Lord of the Isles by David Drake & David G. Hartwell

Author:David Drake & David G. Hartwell [Drake, David ]
Format: epub
Tags: Science fiction, Fantasy, Epic, General, Fiction, Fantasy - General, Fiction - Fantasy, Fantasy fiction, American Science Fiction And Fantasy, General & Literary Fiction, Modern & contemporary fiction (post c 1945), Modern fiction, Fantasy - Epic
ISBN: 9780312853969
Publisher: TOR
Published: 1997-07-31T16:00:00+00:00

23

Ilna saw the crowd in the street in front of the Red Ox. Something was wrong and it involved Garric. She stumbled for the first time since she'd left the Captain's Rest at a near run.

She'd finished the duties she'd bargained against her room and board: all the chickens killed, plucked, and cleaned for the next day's dinners. The cook had been delighted with the neat dispatch with which she worked, though Ilna herself was scornful of the number of usable feathers she'd wasted in her hurry.

Nobody else faulted her for sloppy workmanship, but Ilna os-Kenset had never cared what others thought. She knew the true facts.

If Ilna had been able to, she'd have returned to the Red Ox with Garric. He and Tenoctris left not long before Ilna finished her duties; they'd had no idea she wanted to come with them or they'd have waited for her. It wasn't Ilna's style to feel beholden to anyone: she'd hastened along after, without guide or lantern. The twisting streets that were to others a maze were a childishly simple pattern for a mind trained to weave complex perfection on a loom.

Ilna had used her own bone-handled knife to clean and joint the chickens, good steel worn thin with years of service. The last thing she'd done before leaving the kitchen of the Captain's Rest was to touch up the blade on the smooth limestone lintel.

She pushed her way into the crowd. Folk were looking toward the graveyard across the street from the inn, talking excitedly among themselves. A few even sat on the wall, though they leaned instinctively back toward the street, tempering bravado with caution. It needn't have anything to do with Garric—

But Ilna knew it did. She could feel the pattern forming.

Benlo's guards stood together beside the wall, looking into the graveyard and talking through scowls of concern. Icy with purpose, Ilna joined them and said, "Master Rald? Where's Garric?"

Rald reached for hilt of the sword he wasn't wearing as his head jerked around to see who had spoken. It was her tone rather than her words, she knew, but she was no mood for mincing delicacy, not now or ever.

"Sorry, mistress," the chief guard muttered in embarrassment. The men had gotten to know and respect, if not exactly like, Ilna during the drive from Barca's Hamlet. He bobbed his helmet toward the moonlit tombs. "He's in there and the old lady with him. And Master Benlo and his daughter, I suppose."

"Then why are you here?" she said. "What else happened?"

She wanted to climb over the wall immediately but there was more to learn before she acted. Ilna determined the pattern even before she strung the warp. Those who wove freehand were fools and worse: they were bad craftsmen.

"There was a light from there not long after your friend went over the wall," Rald said. "A flash, like; and it wasn't lightning, it was red as . . . it was bright red."

Red as blood.

The guard's voice was neutral but the expression on his grizzled face was uncomfortable.

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