Witch Of Rhostshyl s-3 Read online

  Witch Of Rhostshyl

  ( Silverglass - 3 )

  J F Rivkin

  Witch Of Rhostshyl

  J. F. Rivkin

  Prologue

  A stranger looked in the back door of The Jugged Hare and tried, with scant success, to catch the attention of someone in the kitchen. “Eh, is there anyone here called Steifann?” he shouted finally.

  “I’m Steifann,” declared a thin, grimy youth named Trask, who was slicing a pile of potatoes. He drew himself up to his full, rather unimposing height, thrust out his narrow chest, and swaggered across the room to address the traveler. His mimicry was undeniably accurate. Somehow, by the tilt of his smooth chin, he even managed to suggest Steifann’s thick black beard. “What’s your business with me?” he demanded, in his deepest voice.

  The cooks exchanged amused glances, and a serving-girl giggled. The messenger looked doubtfully at them. “I’ve a letter here…”

  Trask gestured peremptorily at Walden, the head cook. “Pay the fellow,” he ordered, snatching up the sealed paper and perching on the table among the potato peelings. Walden obeyed, and the man withdrew, shaking his head in confusion.

  “Trask, Steifann’ll tear you to shreds if you open that,” scolded the girl, looking over his shoulder eagerly. “It must be from Corson.”

  Walden shoved her toward the taproom. “Go fetch him, Giniver, you goose-neither of you brats can read anyway.”

  “Oh, I can make this out well enough,” said Trask. “Listen!” He broke the seal at once and held the letter at arm’s length, peering at it shrewdly, though it was upside down. “My darling, sweet lambkin,” he recited, loudly. “I think of you every moment, for I have an ache that gives me no rest, and no one else can ease it. Every night I toss and tumble about, dreaming of your broad shoulders and thick, mighty arms, your wide, warm chest, your manly hips and long, powerful thighs, your-”

  “Give me that, you stinking little turd, before I tear your tongue out!” roared Steifann, charging in from the taproom and grabbing Trask by the collar. He seized the letter, and Trask wriggled from his grasp, ducked a blow, and scampered out the back door, snickering.

  Steifann glared around at the others, but they made no attempt to hide their laughter. “Well, read it, lambkin,” said Walden. “What’s that worthless layabout Corson got to say?”

  “That’s my affair-and I don’t pay you lot good wages to stand about gaping like half-wits! There’s work to do.” Steifann hastily scanned the letter, and everyone gathered around to hear the news, ignoring his bluster. “Nothing but a lot of lies and boasting, as usual… Her handwriting’s a bit better, though,” he said, surprised. As he read further he reddened, cleared his throat, pushed the hair back from his forehead, and finally grinned. “She’ll be home by first frost!” he announced.

  1

  By the time her ship docked at Chiastelm, Corson was already in a rage of impatience. She was bored by the confinement and monotony of shipboard life, which left her all too much leisure to imagine how Steifann was spending his time-and with whom.

  “Rutting stud-bull,” she muttered. “Probably been to bed with everyone on the coast since I’ve been gone, especially that dirty hag Destiver.” And when she saw that Destiver’s cargo ship, the Windhover, was in port, her suspicions seemed all but confirmed.

  There was not much work for a skilled mercenary in the peaceful port town of Chiastelm, and Corson was more often away than at home. During her travels she was no more faithful to Steifann than he was to her, but this did not allay her jealousy in the slightest. However she might carry on, in the distant lands where her sword took her, she felt that Steifann ought to be passing the time thinking of her and longing for her return. She knew this was foolishness, and in her more reasonable moments she laughed at herself for it, but Corson’s reasonable moments were few, where Steifann was concerned. And Steifann, a most sensible man as a rule, was just as unreasonable about Corson. Both furiously resented anyone whom they suspected of sharing the other’s bed.

