A Cavern of Black Ice (20 page)

The Dog Lord looked to the door. He had
been too long alone and his mind had got thinking, and that was never
what a Bluddsman was about.

"Enter."

Expecting his second son's children,
who had arrived from the Bluddhouse that morning, Vaylo had his gaze
focused halfway down the door when it opened. A man's waist met his
eyes. Seeing the long white robe and smooth, almost womanish hands,
the Dog Lord let out a hard sigh. If you dealt with the devil, his
helpers always arrived soon enough.

"Sarga Veys. When did you get
here?"

A tall man with a sallow complexion and
womanish eyes entered the room. Although dressed in the plain white
robe of a cleric, Sarga Veys was no man of God. "In my own small
way, Lord Bludd, I have been here all along."

Vaylo hated the man's high voice and
the overly fine shape of his lips. He hated being called Lord Bludd
too. He was nothing but the Dog Lord, and both he and his enemies
knew it. Suddenly angry, he cried, "Close the door behind you,
man!"

Sarga Veys was quick to do his bidding,
moving in the loose-jointed way of a man possessing little physical
strength. The dogs growled behind his back. Sarga Veys didn't like
the dogs, and when he was finished with the door, he moved as far
away from them as possible. When he spoke, a tremor that may have
been fear, yet Vaylo Bludd suspected was anger, showed itself in his
voice. "I see you're making yourself at home, Lord Bludd. The
Dhooneseat quite suits you."

A small nod on Sarga Veys' part led the
Dog Lord's gaze to the foot of the Dhooneseat, where a thin strip of
leather lay on the stone. Vaylo's eyes narrowed. Such a tiny thing, a
bit of leather fallen from his braids, yet the devil's helper had
picked up on it straightaway. Not for the first time, Vaylo reminded
himself to be cautious of this man.

"So," he said, hands patting
his belt for his pouch of black curd. "You've been within the
clanholds all along. Tell me, did you stay in the safe refuge of a
stovehouse? Or did your master want you closer for the show?"

"I don't think," Sarga Veys
said, color rising to his cheeks, "that where I stay is any
business of yours."

The dogs found much to dislike in Sarga
Veys' tone of voice. Snarling and snapping, they tested their leashes
in his direction. The wolf dog began worrying at its tether.

Sarga Veys' mouth shrank. His violet
eyes darkened.

"
Dogs
!" called Vaylo
Bludd. "
Quiet
!"

The dogs became silent immediately,
dropping their heads and tails and slumping down onto the cut stone
floor.

The Dog Lord watched Sarga Veys
closely. Wondered, for a brief moment, if he hadn't seen the man's
throat working along with his violet eyes. That was another thing to
remember about devil's helpers: No matter how weak they looked they
were seldom defenseless. Sarga Veys was a magic user, Vaylo was sure
of it.

"Did you ride here alone, or with
a sept?"

"I head a sept as always."

Head
? Vaylo doubted that.
Protected by one, more like it. Seven fully trained, fighting-fit
swordsmen would hardly allow a man like Sarga Veys to lead them. Hard
campaigners couldn't stand his type.

"I shall be riding south to meet
my master after I've left here." Sarga Veys seemed more at ease
now the dogs were quiet. He took a moment to smooth back his fine
hair. "I shall tell him, of course, of your great success.
Assure him that everything went smoothly, and report that you are
well on your way to becoming Lord of the Clans." Sarga Veys
smiled, showing small, white, but ever so slightly inward-slanting
teeth. "My master will be pleased. He has done his part. Now
it's up to you to do—"

Vaylo Bludd spat out the wad of black
curd he'd been chewing, silencing Sarga Veys as effectively as his
dogs. "Your master wasn't the one who planned the raid and took
the risks. He didn't cut through the darkness and smoke not knowing
what each new step would bring him. His blade wasn't bloodied. His
sons weren't risked. His balls weren't froze with the waiting."

"Thanks to my master," Sarga
Veys said, his voice dropping a tone lower, "
your
blades weren't as bloodied as they might have been."

Crack!

The Dog Lord smashed his foot down on
the hearth stool, breaking its carved legs like sticks. Across the
hearthwell, the dogs shrank back against the wall. Sarga Veys
flinched. A muscle in his throat quivered.

"Try any of your foul magics upon
me," Vaylo roared, "and as the dogs are my witness you will
not leave this roundhouse alive."

