Pah! How fine we are, how noble and good. Come visit to see what you've none of. And when you've filled your heart with longing for things you'll never get—such as my handsome self—then it's "off with you, you great ugly lump."
She turned and dug through the canvas sack that held her belongings, burrowing beneath leather-strapped books and bags of herbs.
Her hand found the hammer of polished stone and the long iron nail, moving without her will.
No! Wythen thought. Not that!
She placed the nail on the circle Narvik's heel had left in the dirt.
Don't do this.
Her mouth made words, shaping the stuff of the world. With a single hard blow she drove the nail into the footprint. Her hand started forward to pluck it out and undo the curse, then sank back quivering.
Death curse, she told herself. A low moan sounded as she pressed her hands to her aching forehead. Death.
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.