Free A Cavern of Black Ice by J. V. Jones Page A

with shade.
    'Really! Between you and furnacemen I
don't know who's the dimmest. You were supposed to tell Iss that it
wasn't
the kitchen staffs fault. Not just stand there
mumbling a lot of old nonsense about the lumber and the fire."
    Rounding the curve, Mistress Wence and
the manservant came to an abrupt halt several paces short of Torny
Fyfe's likeness. Although light in the corridor was now limited, it
was far from dark, and Ash could clearly see Mistress Wence's sharp
nose quiver.
    'Torch has gone out. Take a flint to
it, Grice. We don't want to give His Coldness anything else to find
fault with."
    As Grice slapped his tunic looking for
a flint, Ash felt a trickle of cold sweat slide past her ear. Dream
or no dream, she was returning to her chamber as soon as this pair
was gone. She should never have come here. The whole idea had been a
mistake from the start. She'd rather be lying in bed dreaming of ice
than wedged behind a marble backside, hiding from the fortress staff.
    Realizing Grice was flintless, Mistress
Wence sniffed with venom. "Really! How can you call yourself a
man and not carry a flint?"
    'I can relight it from one of the
torches, mistress."
    To Ash's very great relief, Mistress
Wence shook her head, shoulders, and chest. "You will do no such
thing, you great oaf. What if Iss came from his chamber and saw you
hulking around with a smoking torch in your hand at this time of
night?" Three sniffs followed in rapid succession. "He'd
think you were a hideclad come to finish him off, that's what. And
sure as rotten apples bring flies, he'd make you pay for it. You're
coming to the kitchen with me and pick up a flint this minute. Move
sharpish, now!" With that Mistress Wence and the manservant
resumed their journey along the corridor.
    Slumping forward against Torny Fyfe's
shoulder, Ash exhaled softly. A wisp of marble dust spilled down her
neck, cold and grainy like powdered snow. Ash shook it away. She was
stiff, half-frozen, and her nightgown was plastered to her back
with icy sweat. Sucking in her chest and stomach, she squeezed
herself free of Torny Fyfe's shoulders and shuffled her ankles clear
of his blocky, basestone feet. As she stepped into the open corridor,
her head jerked back painfully. Turning about, she saw where a lock
of her hair had snagged in the Quarterlord's elaborately worked
scabbard. Cursing all fat men with swords, Ash edged back to release
it.
    Besides arming Torny Fyfe with a sword
long enough to impale a horse, the sculptor had also conceived of a
brisk wind to blow at his cape, and sharp folds of marble shaved
Ash's shins as she moved. Letting out a sound halfway between a
squeak and a sob, Ash vowed to run back to her chamber and never,
ever, venture out again.
    Sss. A door whirred open in the
distance, making a faint hissing sound. Ash looked up. The noise came
from the direction of Penthero Iss' private chamber. Even before she
could decide what to do, she heard softly soled feet slapping stone.
Iss was coming this way.
    Wrenching her trapped hair free, Ash
drew herself into the deepest shadows of the recess. Iss would be
furious if he found her here. Furious. The time she fixed the bolt on
her door was nothing compared to this.
    Before she had chance to settle herself
into a position she could comfortably hold, her foster father rounded
the corner. Thin, pale, and hairless except for his closely shorn
scalp, Penthero Iss had the look of something drowned and then pulled
up a week later from a lake. Everything about him was pallid, smooth,
and bloodless. His eyes were green, but barely so; his lips and
cheeks had the color and texture of cooked veal; and the skin on his
earlobes let through light.
    Carrying a covered bundle in his left
arm, Iss walked faster than was normally his wont. Blue silk, heavily
embroidered with metal chains and pieces of agate, thrashed against
his thighs as he moved.
    Ash held her breath. All of her shrank
back, away from her foster father. She