A Cavern of Black Ice (47 page)

"What raven?"

"Well, apparently the good
Stovemaster lives in fear of ravens flying over his chimney—you
know how superstitious stovemasters can be about their god-cursed
stoves." Veys waited for his Surlord to nod. "So, whenever
Gloon climbs up on his roof to clean his stack he always carries a
braced bow with him in case he spots a raven flying overhead. He
likes to take potshots at them. Hangs them from the rafters like
trophies. Anyway, seven days before I arrived, Gloon brought down the
biggest raven he'd ever seen. He couldn't stop bragging about it. The
man exaggerated, of course—little men like that always do—but
when he cut the bird down to show me, I noticed a line of sinew
wrapped around its leg."

"A messenger bird."

"Yes. And it was heading north
toward the ice."

"There was no message."

"No."

Then the bird was homing, toward the
Ice Trapper tribe. No others besides Ice Trappers and the Sull used
ravens. Invisible hairs on Iss' arm lifted. "What direction did
it come from?"

"South. Just south." The look
on the Halfman's face told Iss that he had already made the
connection between the bird and Angus Lok. He was clever, so clever.

But the news
was
tantalizing.
That was the problem: Veys had a way of uncovering just the sort of
information that Iss liked to know. And he was so very useful, so
very adept with sorcery.

Iss attended the tray of food and wine
that Caydis had discreetly slid upon the marble-topped table. All
things fragrant were upon it: the wine warmed with cloves and then
poured into cups rubbed with lemon, the egg yolks shuddering like
oysters under the weight of turmeric and sesame seeds, the fried figs
split and steaming, and lamb's tongues spread with rose jam, musk,
and amber. No one prepared food like Caydis Zerbina. No one could
find the things he did.

Offering a silver cup filled with wine
to Sarga Veys, Iss contemplated all he had learned. So the Listener
of the Ice Trapper tribe had sent a raven? That meant the North was
preparing itself for the dance of shadows to come. Iss sat back in
his chair, stilling himself with deep breaths held long in his lungs.
Let them dance
, he thought.
Let the Sull dance with
shadows and the clanholds dance with swords, and let those hold
enough to move while the music plays steal a world from under their
feet
.

Sarga Veys popped a fat fig into his
mouth. He was looking more than a little pleased with himself. "I
hear your ward has gone missing. The sweet and lovely Asarhia. I
could help you track her down if you like."

"No." Iss let the word stand
alone. He would not explain himself to a second-rate envoy who had
neither land nor family allegiances to call his own. The thought of
Sarga Veys even
touching
Asarhia filled Iss' chest with cold
unease. Asarhia was so young, so unknowing…

Iss put down his wine cup untouched.
She had to be found. The city was no place for her to be. She could
get hurt, raped. She could lose her fingers overnight to the cold,
starve to death in some dingy little tent in Almstown, or curl up in
the cairn-size snowdrifts that massed along the city's north wall and
sleep her way to death. Iss had seen it happen. Every spring, during
first thaw, a hundred or more bodies would be carried through the
sluice gates along with the snowmelt. The poor fools all died with
smiles on their faces, thinking that the blue tongues of frost that
killed them were as warm and soothing as flames.

Iss breathed heavily. He needed to call
the Knife. The search must be expanded, the reward doubled, Almstown
and all its shanties razed to the ground. Asarhia must be brought
home. He had not spent sixteen years in her rearing to let her fall
into another's hands.

Catching Veys looking at him with eyes
that knew and guessed too much, Iss rose and walked to the door.
Caydis Zerbina waited on the other side, and one word was all it took
to give him purpose.

"Will you need me to head north
again, my lord?" Veys said.

Iss shook his head. "No. It's a
delicate game we play, this making of wars. Push too often and we
risk making our intentions known. Far better to watch and wait and
see. Blackhail has lost its chief, Bludd has lost women and children,
and Dhoone has lost its clanhold: Let clannish pride and clannish
gods do the rest."

"But what of their war-sworn
clans? What of Ganmiddich, Bannen, Orrl…"

"All in good time, Sarga Veys. If
the game slows or the rules change, you'll be the first to know."

