Lamma's Night (anthology)

Unless he could find his way to this one footprint among millions and pull the nail out himself.

Forget! snapped a voice that only Wythen could hear.

Memory faded into black mist and hungry yellow eyes.

* * *

Wythen looked up at the mountain peaks southward of Parney and shivered at the sight of the snow already creeping down their flanks, turning her hood up against the wind. It was a relief to come to Parney town, past the dark bare-branched vineyards and in among the houses, lights showing yellow and warm through the windows against the gathering night. She passed the houses of wealthy merchants and vintners on the outskirts, set back amid walled gardens, passed on to where brick and timber buildings leaned over narrow streets of worn cobblestone. A sign creaked over one, bearing a pictured mug and sheaf of wheat; beside it was an entrance to an enclosed courtyard rimmed with stables.

'Innkeeper?' she called, pushing through the doors.

Warmth greeted her, and tantalizing cooking smells from beyond the common room. There was a big brick hearth on one side, with a pot of mulled wine rich with cinnamon hanging over the coal fire. Booths and tables lined the other walls, save for a counter with barrels behind it.

'Innkeeper?' The man behind the counter looked up. 'Could you tell me the way to the house of Narvik, son of Phocon, the sorcerer?'

He started. 'Would you be a friend of his? A colleague, perhaps?' His eyes went to her staff and pouch, both carved with the markings of her trade.

'I'm a sorceress, if that's what you mean,' she said with an uneasy smile.

'Please,' he said, suddenly at her side. 'Sit. You honor this house with your presence.'

He urged her to a table, pushing a cup of the hot wine into her cold hands. A plate appeared as if by Art, heaped with slices of roast mutton and roots in cream sauce, with a fresh loaf and butter and a wedge of cheese. The innkeeper waved aside her protests.

'No, no payment—an honor, as I said.'

Wythen closed her mouth, except for eating. Chances like this didn't come very often; the server refilled her plate, replacing it with a fruit pie and a cup of wine better than she could afford. As she ate a half-dozen men and women slipped into the room, standing and talking quietly among themselves. Prosperous-looking folk, in coats of fine dyed wool and shoes with upturned toes, holding their floppy hats in their hands, casting an occasional glance her way. When she pushed away her plate with a sigh, one came over to her with a courteous bow.

He was the smallest among them, an older gentleman with a neatly pointed beard.

'I'm Cafrym, good sorceress, Syndic of the Corporation of Parney. I wonder, would you be so good as to allow us to discuss a business proposal with you?'

Wythen gestured wordless invitation at the seats across from her. The others gathered, clearing their throats.

Business? she thought. How curious. What about Narvik?

'We've sent out numerous messengers,' Cafrym said, 'Are you here because of them?'

'No.' News?

'Are you, uh, great friends with Narvik?'

Wythen shook her head again, this time frowning.

'No. We met at a fair last autumn. He invited me to visit if I was ever in the area.'

'Ah. Well. I'm sorry... Narvik, son of Phocon, took ill and died in the early summer. Just...' Cafrym grimaced and spread his hands, 'faded away, unable to help himself.'

A tearing gasp broke from her. Something cold ran through her body, like a wisp of icy mist. Tears filled her eyes. My fault! her mind accused.

She'd forgotten. She always forgot when she did something truly evil. Only to remember when, as now, someone told her the results of her wickedness. Despair crashed down upon her like an avalanche. She wanted to destroy herself.

No use. She'd tried before. Once she'd placed a noose round her neck and tightened it, and once she'd a flagon of poison actually at her lips. Both times Wythen suddenly found herself trudging the road, footsore and far from where she'd been, all her possessions on her back, with a headache like a spike driven into her brow.

Why? Her heart was beating so fast she feared it would burst. Why would I hurt him? He was kind to me.

Cafrym reached out as though to take her hand and one of the councilwomen offered brandy. Wythen took it and gulped, gasping again as the fire burned its way down her throat.

'I'm sorry,' Cafrym said. 'He was a friend to us all.'

Wythen nodded, struggling to regain her composure.

'I'm sure...' Cafrym paused.

'That he'd want us to welcome you,' the councilwoman supplied quickly. 'I'm Radola. Narvik was a great friend to my family. I know he would have wished you to find—'

'A place with us,' snapped Cafrym, reestablishing control. 'Ah, assuming you don't already have a place of your own. You've the look of a, um, wandering scholar.'

Wythen stroked her brow with trembling fingers.