The Floodgate

Fragrant smoke rose from the hard-packed ground, a scent reminiscent of poppies and summer sun. The bees swarming Matteo stopped their stinging attack. Their flight slowed, and they drifted off to settle on the wooden beams.

Free of that hindrance, Matteo looked around for the final thug-the driver, who had not yet entered the battle. The back door flew open, and the man came on in a rush, followed closely by the reinforcements he'd apparently gone to summon. As the men rushed Matteo, they snatched up ice hooks long as swords, with wicked curved tips.

Tzigone began another spell-a simple cantrip to heat metal. Yet the men's ice picks showed no red glow. Puzzled, Matteo followed Tzigone's gaze toward the ceiling. There, suspended from ropes as thick as his arm, was an enormous set of iron tongs that lifted ice to the loft above. The metal tongs were red as a sunrise, and mist rose from the block of ice in their grip.

Ice shrieked against metal as the massive chunk slipped loose. Matteo grabbed for Tzigone, but she was quicker than he and was already running toward a sheet of heavy canvas on the far side of the room. She held it up so that Matteo could dive for cover, then rolled in with him and buried her face against his chest.

The impact was thunderous, and the shattering ice splintered off again and again like a brittle echo. Shards rained over the two friends, but no ice penetrated the thick, oiled cloth.

When all was still, Matteo and Tzigone crawled out from under the tarp and somberly regarded the scene around them. The icehouse resembled a battlefield. The wagon lay on its side, one wheel shattered and the other three spinning wildly. The horses, amazingly enough, had escaped serious injury. They had broken free of their traces, and now blew and stomped in the far corner of the room. Chunks of ice were strewn across the floor, some of them tinted with crimson. At least two of the thugs were thoroughly, messily dead. Several more lay still. One pile of ice shimmered with movement as an injured man fought his way free. A faint groan came from under the upturned wagon.

Tzigone stared at the carnage, her face pale and still.

Matteo slipped a steadying arm around her shoulders. "This must be reported to the officials."

She started to protest, then sighed. "I never thought the day would come when I went looking for the law instead of the other way around."

"I will see to it," he promised.

Tzigone's first response was a quick, grateful smile, quickly chased by a frown as her nimble mind danced ahead. "Someone might have seen them grab me. You'll have to tell the militia something."

"These thugs seized a young woman. I followed and fought them. She escaped."

She snorted. "Is that the best you can do? It's not very interesting."

"One of the benefits of telling simple truth," he said dryly, "is that you don't have to remember interesting details. That said, I've learned one very interesting detail this night: I'm making more progress than I thought."

Tzigone looked at him incredulously, then her eyes cleared and she nodded. "Someone doesn't like the questions you're asking, which means that you're probably doing something right."

He walked with her toward the back door. "The next question will be who owns this building. A working icehouse does not lie empty and idle during the afternoon. This attack might not have been instigated by the owner, but he or she would know who had the authority to send the workers away."

"Why don't we just get someone to ask him?" She pointed to one of the dead men.

Matteo's first instinct was to protest. Powerful clerical magic was required to speak with the dead. The jordaini were not to have any magic worked on their behalf.

He never got the chance to remind her of this. Before he could speak, the corpses and the injured changed to rapidly fading mist. In an instant, he and Tzigone were alone in the icehouse.

She let out a long, slow whistle. "You've been asking the right questions, all right. I don't think we're going to like the people who've got the answers."

"All the more reason for you to go. I will pursue this matter and tell you all I learn when next we meet."

She nodded and disappeared-not out the door but up a wall. Climbing nimbly on crossbars and ropes, she melted into the shadows that lurked about the high ceiling.

Matteo went into the street to alert the city militia. He was spared the trouble, for the thunderous crash of falling ice had drawn the notice of a nearby fish market. The vendor stood nearby with a long, curving horn held to his lips, winding a raucous but effective alarm. A small crowd of fisherfolk had already gathered around the building. They parted to allow the city militia to pass through.