Read Shallows of Night - 02 for Free Online

young man who accompanied him—a scholar, I believe—G’fand—was killed. Unfortunate, but scholars are hardly essential to the stability of the Freehold.’”
    Borros shifted uncomfortably on his berth but found no surcease. His eyes were still turned inward. “Freidal was furious that I did not crumble then, as he had hoped, so he”—the Magic Man’s thin frame shuddered—“he had Stahlig brought in. He had his daggam drag Stahlig in front of me. Someone held my head so that I could not turn away; they hit me when I tried to shut my eyes.” He lifted his head, the narrow skull shining like ancient bone, his eyes lusterless. “When Stahlig looked at me—I have never seen such terror written upon the face of a human being.” He let go a suspiration then, and it all came out. “Freidal said to him: ‘What is it that you fear most, Stahlig? The loss of your feet? Would you care to crawl through the Freehold on your knees? Perhaps your eyes. Do you fear blindness? No? I could break your back then; leave you alive, alive and immobile.’ And seeing the look in Stahlig’s eyes, he continued: ‘That would be most fitting, would it not? Your friend Ronin left my man Marcsh with a broken back. But you know that; you treated Marcsh. You will be totally helpless; to be fed and wiped like a baby.’”
    The wind, muffled somewhat by the cabin’s bulkheads, moaned mournfully, momentarily drowning out the soft scraping sounds of the runners gliding swiftly over the ice, as if it too was witness to the horror that the Magic Man had conjured.
    Borros put his head in his hands. “In the end,” he whispered so softly that it was like a ghost’s breath, “Stahlig died of fright.”
    There was silence for a time save for the moaning and occasional creak of the fittings abovedecks. Ronin lay back on his berth and tried to think of nothing, but his brain was on fire and he got up and went silently up the short vertical companionway.
    The small ship shot through the mists of night ever southward. Ronin, on deck, could see nought but the blurred shadows of the ribboning ice as it sped by beneath the vessel. It was a quarter wind which now propelled them and he busied himself learning the fundamentals of tacking into it, working hard at the rigging to keep them on course.
    He went aft and freed the wheel, steering manually for a time, letting the vibrations flow from his hands into his body borne away on an imaginary tide. The endless gentle soughing of the runners peeling a thin film of ice below stood by him like a spectral companion.
    The wind strained the sail. Already the weather was changing, the air wetter, denser than before and, because of it, the cold seemed fiercer, creeping beneath the skin into flesh and bone. At length Ronin lashed the wheel to and, taking a last deep breath, went below.
    Borros lay on his berth staring blankly upward.
    “The surprise, Borros,” Ronin said gently. “I have not told you what it is.”
    “Uhm.”
    “Do you remember why you sent me to the City of Ten Thousand Paths?”
    “Of course, but—” He sat up so suddenly that he barely missed hitting his head on a beam. Color had returned to his yellow face. “You cannot mean—” At last there was a light kindling his eyes. “But Freidal had you and—”
    “And the Salamander also; his men took me from Security.” A wintry smile broke out on Ronin’s face.
    The Magic Man’s mouth opened soundlessly.
    “And?”
    Ronin laughed then, for the first time in many cycles. “And? And? Freidal found nothing, though he was justifiably curious about this”—he lifted his strange gauntlet—“and the Salamander lacked the time to find anything—”
    “Are you telling me that you actually found the scroll? Ronin, you have it?” Borros came excitedly across to him.
    Ronin withdrew his sword, grasped the hilt, and twisted it three times. It came away in his hand. From within its hollowed-out recesses Ronin gently pulled forth the