Hearing their name spoken, the dogs
thrashed their muzzles and snarled, spraying the surrounding stone
with drops of urine.

Unable to take a farther step back as
his heels were already pushing against the door, Sarga Veys pinched
in his lips. "Yes. I see now why they call you the Dog Lord."

Vaylo nodded. "That's me."
With the side of his foot, he shoved away the broken stool.

"Well, Lord of Dogs, or whatever
else you choose to call yourself, you took my master's help quick
enough when it suited you. I don't believe your anger caused you to
break any stools then. Yet now you stand here at the very hearth he
helped you win, issuing physical threats to his envoy in the manner
of some common stovehouse brawler." Sarga Veys stepped forward.
"Well let me tell you—"

Vaylo cut him short with a fierce shake
of his head. "Tell me what you came to say. Then be gone. Your
voice grates on my dogs. If your master has brought a message, speak
it. If he has named a price, then name it." As he spoke, Vaylo
watched Sarga Veys' face. It wasn't right that a man have violet
eyes.

Sarga Veys made a small shrugging
motion. He brought his facial features under control, yet it took him
a long moment to do so. When he spoke there was still a residue of
anger in his voice. "Very well. I bring you no message from my
master. When the deal was struck he asked for nothing in return, and
continues to do so now. As he said at the time, he wishes only to see
the clanholds under a single firm leadership, and he believes that
you are the man to do it. I cannot say when and if he will offer his
help again. He is a man with many claims upon his time and resources.
I do know, however, that he will be watching your progress with
interest. I should imagine he would be quite upset if after all the
trouble he has taken, you find the Dhooneseat as comfortable as a
padded cot and decide to bed down upon it. There are many clanholds
yet to be taken."

The Dog Lord sucked on his aching
teeth. Glancing around the old Dhoone chiefs chamber with its huge
blue sandstone hearth, its comfortable animal-hide rugs and wall
coverings, and its smoky isinglass windows, he thought hard upon
Sarga Veys' words. They weren't truthful, Vaylo was sure of that, yet
there
was
truth in them.

"I have plans of my own for
Blackhail and the rest," he said. "And will move upon them
in my own good time. I must secure the Dhoonehold first."

A quick smile flitted across Sarga
Veys' face. "But of course. My master places great store in your
judgment."

Frowning, the Dog Lord crossed toward
the door. He had the satisfaction of seeing Sarga Veys shrink away
from him, but the pleasure was only fleeting. He really didn't like
the man at all. Veys was dangerous. He had a temper better suited to
a man with the muscle to use it.

"You'll be on your way now,"
Vaylo said, reaching for the door. "Be sure to tell your master
that the message you came expressly not to deliver was heard well and
good."

Sarga Veys inclined his head. As he did
so, Vaylo realized that the skin on the man's face wasn't as smooth
and hairless as he had first thought, just razored with an expert
hand.

"I shall tell my master you find
the Dhooneseat to your liking," Veys said. "And that you
have—how should I put it?—
long-term
plans to
take the Hailhold as well." Vaylo Bludd came close to hitting
Veys then. His face flushed and his fist curled and the bones in his
jaw and neck cracked all at once. Smashing the heel of his hand down
upon the door handle, he fractured the oak lintel beneath. "Leave!"
he cried. "Take your sly half-truths and your mincing Halfman
ways and get your bony, well-shaved arse off my land."

Sarga Veys' violet eyes darkened to the
color of midnight. His face twisted and hardened. "You," he
said, his voice rising as he lost control of it, "should watch
that dog-muzzle mouth of yours. You're not talking to one of your
animal-skinned clansmen now. I came here as a visitor and envoy, and
at very least should receive due respect." Veys stepped over the
threshold and then turned to face Vaylo Bludd one last time. "I
wouldn't get too comfortable on the Dhooneseat if I were you, Dog
Lord. One day you just might turn around and find it gone."

With that Sarga Veys clutched at the
sides of his robe, lifting the fabric clear of his ankles, and
stalked away.

The Dog Lord watched him go. After a
length of time he let out a heavy breath and closed the door. The
last thing to remember about devil's helpers was that they were often
more trouble than the devil himself.

Crossing to his dogs, Vaylo slapped his
thigh. "What do you think, eh?" he murmured, bending to rub
throats and cuff ears. "What do you make of the Halfman Sarga
Veys?"

