The Cursed Towers by Kate Forsyth

bitterly disappointed with the latest news from the countryside. Isabeau's protection of the little banpri-onnsa was an unacknowledged goad to his anger, and he lashed out at her in sullen frustration.
    "The horse shall be shot!" he cried, slamming one fist into his hand. "He is a danger to us all! Meghan could have been killed, and six grooms were injured in his subduing! I canna allow him to rampage through the stables any longer. I'll have him put to death in the morning!" He turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
    Meghan turned her head, muttering in her sleep, and Iseult rose to follow her husband. "I'm sorry, Isabeau, but indeed it would be for the best," she said. "Truly he is a savage and unpredictable horse."
    "I do no' understand it," Isabeau cried, but her twin's mind was already turning back to her sleeping son, and she smiled a little wearily and left the room.
    Isabeau dropped her head into her arms and wept, so tired and upset she could not think straight. A soft touch on her arm made her jump, and she raised her head to see Meghan staring at her with dazed black eyes. "A most strange and unaccountable horse," the sorceress whispered. "Almost I remember ... he seems . . ."
    "Hush, Meghan," Isabeau whispered, scrubbing her hot eyes. "Ye must rest."
    "I seem to remember . . . but surely he canna be . . ."
    Isabeau lifted her guardian's head and gave her some soothing poppy syrup to sip. "Sleep, Meghan," she said in a choked voice. "Ye must rest and get well. We need ye." The sorceress looked as if she was going to say more, but then her wrinkled eyelids slowly closed and she sighed, slipping again into sleep.
    * * *
    The whore slipped out the back door of the brothel, a shawl wrapped close about her head, and struggled down the back alley, her boots sinking deep into the mire. Despite all her efforts, she could not keep her skirts from dragging in the thick mud. Flaring her nostrils in distaste, she toiled on, stepping when she could on the broken crates and sacks that littered the ground. Deeper into the maze of stinking alleys she went, down into the slums that clustered like a suppurating sore on the lip of the cliff. The stench of refuse, urine and excrement almost made her gag, but she pushed on grimly, holding the shawl close about her face.
    At last she came to a warehouse, built so close under the surge of the waterfall that the spray dampened her face. Casting a quick glance about her, she pushed open the door and slipped inside. Within was a long room, piled high with trash and treasure from the back streets and sewers. There was a strange smell, like long-dead mice, mingled with a sharper scent, like pungent bay leaves. From the shadows an old man came shuffling, his hands clasped high before him, his bleary eyes peering to make out her face hidden behind the fold of her shawl.
    "And wha' can I be finding for ye, missus? A bolt o' cloth, hardly mildewed at all, or a pot for the porridge? A stool for your weary bones, or a spindle for the spinning?"
    "Ye know what it is I want, auld man," the whore said, and at the husky tones of her voice, he cringed back.
    "Aye, aye, I ken, I ken wha' it is ye want. Cantrips and curses, spells and soothsaying, that be all they want, the fine ladies. Philtres and potions, glamouries and ghost-raising, that be all they want, the fine ladies."
    She followed his bent muttering form through a dusty, cobwebbed shop, piled high with broken furniture and damaged goods, to a cupboard pushed in one back corner. Casting a furtive glance about him, the old man opened the wardrobe door and ushered the whore inside, closing the door behind her. She felt forward with her hand, found the secret catch and lifted it, her heart beating rapidly. The back of the wardrobe slid noiselessly aside and she stumbled forward in the darkness, climbing a narrow flight of stairs, steep as a ladder. The secret door closed instantly behind her.
    Above was a long, overheated room hung