The Halfman bowed his head. "As
you wish."

Iss waited for the next question,
knowing full well what it would be.

"And my next duties?"

"I haven't given them much
thought, my friend. There's nothing pressing. Obviously, I'd be
grateful for any word you might bring of Angus Lok and his family.
Apart from that I suggest you rest yourself after your long journey,
take time to enjoy the refreshments of the city." Iss flipped
the lid on a silver box crusted with emeralds that had once belonged
to the Surlord Rannock Hews, whom Borhis Horgo had slain in the black
mud of Hound's Mire forty years earlier while five Forsworn held him
down with the heels of their boots. Taking something from the box,
Iss smiled indulgently at Sarga Veys. "Here," he said
pressing the object into the Halfman's hand. "Spend it wisely."

Sarga Veys' face was a thing to behold
as he stared at the golden piece the Surlord had given him. The idea
that he wasn't needed, that he could be dismissed as easily as a
wetted prostitute, was something that had never occurred to him
before. He was the young and brilliant Sarga Veys, the Phage's
greatest find in over a decade. Who would not want or need him? Any
other time Iss might have been tempted to smile at the specks of
stricken pride shining like salmon roe in Sarga Veys' eyes, yet for
some reason he did not. Veys was dangerous. And although it
had
been necessary to teach him a lesson, he was exactly the sort of
person who collected and nursed his slights.

Iss was saved further thought on the
subject by the arrival of Marafice Eye, swiftly brought by Caydis
Zerbina. The Knife neither knocked nor waited. He entered the room,
claimed space, then set his small blue eyes upon the game: Sarga
Veys.

Instantly Iss regretted summoning him.
His intent had been to intimidate the Halfman and put him in his
place. Yet the business with the gold piece had already achieved part
of that, and Iss knew he was in danger of going too far.

Sarga Veys, who still hadn't recovered
from the blow of being judged unnecessary to his Surlord's immediate
plans, colored slightly under the force of the Knife's gaze. Without
realizing what he did, he shrank back in his chair.

The Knife did nothing except stand; he
needed to do no more.

Iss looked from one man to the other. A
change of plan was in order. Taking a shallow breath, he addressed
himself to the Knife. "The sept you sent north with Sarga Veys
needs disciplining. See to it."

Marafice Eye scowled. Iss turned his
back, dismissing him.

Footsteps shook the room and then the
door was slammed with enough force to split the frame.

Iss turned to Sarga Veys. "I will
not keep you idle for long."

The Halfman's cheeks glowed prettily
with spite; he had very much enjoyed the dressing-down of Marafice
Eye. "I await your call, my lord." Standing, he slipped the
gold piece into a fold in his robe. "I trust my lord was pleased
with the duties I performed in the North?"

All this and praise, too? Iss' dislike
for the Halfman deepened. Smiling, he crossed to the door and opened
it. Splinters of wood fell in great chunks to the floor. "You
have more than proved your worth."

Sarga Veys continued to glow as he
walked through the door.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Iss
called to Caydis to bring back the Knife.

Matters of Clan

Pain rode with him like a second skin.
Boot-shaped bruises marked his flesh, organs and soft tissue leaking
blood beneath. Wounds sewn closed with black thread punctured with
soft hisses, spilling pus. Hurts riddled his body like pine beetles
in wood. His sliced lip throbbed. His black eye turned every blink
into an agonizing procedure of weeping flesh and pain. Crusted yellow
stuff accumulated in his swollen ear, and the blister on his right
hand was fire upon the reins.

Miserable, cold, and tucked deep into a
place well warded against thoughts, Raif Sevrance rode at Angus Lok's
side. Bleak, gray light shone upon a landscape glittering with frost.
A predatory wind stayed close to the ground, content to let the
terrible cold weaken its victims before moving in for the kill.
Stands of hemlock, their trunks dulled by rime ice, rose like a ghost
army to block the advancing night.

Angus rode in silence, his back bent
and his head sunk deep within his hood. Although Raif could not see
his uncle's face, he knew all about the bruises and lesions there.
Raif shuddered to think of them. There was even a bite mark.

