The Iron Ghost by Jen Williams Read Free Book Online Page B

an ox.’
    ‘Or a werken, would you say?’ asked the Prophet, a playful note in her voice.
    ‘I suppose I would say that,’ said Tamlyn. ‘They will be leaving once they have their supplies gathered, and Nuava has made copies of all the maps for them. I must go and check their supplies over myself.’
    ‘Oh, just one thing, Tamlyn, my dear.’
    Tamlyn paused, half turned towards the door. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Show them the tomb, won’t you? Before they go.’ The Prophet scooted over, bringing her face closer to the curtains. It was possible now to make out the round shape of her head, the darker shadows where her mouth and eyes were. ‘Take them down there, give them a tour.’
    Tamlyn scowled and touched the beads at her throat. ‘Why should I do that? I mean, why would you have me do that?’
    The Prophet made a gesture, lost behind the curtain. ‘Oh, I think they’ll enjoy it. This lord is a mage himself, after all, and I think he’ll be curious to see such a thing, don’t you? Really, Tamlyn, you must learn how to be properly hospitable to your guests.’
    Tamlyn glanced around at the lavish room. The smell of smoke from the braziers was tickling the back of her throat. ‘As you wish.’

6
    Siano watched the man come into the room, all shuffling and unaware. He paused, the light from the dingy oil lamp painting a yellow circle on his bald head.
    He can smell it somehow
, thought Siano, suddenly certain.
He can smell the death in the room.
    But the older man simply took a ragged bundle from the table – wax and string, curls of treated paper for messages – and left, never coming over to the dark corner where Siano crouched, her fingers still pressed deeply into the throat of the man’s son.
    I am too jumpy
, mused Siano. She turned the head gently in her hands, listening to the little crunching noises that signified a broken neck
. I’m looking for difficulties where there are none. But it is best to be cautious.
    Caution was an essential lesson at the House of Patience.
    Silently she laid the body of the younger man down on the floor, making sure it lay deep in the shadows, and quickly opened a vein with her smallest knife, filling the slim glass vial in seconds. When she was done, she put out the oil lamp before moving over to the open door. It was late in the morning, the sky a pale blue, and most of this family were already dead. She had killed the aunt on her way up the hill, a sturdy woman with bird shit on her shawl and a face crinkled from years of living in this sun-soaked tower. The old woman had caught sight of the flicker of shadow as Siano danced out behind her but had turned too late, and the long, thin knife had threaded up through her back, piercing her heart. The bags of potatoes and leeks she’d been carrying home for that night’s dinner had slipped from her fingers, and Siano had caught her and dragged her off the road, the only sound the scrape of her boot heels on the stones.
    She listened at the doorway. She could hear the birds cooing and chirping in their chamber at the top of the spindly tower, and the soft music of the flute-shaped weather vanes that sprouted all over like strange bronze plants. She could also hear the old man’s footsteps as he made his way up the spiralling outer staircase, no doubt on his way to attach a message to one of the birds and send it on its way. Siano reached within her belt and removed a shining silver wire suspended between two pegs and, holding it comfortably in both hands, made her way swiftly up the steps behind him.
    Only two more to go, and it was hardly midday. Siano allowed herself a moment of pride. The client had asked that the entire family be killed quickly and without fuss, and Siano was performing as expected: perfectly, in other words.
    Still, the thought of that severed head and, more specifically, the voice that came from it, made her uneasy, so she pushed it from her mind and refocussed. No distractions, no speculation. Only