  But Corson despised Destiver, the cargo-runner and petty smuggler, more than all the rest. Destiver had known Steifann longer than Corson had, which was an unforgivable offense in Corson’s eyes. Furthermore, she’d recently charged Corson an outrageous fee to smuggle her out of Chiastelm when there was a fat price on her head. That bloodsucking bitch was probably at the Hare with Steifann right now, Corson thought grimly, the both of them drunk and randy as rabbits…

  But once she left the wharves behind, her ill humor soon gave way to eager anticipation of her welcome. Whenever she returned to the Hare, her friends made much of her and even pampered her a bit, plying her with food and ale and questions about her adventures. Well, she had tales aplenty for them this time, and the loot to bear them out. When she showed them the gold and the large, uncut diamond she’d earned by her sword, they’d see that she was no common fighter-for-hire. She, Corson brenn Torisk, was a fit companion for gentlefolk.

  The jewel, and her fine red-gold earrings, were the gifts of a grateful noblewoman, a lady of the lofty rank of Rhaicime. And there was a gown of gold silk as well, a token of hospitality from a family of wealthy vintners in the Midlands-folk of noble descent they were, too. She would let Steifann know that she’d been wooed by the handsome heir of a distinguished line, while he’d been bedding down with that scrofulous smuggler. And if Destiver was there to hear it, so much the better!

  It had been too long since Corson had enjoyed a proper homecoming. The last time she’d come back, she’d hardly been home a day before she had to sneak out of the city in the hold of the Windhover. It had all been monstrously unfair, Corson thought. True, she had cut the throat of a powerful nobleman from Rhostshyl, but that was his own fault, she considered, for abducting the Lady Nyctasia while Corson was her bodyguard.

  But now that Rhostshyl was involved in civil war, the rulers of the city had no time to concern themselves with a mere hireling killer. Corson could safely pass the winter with Steifann and his people, who were more of a family to her than any she’d known before.

  When she caught sight of Steifann’s tavern her pace quickened, and she thought she could smell the savory stew, roasting meats and baking loaves, As always, she went straight to the kitchen door.

  “I’m back!” she announced. “And I’m hungry as a hunter. I’ve been living on ship’s swill for weeks.”

  But instead of crowding around to exclaim over her and hear her news, the others went on with their work, barely sparing her a greeting. They seemed busier and more rushed than usual. Steifann was nowhere to be seen-and neither was Destiver.

  “Oh, good, Corson’s here,” said Trask. “She can keep an eye on the drunks out front.” He blew her a kiss and went on scrubbing a pot with unwonted industry.

  “Corson, my pet, just in time. Here, carry this.” Annin, the head serving-woman, held out a heavy tray laden with mugs of ale.

  “Never mind that,” Walden ordered. “Someone has to chop more firewood. We haven’t much left.”

  “Where’s Steifann, then?” wailed Corson. “Why hasn’t he cut the wood?”

  “He’s sick, we put him to bed. The man’s no use at all.”

  “Sick? Steifann’s never sick. He’s healthy as an ox,” Corson said uneasily.

  “What ails him?”

  “Grippe. Fever. Go see for yourself-but don’t tarry. I need that firewood now.”

  “Firewood…?” Steifann said hoarsely, as he lumbered into the kitchen. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes red and swollen. “I’m going out to chop the wood-” He broke into a rasping cough and collapsed heavily onto a bench,

  “Soon,” he added, and sneezed.

  “I’ll do it,” Corson said
reluctantly, “and it’s more than Destiver would do, mark my word.”

  “First help me drag this diseased dog back to bed, before he gives us all the grippe,” sighed Walden.

  Steifann sneezed again. “Destiver? Is that lazy leech here again? She wouldn’t lift a finger if the lot of us were dying. She only comes by to drink my ale and tell lies about her past as a ferocious pirate.”

  Annin bustled in carrying the empty tray. “What’s he doing in here? We’ve enough to do without looking after him.”

  “I’m fine,” Steifann protested. “No need to fuss…” He leaned back against the wall and looked up at Corson, bleary-eyed. “So you’re back, are you? It’s about time. Where have you been?”

  “Come along, love.” Corson said resignedly, pulling him up by the arm. “I’ll tell you all about it.”

