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Back Iron Winter Save as PDF
Chapters (89)
  1. Title page
  2. Contents
  3. Map
  4. ONE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. TWO
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. THREE
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. 61
  68. 62
  69. 63
  70. 64
  71. 65
  72. 66
  73. 67
  74. 68
  75. 69
  76. FOUR
  77. 70
  78. 71
  79. 72
  80. 73
  81. 74
  82. 75
  83. 76
  84. 77
  85. 78
  86. 79
  87. Afterword
  88. By Stephen Baxter
  89. Copyright

But Ywa hesitated. And one falling block, carved basalt from some smashed sculpture, caught her neatly on the back of her head, smashing her skull like an egg. Her body slumped over the rail.

‘No!’

Still Ayto held Crimm back.

That skeletal man came over the rail with a roar and hurled himself forward. Crimm raised his sword to parry the man’s lunge, pushed him back, then swept the weapon at knee level, making a satisfying contact with ropy flesh and muscle. The man fell, blood spilling vivid on the growstone surface. Crimm finished him with a swipe that cut his throat.

But before he was still, another came over the rail. And then another.

Crimm charged forward, and beside Ayto fought for his life.

44

The note was brought to Rina by Thuth, in the room they shared in Barmocar’s servants’ house. The big Libyan barged the door open with her hip, in Carthage there were no locks or latches on servants’ doors, and spun the note through the air. ‘For you.’

Rina sat up, clutching the blanket over the ragged remains of the undergarment from Northland that she used as a nightshirt. ‘A note? Who’s it from?’ They spoke in the patois of the servants’ quarters, a clumsy amalgamation of Carthaginian, Greek, Libyan – no Northlander in the mix, for Rina was the only one of her kind in the house.

Thuth said heavily, ‘Who’s it from, I don’t know, I’m not the Face of Baal.’ Her tongue could be sharper than her chopping knives. ‘I do know I need to get to work, and so do you.’ She hooked the door closed with her foot on her way out.

Rina sighed and tousled her short hair. She felt as if she hadn’t slept at all. She shared her bed with one of Anterastilis’ night-duty maids, a spiteful young Libyan. Until the maid left for her shift Rina had to try to sleep on the floor. But the night was already over, the light was bright through the muslin stretched over the empty window frame. There would be no more sleep; Rina faced another day’s work.

In the meantime here was this note. She turned it over in her hands. It was a simple folded page sealed with a blob of wax; she didn’t recognise the pressing.

A note! She didn’t get notes. Servants of Barmocar and Anterastilis didn’t get notes, or rarely. And the seal, of course, was already broken. Anything written down that came into the household that was not marked for the attention of the owners was routinely scrutinised by the head of house. In these increasingly difficult times Barmocar was concerned about security.