Icelin ran all the way back to Blacklock Alley, pausing only once for breath and to see if she was being followed.
Rustling movements disturbed one of the trash piles in the alley. Icelin nearly swooned. But it was only a small gray dog, snuffling through the garbage. It raised its head, sniffed the air around Icelin, and went back to foraging.
Shaking, Icelin pressed a hand to her stomach. She was nearly home now, but she couldn't go to her great-uncle like this. She glanced in one of the glazed shop windows. Her hair stuck out crazily from her braid; her dress was caked in dirt from her tumble with the elf. She couldn't let him see how wild she was, how terrified. And what if the elf still trailed her?
Leaning against a building, Icelin hid herself in the shadows. She would wait, for a while at least, to make sure the elf wasn't coming for her. In the meantime, she tamed her hair as best she could and tried to relax.
Cerest and his scars floated in her memory. Gods, did the elf truly know her? Had he been there five years ago? She hadn't known the names of any of the folk involved, except Therondol. She hadn't wanted to know their names or faces. How could she carry them in her memory and survive? Nelzun had been bad enough. Her teacher.
Don't blame yourself.
She heard his words again. They haunted her. If the elf came after her for what she'd done, she could hardly blame him, could she?
Icelin pressed her forehead against the cool stone building. She would ask her great-uncle. Brant would know. He'd raised her, protected her, even after what had happened. He would know what she should do.
Icelin stepped around the side of the building and glanced at the sign above the door. She saw with some surprise that it was the butcher's. "Sull's Butchery," it stated, in blocky brown letters over a painted haunch of meat.
I didn't even notice where I ended up, Icelin thought. A dangerous lapse, in Blacklock Alley. Well, she'd wanted meat… Maybe the everyday chore would calm her. Anything was better than being in the street alone.
A bell jangled loudly when she entered. Icelin gritted her teeth at the sound. She wanted to be home where it was quiet and safe.
"Be right out!" The bellow sounded from somewhere in the back of the shop, a cross between a lion's roar and a ram's gravelly tenor.
A breath later, a giant human figure crowded the doorway. He carried a half-carcass of deer, dangling by a metal hook. Grunting, he heaved it down on a covered portion of counter at the far end of the room.
"Sull?" she inquired. She half hoped the imposing man wasn't the name above the door.
"That'd be me." He turned to give her a friendly smile, exposing a wide gap between his two front teeth. Red, frizzy hair covered his head, ending in two massive sideburns at his jowls. A shiny bald circle exposed the top of his head. "What can I do for you?"
"I need some…" she trailed off, watching him wipe the animal blood on his apron. The streaky red stains reminded her of the dead horse.
"Aye?" He looked at her expectantly. "Are you all right, lass?"
"I'm fine." Icelin swallowed. "I'd like two cuts of boar and one of mutton, if you have them."
"I do, and you're welcome to 'em. Just let me take care of this beauty." He took a long cleaver from a padded pocket in his apron and cut into the carcass on the counter. "Lass a little older than you is comin' in for this one." He took a fistful of salt from a jar on the counter and sprinkled it like snow on the cut meat.
"Aw, you can make a hearty stew with deet ot boar, and that's the truth. I got my own seasonin's-best recipe you'll find at any fine inn. Most folk have me prepare em in advance, tenderize 'em, let the juices mingle a while. Delicious."
The big man reached into another apron pocket and pulled out three small jars. "Peppers, some ground-up parsley, and more salt. Nothin' fancy. The key's in the quantity. I'll show you what I mean. It's best on the raw meat, when it's drippin' just a bit."
The bell at the door jangled again as the butcher headed for the back room. "Be right back," he hollered.
Icelin turned. A pair of gold elves stood in the doorway. They were dressed in servants' liveries. Neither paid her any attention, but Icelin felt sick in her gut.
They were Cerest's men. She knew they were.
CHAPTER 3
The shorter of the two elves took up a position by the door. The other came forward to lean an elbow against the long counter.
They all move like dancers, Icelin thought, as if the ground beneath them could be measured and controlled through their feet. Would they fight the same way?
Pinned between them, Icelin weighed her options. She could run, but they would be on her before she reached the street. If she screamed, would the butcher come to aid het?
The last thing she wanted was for harm to come to him or his shop. She couldn't use her magic for the same reason.
"Your master is persistent," she said, stalling for time. If she could just get "them to move, take the inevitable fight to the alley…
The elf at the counter regarded her coolly. He said something to his companion in Elvish. Sharp, elegant words to match theif looks. The other elf nodded.
"You know, that's terribly rude behavior," Icelin said. She crossed her arms. "Talking as if I'm not in the room. If you're going to execute a successful kidnapping, the least you could do is be straightforward with your intentions."
The pair exchanged a glance. Icelin couldn't tell if they were amused or annoyed.
The elf at the door looked her over. "You've a blunt tongue," he said in Common. "I don't suppose if we were 'sttaightforward' and asked you to come with us, you'd cooperate without resistance?"
"Ah, if only a woman's intentions bore any degree of predictability," Icelin said, smiling. "Let me think. If I kick and scream and conjure fire to boil the flesh off your lovely cheekbones, does that count as resistance?"
"I believe it does," the elf said, genuinely amused now. "But I think you're bluffing."
"You think I don't have magic? I suppose I don't give much of an appearance of sorcery." Icelin reached up to grasp the coin-purse at her neck.
"Hands at your sides!"
Her head cocked, Icelin obeyed. "But I thought I was bluffing," she said. "The pouch is too small to hold any useful weapon."
"Mefilarn stowil!" the elf at the door said sharply to his companion. "Make her hold her tongue, Melias."
"Your friend's right, Melias, I do talk too much. And that's a fault to reckon with," Icelin said. "But don't interrupt me now, I've only just got going. The pouch can't contain any weapon deadly to you. So what am I keeping in here, if not some datk magic that you both fear?"
"Empty it," Melias commanded.
"Not here," Icelin said, "in the alley. We can have a nice, quiet conversation-"
"Sorry to be so long!" Sull's booming voice cut through the tension in the air like a saw grating on wire.
"Watch your hands." The butcher tossed a pair of bundles wrapped in brown paper onto the counter next to Melias. "Seasonin's, I was talkin' of." He uncapped the jat of salt again and poured a fistful into his large hand. He gestured at Icelin and sprayed salt across the counter.
"Large crystals, that's what you want," Sull said. "Not ground as fine as fot a noble's table in North Ward-that bleeds the flavor out-but try talkin' sensible cookin' to a noble, eh? The salt's what teases the tongue. You put some pinches of this on the fire while your boar meat's simmerin' in my spices, the whole thing'U be so tender it falls juicy onto your spoon. Make a man weep unashamed pleasure, that's the truth." He looked at the elves as if he'd only just remembered they were there. "Sorry 'bout that, gentlemen, I like to blather. What can I get the pair ofyou?"
"Nothing," said the one by the door. "We didn't see anything worthy of our master's tastes. The lass and we are leaving."