  He staggered against her and mumbled, “I don’t need any help. It’s just a chill-” and started to cough again.

  Corson removed an accounts-ledger and a stray boot from the bed, then gathered up the tangled quilts and shook out each one. She laid them out smoothly, as Nyctasia had done for her only a few months before, when she’d been desperately ill herself. Corson remembered how curiously comforting it had been to have the bedclothes properly arranged for her, though Nyctasia had received little thanks for her attentions.

  Steifann was no more cooperative than Corson had been. “I don’t want blankets,” he said, kicking at them. “It’s hot in here.”

  “It’s not. The fire’s gone out. And when you have a fever, you ought to stay warm. I know all about such things.”

  Steifann snorted. “And when did you become so learned a physician?”

  “I know what Nyc did for me when I was sick-in Lhestreq it was. And I didn’t have just a touch of grippe, I tell you, I was poisoned. I nearly died, I was too weak to move, for days and days-”

  “Who’s this Nick,” Steifann interrupted, “and what else did he do for you?”

  Corson looked smug. “She’s an old friend. A lady of quality, from the aristocracy. You needn’t think that I spend all my time in the company of louts like you.” She picked up some of his clothes from the floor and threw them over a chest. “This place looks like a kennel.”

  “You’ve known plenty worse! When I met you, you were glad of any roof over your head-” He broke into another fit of coughing before he could give full expression to his indignation.

  “There! You should be quiet, you see? You’re supposed to rest, and

  …” Corson thought for a moment. “And drink something hot. I’ll mull some ale,” she decided.

  “Corson!” Trask shouted through the door. “Walden says if you don’t cut that firewood now, he’ll come in after you with the axe.”

  Corson sighed. “I might as well. I have to make up the fire in here too.”

  “You might fetch in more water while you’re about it, Your Highness,” Steifann suggested.

  Corson slammed the door on her way out.

  “Corson!” Steifann called after her.

  “What now? Do you want me to clean the stable too?”

  “I’m glad to have you back,” said Steifann.

  2

  annin came downstairs briskly and looked around the kitchen. “Where’s Corson?

  Isn’t she up yet? It’s time she was off to market.”

  “She left at first light and came back an hour ago with our supplies,” Walden said without looking up from his bread-dough. “Then she went off on some business of her own. She brought in wood and water enough, though. First time we’ve had everything we need since Lambkin’s been abed.”

  Trask wandered in, tousled and yawning, “Poor Corson! She came all this way to get Steifann into bed, and instead she can’t get him out of it. I’m surprised she stayed this long.”

  “Wash your hands and get to work on this kneading. Corson’s just gone on an errand, a letter to deliver, or some such thing. She said she’d be back before anyone in the taproom had time to get too drunk.”

  Annin shook her head in wonder. “That one’s earning her keep, and no mistake.

  I’ve never known her so hard-working. She’s been doing all Steifann’s work, and everything else she can lay her hand to.”

  “And waiting on him hand and foot like a nursemaid,” Trask put in. “He’d be a fool to get better. I wouldn’t, in his place.”

  “She brought him his breakfast this morning too,” Giniver reported, with a smirk.

  “I’ll tell you what’s even stranger than all that,” said Walden. “She’s hardly been complaining lately.”

  Trask gave an exaggerated gasp. “By the Hlann, you’re right-and she hasn’t been drunk even once, or started a fight.” He pounded both fists into the mass of dough on the table. “It must be love!”

  There was plenty of sickness in the town, as there always was at the turning of the seasons, and Maegor the herbalist was busy. She was not pleased when a tall, armed stranger entered the apothecary and asked for her by name.

  She thought at once of Nyctasia. ’Tasia’s allies from Rhostshyl had come already, asking for news of her, but were her enemies still seeking her as well?

  Had they learned that Maegor still heard from her, from time to time? If so, this visit could mean danger. The others had accepted her word that she did not know where Nyctasia could be found, but the minions of the ruthless Lady Mhairestri would not be so easily satisfied…

  Maegor was fairly tall herself, but she had to look up to meet the eyes of the unknown swordswoman. “I am Maegor,” she said calmly. “How may I serve you? You don’t look to be in need of healing herbs.”