How many days had passed since the
night at Duff's Stovehouse was difficult to tell. Perhaps a week.
Maybe longer. All days and nights were the same in the taiga. Raif
could remember little about the night of the fight. Dimly he recalled
Angus leading him away from the hacked pieces of flesh that had once
been the Bluddsmen's bodies. He remembered the looks of fear and
horror on the faces of the Dhoones men, then the coming together of
Scarpe, Dhoone, Ganrniddich, and Gnash to draw a guide circle around
the six bodies in the snow.

They couldn't wait to be rid of him.
Angus and Duff had taken him to the stables and seen to his injuries
there. As soon as Duff finished the stitching, Angus had forced a
flask full of malt liquor down his throat and hefted him over Moose's
back. Raif's last thought was that one of Duff's famous teeth was now
missing: He would never pull a sled that way again.

Only later, much later, did he realize
that
he
had been the cause of Duff's missing tooth and the
bite mark on Angus' cheek. It didn't bear thinking about.

Angus had told him what little he
judged it necessary for him to know. Raif knew he was holding back
and was glad of it. He didn't want to hear all the details of the
fight. Angus himself had been strangely quiet these past days,
holding his peace around the stove at night, speaking of little but
the weather and journey by day. Glancing over at the hunched,
frost-dusted form of his uncle, Raif felt a rough soreness press
against his throat.

You
are not
good
for this
clan, Raif Sevrance
.

Now Angus knew the truth of it, too.

"Angus," Raif said,
surprising himself by breaking the silence.

Angus turned his head so Raif could see
his face. All the cuts and bruises were heavily waxed; broken and
damaged skin was an invitation to the 'bite. "What?"

Raif felt his nerve waver so rushed on
before he had chance to think. "Why did you let me go? You and
Duff fought me all the way to the door, but then you said something
and both you and he pulled away."

A soft grunt came from Angus' lips.
Turning his attention back to the way ahead, he said, "Aye. You
would ask that. And you'll be wanting the truth of it, too."

He was silent for a while, guiding his
bay around a thicket of frozen thorns. Just when Raif had given up
hope of an answer, he spoke again, his voice lower than the wind.
"There came a point when I knew you couldn't be stopped, just
knew it in my old Lok bones. To carry on fighting would have only
brought Duff and myself more harm. Yet it was more than that."
Angus sighed heavily. Bits of ice on his saddle coat slid into his
lap. "I have a trace of the old skill in me, Raif. Just a wee
bit, enough to sense when others around me use sorcery, and a few
small things like that. I'm not a magic user, don't hear me wrong. I
couldna shift air and light if me own life depended on it—and
if we're ever in a situation where that sort of thing is called for,
then remember Angus Lok
isn't
your man. As I said, though, I
can sense things when I have a mind to. And that night when you kept
fighting and fighting, butting old Duff in the teeth and kneeing me
in the knackers, I felt something—"

"Sorcery?"

"No. Fate." Angus held the
word a long moment, then shrugged. "Call it an old ranger's
fancy if you like. Call it bloody delirium brought on by having my
balls disbanded. All I know is there came a moment when I thought to
myself, As
terrible as this is, it's meant to he."

Raif took a breath. Pain from his
stitches and blistered hand made him wince. Fate. He wanted none of
it. Yet even as his thoughts pounced, ready to attack the idea,
fragments of memory slipped through his mind. A red lake, frozen, a
forest of silver blue trees, and a lightless city without people: The
places the guidestone had showed him.

"Fate pushes," Angus said,
breaking through Raif's thoughts. "Sometimes, if you lie under
the stars at night, you can feel it. Children sense it—that's
why they always get so excited at the thought of camping out. They
know
, yet can never put it into words. As for myself, I've
felt fate only a few times in my life, and always it made me change
my course. The stovehouse was one such push."

"Yet I might have died."

"Aye. And I canna say if I would
have stepped in to save you." Angus turned and looked at Raif,
his coppery eyes flecked with green. "You know that word of what
you did will reach every corner of the clanholds. To slay three
Bluddsmen single-handed is a feat not long forgotten."