Rachel Caine - WitchGrave

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2024-11-24 0 0 79.57KB 14 页 5.9玖币

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WITCHGRAVE

anoriginal short story by RachelCaine

"Welcome to you, friend!" theinnkeep cried, and banged the door shut behind the newcomer with a

grunting effort to shut out the howling wind and rain. "The devil's own storm, sir, eh? Black as a witch's

heart, and not fit for mannor beast!"

The newcomer shrugged off his oiled cloak, and theinnkeep took the cold leather and hung it on a peg

over a trough of dirty water. "You shan't be sorry you chose us, sir, the Brass Bell may not have the

lordliest rooms in the town, but we have the finest food. Roast lamb, sir, tender and fresh. And savory

stew. Smooth, creamy ale if you-- "

He stopped, open-mouthed as he caught full sight of his new custom. Well-bred ladies always dressed

in full skirts, with layers of kirtles and petticoats to disguise any hint of their shape from lustful eyes. This

-- creature -- wore leathertrews , a thick cotton shirt of a mannish cut. It clung to the swell of her

bosom, slid in to define a waist no decent woman would dare show, flared over hips and stopped

indecently short to flaunt the shape of her leather-clad lower limbs.

The female was armed with two matched daggers, a boot knife, and an ivory-handled sword ofCaldish

workmanship. She had no outriders, and no attendants for virtue's sake. She was, in short, the most

immodest hoyden he had ever seen, and for a fateful second his outraged sensibilities insisted that he send

her on her way, storm or no.

"Lady-- " he began, a thing which he could plainly see she was not. "The Women's Lodging House is at

the end of the way, to the north. Perhaps you could--"

"No," she said flatly. "Perhaps I couldn't." She was a mannish thing, from her hair cropped and dripping

at her shoulders to the bold look in her dark eyes. More muscled than any woman he'd ever seen. "How

much for a bed?"

Abed ? As if he'd accept such as her in his honest rooms. "None available," he said shortly.

She had the temerity tosmile, as if he had amused her. "I saw the size of your inn, friend, and the

number of horses stabled. You have more than one bed going vacant this evening, save for the lice and

fleas, which I think you will agree do not pay good coin for the privilege."

He swept her with another disbelieving look. "And you can."

Insolent, that smile. Dangerously so. "Perhaps," she said. "And perhaps you might find it wise before

the evening ends to make a friend of me."

He gave her a disgusted look and went to the door as it flew open yet again, admitting the roar of

thunder and a silver curtain of rain. The woman moved to the huge roaring hearth, where the spit-dog

slowly turned a roasting chunk of meat that sizzled deliciously. She wrapped her shoulder-length black

hair into a knot and twisted out a drizzle to the rush-strewn floor, then shook the damp waving strands

back in place around her face.

Across the room, two men watched her every move. She had marked them upon entering, as she'd

marked everyone in the small, overheated room, as well as the exits from it. Those two were of interest

to her, as they did not seem to fit the mold of broken farmers into which the others had been poured.

Too young, too fine, too neatly dressed. They sat close together, and as she watched them, the taller one

with longish white-blond hair nodded deliberately in acknowledgment. He was pale, almost albino, and

when he raised a hand to summon the serving girl his hands were long and graceful. He mimed another

round, and pointed across the room to include the swordswoman in his order as well.

She set a hand on the hilt of her sword and joined them, settling lightly on the rough wooden bench

opposite the two young men. Seen close, the blond was a startlingly lovely creature, with blue eyes like

jewels and an angel's face.

The other man was dark-haired, the devil to his companion's angelic countenance, but comely in his own

right. He smiled at her, too.

"Would you have the name ofTatya , then?" he asked. He had a low, pleasant voice, with the burred,

lilting accent of the far north.

"Would there be two swordswomen traveling to this godforsaken place tonight?" she asked, and sat

back as the serving wench slapped down a mug of spiced wine before her. "You'd be the ones looking

to hire me."

"Aye," the dark one said. The light one continued to smile silently. "My name is Silk. My companion

here is called Silence."

She laughed -- not a lady's polite titter, but a man's full-bellied explosion of amusement. "Silk and

Silence? Are you whores?"

They continued to smile. "No," said Silk. "Our names are a part of the tale we have to tell, my lady. If

you will ...?"

Tatyashrugged, mail jingling, and took a long pull of hot wine. "The coin you already spent guarantees

you at least my ear, if not necessarily my sword," she said. "Tell away."

The blond one -- Silence -- signaled for the wench again, and mimed eating. She nodded, cheeks

flushed and eyes bright, and hurried away to cut them pieces of the roasting lamb. Tatya's stomach

rumbled at the thought of fresh, hot meat, rich with spices. She'd had nothing but old bread and thin soup

for the better part of a week.

"They call youWitchkiller ," Silk said. "Is there truth to it?"

TatyaWitchkillersipped her wine and cocked a single eyebrow. "Have I killed a witch? Aye. More than

one. You need not worry -- unless, of course, yoube witches."

Those same, unsettling smiles. "Mistress," Silk said politely, "that, too, is part of the tale."

She nodded without speaking. Silk opened his mouth to begin, but was halted by his blond friend, who

seized his arm and shook it gently. Tatya watched in fascination as Silence's long, pale fingers danced in

complicated, mesmerizing patterns. Almost she could understand...almost ...

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