loaf of fresh white bread with a comb of honey. There was also a wedge of sharp cheese, some small yellow apples and a very costly wine.

  As she ate, Corson was able to study her companion closely for the first time.

  She had changed her shabby clothing for a fur-trimmed robe, and she seemed a different person from the common tavern singer at The Lame Fox. She was very pale of complexion, with grey eyes and delicate, fine-boned features. Her black hair was close-cropped, revealing a high forehead and arched brows. Though a young woman, she was not the girl Corson had taken her for.

  Corson gestured at her with a piece of bread. “If you’re not a thief and you’re not a minstrel, what are you? A whore?”

  The woman laughed. “I told you I don’t arrange my affairs in the street. I’m a scholar.”

  Corson looked about at the rich fittings of the chamber. “I see,” she said in open disbelief. “And what would a scholar want with the likes of me?”

  “I admired the way you dealt with that troublesome fellow at the Fox. A most impressive display of competence. It happens that I’ve need of a bodyguard just now.”

  Corson helped herself to more wine. “If you stayed away from places like The Lame Fox you wouldn’t need a bodyguard, lady.”

  “But I only went there to hire a mercenary, you see. It’s hardly a place I’d visit for amusement’s sake. No, what troubles me is that my enemies are trying to have me murdered.”

  Corson stared at her for a moment. “Oh no,” she said softly. “It’s not fair; something like this always happens to me.”

  “You…?”

  “What did you say your name was? Nick? Nyc? Like Nyctasia?”

  The woman rose hastily and backed a few paces towards the door. “Lady Nyctasia Selescq Rhaicime brenn Rhostshyl ar’n Edonaris,” she said with a bow. “But we needn’t be formal. Please don’t get up.”

  Corson surveyed her defenseless quarry with contempt. “You’re the dread sorceress who’s slaughtered half the city with her spells?” She settled back more comfortably and finished her glass of wine.

  “Unfortunately, my reputation for witchcraft is quite undeserved,” Lady Nyctasia said wistfully. “If I’d half the powers folk credit me with, I’d not be in hiding now.”

  “There must be something to it. Do you know,” Corson said with a winning smile,

  “that two different parties have hired me to kill you? Isn’t that funny?”

  “An amusing coincidence. My es
teemed relations, no doubt, and the Teiryn clan?”

  She came over to the table and coolly refilled Corson’s glass.

  “They say that some of the Teiryns have died of a mysterious ailment lately

  …”

  “Mysterious! If the Teiryn didn’t constantly intermarry, they could rid their line of that sickness for good and all, but they insist on keeping their estates within the family! This malady has been among them for centuries-it’s all there in the city history. Anyone could have predicted that it would reappear. I tried to warn-” She paused. “This is the sort of thing that wins one a reputation for sorcery,” she admitted.

  “What of your own kin?” Corson demanded. “They’d like to be rid of you, too. And they paid handsomely for it.” She had drawn her sword and was idly tracing patterns with it on the rug.

  “Have a care, that carpet is valuable,” Lady Nyctasia complained. She paced back and forth across the narrow room. “It’s just a faction of my family that’s after my blood, but a most powerful faction, led by the matriarch, Mhairestri. You see, I stand to inherit important titles and estates, and I’ve pledged my support to those who want a treaty with the Teiryns. That alone makes me a threat to Edonaris ambitions. Mhairestri would like to see my properties fall into more reliable hands.”

  “There’s no more to it than that?” asked Corson, who was casually slicing pieces from an apple with her dagger. Her sword now lay close at her left hand.

  “Oh, the list of my iniquities is endless, I assure you. I refused to marry my cousin Thierran though we’d been betrothed since childhood-that was an outrage.

  But the really unpardonable offense, I believe, was my treasonous view of the ancestral sovereignty of the Edonaris line. The city records show that the Teiryns’ claims to power are at least as legitimate as our own.” She paused in her pacing and picked up a brass candlestick. “Nobody appreciates a historian.”

  “I’ve been planning to make a long journey,” she continued, “and I need an expert fighter like you as escort. You’d not lose by it-I’m one of the wealthiest people in the city.” She waited for Corson’s reply, armed only with the heavy candlestick.