Marta Randall [Randall - Mapping Winter

MAPPING WINTER

Marta Randall

Copyright 1983, 2019 by Marta Randall

Marta Randall has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

First published as The Sword of Winter in 1983 by Pocket Books;

This completely revised edition first published in 2019 by Endeavour Venture, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.

Table of Contents

For know this: there has been no step in human progress that was not bought at the price of a deep betrayal.

- Alvaro Bonnard de Sietes

Chapter 1

The kitchen boy raced around a corner of the inn but she caught him easily. A benefit of long legs. She reached for his collar, hoisted him off his feet, and carried him struggling back to the yard. The innkeeper and his wife and a crowd of terrified village folk gathered at the inns door. They gasped together as she dropped the boy beside her horse. Traveler rolled his eyes but let her put her hand on his withers.

Fix it, she said, furious.

Another collective gasp. The kitchen boy put his shoulders back and glared at her, unrepentant, then came to the horses side. Murmuring, the boy began to loosen the girth.

When did you make friends with my horse? Kieve demanded.

He shrugged. I can handle horses. He slid his hand under the saddle blanket. Traveler stepped. The boy murmured and brought his hand out, holding a nasty twist of metal; two slender nails bent each around the other. He dropped it into Kieves waiting palm. It fell apart when she turned it over. He had probably made it himself.

He almost threw me.

The boy didnt respond.

It had been a shocking moment. She had swung aboard Traveler as she had hundreds of times, but this morning the moment her foot touched the stirrup the big black horse reared then bucked, and she vaulted off him. He quieted but still widened his eyes at her. The innkeeper and his wife had followed her into the yard and stood gripping each other, as townsfolk drew close as though called to witness. Kieve had seen a flash of bright gold hair disappearing around the corner behind them and took off after him.

The boy crossed his arms and raised his chin, unrepentant. The Rider began to check Travelers tack, then reconsidered.

Unsaddle him and care for him, she said. Cleanly and well. He does not deserve what you did to him. Then come inside. She gave him her most frightening glare. Again the villagers gasped. They scrambled out of her way as she carried her saddlebags back into the inn. The innkeeper groaned a little.

Rider! You are returning? You are come back? Welfred, get the, take the, open the, something!

His wife wrung her hands under her apron and gestured at the bench by the hearth. Kieve dropped onto it, as she had the night before. The villagers crept in and lined the walls, silent, eyes wide. The kitchen boy came in last and marched over to her, head high and back straight. He had shown spirit the night before, too. She leaned against the settle, surrounded by the black fur of her cloak, and stared at him.

What in the name of the gods am I going to do with you? she said. He raised his chin. It trembled the tiniest bit. His hair shone golden under streaks of dirt. Kieve shook her head, annoyed with herself. Now she had to think of some suitable punishment, and she was already late.

* * * *

Last night, sitting her horse on the hillside, she had paused to look at the tiny, snow-bound village below. If not for the map, sketchy as it was, she would have missed it. Nothing advertised its presence: no semaphore tower on the mountain ridge, the path little more than a line beaten down by sheep and even that covered with early winter snows. The track widened as it looped down to the village, threaded between clusters of squat stone houses, passed the inn with its two lit windows, and became a hunch of stone over the river. The river itself shone like tarnished silver, broken where the millrace kept ice from forming. At the valleys far side a smooth shoulder of mountain blotted out the stars.

Cold touched her cheeks and lips. Snow had fallen within the last week but no prints save Travelers marked the path between the village and Three Crossings, the market town down-mountain. She rolled the map into its case, slipped the case into the map pocket of her breeches, and urged her horse toward the inn. Travelers breath puffed clouds in the cold. This place, Minst, would be the last before she had to ride down the mountains and back to Sterk. With luck, the Lord was already dead. If Minst had the telegraph, she would be able to learn that. If Minst had the telegraph she would not have had to make this ride, but it was better to be on the cold mountain, alone, than crammed onto Sterk waiting for the old bastard to die.

Someone must have seen her. She rode into the inn yard as the innkeeper hurried out, tugging up the sleeves of a fleece shortcoat. Figures crowded the door behind him, in silhouette against the lamplight.

Welcome! the innkeeper called, raising his lantern. Youve come up the mountain! Up the mountain, I say, in the winter! Most amazing! Welcome!

She swung off her horse and turned to him, one hand on Travelers neck, and lifted her baton from her belt. The innkeeper stopped where he was and his smile froze.

Rider, he said. The people behind him fell silent.

Innkeeper. Thank you for your welcome. She extended the reins. He reached for them without taking his eyes off her. Traveler would enjoy a warm stable, and I a warm fire.

Warm, yes, of course. Welfred! he bellowed over his shoulder. Wine for the Rider, and a place by the fire! Let me take your, that is, I have, be welcome...

A minute, please. His eyes went round with fear. He must have borrowed the shortcoat; its collar hid the sides of his thin face and the sleeves fell over his hands. Frost had already formed on his moustache. Another blind provincial dolt. She took a breath and let it go. Be easy, innkeeper, she said. Id take my bags before you take my horse.

Of course. Of course. He clutched the reins, dropped them, and grabbed for them again. Traveler whuffed, unimpressed. Kieve slid her baton back under her belt, took her saddlebags, nodded to the innkeeper, and walked inside. The figures in the doorway rushed away; when she entered they had backed to their benches and tables, maintaining a careful, silent indifference. An aproned woman gestured toward a bench near the fire. Kieve dropped her saddlebags by the door and unclasped her cloak. The careful indifference increased. She wondered what marks of evil they thought to see when she dropped her cloak.

She spread it over a corner of the mantelpiece to dry; water dripped from the edges of the hood where her breath had frozen on the black fur. She pulled off her overgloves and stuffed them under her belt. The fingerless undergloves could wait until she felt warmer. The innkeepers wife dipped mulled wine from the pot by the hearth and handed her a cup. She nodded and folded her long body onto a bench near the fire, stretching her legs. Her boots steamed in the warmth.

Something to eat, Rider? A plain brown woman with a plain brown voice, barely audible in the rooms quiet.

In a moment, goodwife.

The innkeeper came into the room, stamping his feet and beating his hands together.

A cold night, most certainly a cold night, he said, his voice loud in the silence. Welfred, youve not fed the Rider. Whats come to you, woman? I say, whats come to you? Step sharply, now, some stew and good fresh bread. He came up to the fire, still beating his hands. Behind him his wife clasped her hands and stepped from foot to foot.

Your goodwife offered, Kieve said. He met her glance for a moment before moving away. Ill eat when Ive given my message. She turned on the bench to look at him and beyond him to the inns patrons. They stared back at her. Mountain folk, dark hair and dark eyes, all wearing the same apprehensive expression.