The dogs yelped and growled, tussling
for attention and nipping his fingers. Only the wolf dog stood his
distance. Sitting close to the wall, its massive shoulders twitching
in readiness, it watched the door with orange eyes.

"You're right, my beauty,"
Vaylo said to it. "The Halfman has told me nothing I don't
already know: Only fools and children never watch their backs."

"Granda! Granda!" Tiny feet
pattered against stone, and then the door burst open once more.
"Granda!" Two small children appeared in the doorway,
smiling, giggling, and shrieking loudly.

The Dog Lord thrust out his arms toward
his grandchildren. "Come and give your old granda a hug and help
him with these uppity dogs."

The dogs managed something close to a
collective groan as the two children raced across the room to Vaylo
Bludd. The eldest child, a bright beauty with the dark skin and dark
eyes of her mother, giggled madly as she hugged her grandfather with
two arms and pestered the huge pony-size dogs with her feet.

The dogs knew better than to growl at
Vaylo Bludd's grandchildren and allowed themselves to be vigorously
petted, teased, and called by ignoble names. The children called the
wolf dog Fluff! And he answered to it! It was the funniest thing
Vaylo Bludd had ever witnessed, and it never failed to make him laugh
out loud. He loved only two things in life: his grandchildren and his
dogs, and when he had both together in one room he was as content as
a man could be. Within a month he would have all his grandchildren
here, in the Dhoonehouse safe and sound, where he and his dogs could
watch over them.

As he tousled the hair of the youngest
grandchild, a fine black-haired boy who Vaylo secretly thought looked
much like himself, Sarga Veys' words prayed upon his mind.
One
day you just might turn around and find it gone
.

Vaylo glanced around the chiefs
chamber, his eyes picking out the details of defense: the glint of
spiked gratings blocking the chimney flue, the iron clamps punched
into the stonework around the windows, and the pullstone lying flat
against the wall beside the door—all emblazoned with the Bloody
Blue Thistle of Dhoone. Would his grandchildren be safe here? It was
the finest roundhouse ever built, ten times more defendable than the
Bluddhouse, yet it was the only thing the Dog Lord had ever taken
without jaw. There was shame in that, and Vaylo knew it. The Stone
Gods would rather a man win an oatfield with blood and fury than take
a continent with tricks and schemes.

Seventeen teeth ached with a fierce
splitting pain as for the first time in his life Vaylo Bludd found
himself wondering if he had done the right thing.

Return

Raif tended to his horse in the stables
before he stepped foot inside the roundhouse. Shor Gormalin and the
others had gone on ahead of him, leaving their mounts to the excited
crew of children who had gathered at their return. Raif's horse was
not his own, though. It had been lent to him by Orwin Shank. Orwin
bred dogs, horses, and sons, and now with two of his sons dead, he
claimed to have more horses than he needed. Chad and Jorry were gone,
but whoever had killed them had stolen their horses as well, so Raif
didn't see how Orwin Shank had any extra to spare. Yet somehow he had
laid his hands upon a pair, and the day after Bron Hawk returned with
news from the Dhoone roundhouse, he had offered one to Raif.

"Tis nothing," the red-faced
axman said. "I want you to have it. And if it suits you to call
it a loan, then it suits me also, but I tell you now, Raif Sevrance,
I shall not ask for it back. You and your brother took care of my
boys, you drew a guide circle for them, and it eases a father's mind
at night to think of them resting within it."

Later, Raif learned that Orwin Shank
had
lent
one to Drey, too.

Raif scratched the gray gelding's neck.
Orwin Shank was a good man, just like Corbie Meese and Bailie the
Red, yet why did he allow himself to be led by Mace Blackhail? Raif
let out a long breath, determined not to get angry. There was no easy
answer. Mace Blackhail was persuasive, he lied well, his stories fell
upon eager ears.

Raif dropped the latch on the horse
stall. What next? That was the question that really counted. Seven
days was a long time. What else had Mace Blackhail managed to
manipulate during his absence from the roundhouse? He was back,
that much Raif knew. The children were full of the tale of how he'd
come galloping up to the roundhouse early that morning, stepped
inside for just one moment, and then gone galloping back out to the
Oldwood. While he was absent the others in his party returned.