  But the woman smiled disarmingly. “Not for myself, to be sure, but my man’s down with a hard cough, and a fever. I was told you might have some remedy.” Corson had little use for potions and medicaments, for she was rarely ill, and wouldn’t admit to it when she was. But since the commission from Nyctasia brought her here, she might as well see about some cure for Steifann.

  “I can prepare an effective cordial for that,” said Maegor, somewhat reassured,

  “but there are others before you, as you see,”.

  “Oh, I can come back later,” Corson said pleasantly. With her back to Maegor’s other customers, she drew Nyctasia’s letter partway from her shirt, far enough for Maegor to see.

  “Yes, that will be best. I’ve no doubt I can help you. I’ll be ready for you, then-just after sunset,” Maegor suggested.

  Corson had recognized Maegor at once from Nyctasia’s description. “A woman of polished walnut wood,” Nyctasia had called her, and so she was. Her hair and eyes and skin were all of a deep, burnished brown, and she had something of the vital, unyielding nature of living wood as well. There were few people Nyctasia trusted so unreservedly.

  As Corson expected, Maegor was alone in the shop when she returned. She handed her the letter without explanation, and Maegor quickly broke the seal, assuring herself that the writing was in Nyctasia’s hand, She glanced through it hastily while Corson walked about the apothecary peering into the clay jars that lined the shelves.

  “She doesn’t know…?” Maegor said, frowning.

  “About Rhostshyl? Not when I left her. She may have heard something by now.”

  Maegor sighed. “I hope not. She’ll think, she should come back, if she learns how things stand in the city. And there are those who… well, no matter.” She seemed sorry to have said even so much as that. “I once tried to persuade her to stay, but now I’m glad she’s clear of the place.”

  “I promised to let her have news of the city.”

  So you know where she is, Maegor thought, but she said only, “If she returns, she may very well be assassinated.”

  “She knows that,” Corson said evenly. “I’ve no right to make such a decision for her.” She did not add, “and neither have you,” but Maegor understood her well enough, and she turned back to Nyctasia’s letter, silent.

  “Is it true that ground har
tshorn excites the passions?” Corson asked, examining a small pot of grayish powder.

  Maegor looked up, startled, then laughed, “’Tasia told you to ask me that, as a sign, didn’t she? Those were the first words she ever spoke to me. Are you satisfied?”

  Corson shrugged. “I was sure of you. But I thought perhaps you weren’t so sure of me.”

  “I wasn’t, at first-but it’s not likely that anyone else would match ’Tasia’s description of her courier. Listen: ‘She who delivers this to you should be a veritable giantess, a magnificent creature a furlong high and as beautiful as a dream, with great blue eyes, skin like dark honey, and a long bronze braid crowning her proud head.’” Maegor paused to look Corson up and down, nodded, and continued, “‘If some lesser being stands before you, then this message has been intercepted, but I have no fear of that. My messenger is as deadly as she is comely, and her equal with a sword has not been born.’ You seem to have made quite an impression on the Lady Nyctasia, friend.”

  Corson blushed and said stiffly, “That one wallows in words like a sow in muck.

  I don’t pay any heed to her nonsense. And I can’t wait about here all night, for that matter-I’ve work to do. If you want to send her an answer, you can find me at The Jugged Hare. But what of that remedy you promised me, eh? That wasn’t a ruse, I do need it. Do you know Steifann brenn Azhes at the Hare?”

  “I know him by reputation,” said Maegor, discreetly, without mentioning what Steifann’s reputation was like. “Is he the one taken sick?”

  Corson nodded, “First time since I’ve known him. He’s coughed himself hoarse.

  His throat’s swollen up and he wheezes like a bellows. Can you really heal that?”

  “Well, I can ease it a good bit. Keep water on the boil in his room day and night. The steam will soothe his breathing. Is he sneezing too?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Mmmm, with a fever, you said?”