A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (47 page)

The yearmen by the stair wall stopped all pretense of cleaning. They were chief’s men, all of them. Red-necked Elcho Murdock had just been betrothed to some hollow-cheeked niece of Yelma Scarpe.

Angus nodded, the blandness in his face holding firm. “I’ll be sure to remember that, Hail Lord. Watch my back. A pity no one offered such a warning to Shor Gormalin. Now that I recall, didn’t he take two quarrels in the back of his head?”

Raina heard one of the yearmen gasp. Foolish child. Had no one taught him to school his reactions?

Mace ignored the outburst, his attention solely upon Angus Lok. Both men were matched in height and build, though Angus carried a bit more fat. They were both swordsmen, too. And as that thought occurred to her she realized both men’s sword hands were resting on the hilts of their sheathed blades. Silently, she cursed Angus. What madness had possessed him to mention Shor Gormalin’s name?

A second or two, no longer, was all it took for Mace Blackhail to weigh all possible outcomes. He was a clever swordsman, but he had to know that Angus Lok might better him—wasn’t he rumored to have spent two years with the Sull? And besides, what would a duel win Mace? It would only add credibility to the ranger’s outrageous claim. Shor Gormalin had been killed by a Bludd-sworn cowlman. Everyone in the clan knew it.

Holding his gaze upon Angus Lok, Mace Blackhail commanded his yearmen. “John. Elcho. Stiggie. Graig. Escort this city man from the Hailhold and deposit him on the border. His welcome here just ran out.”

The four yearmen scrambled to strap on their gear belts and weapon cradles. Young Graig Lye, cousin to Bludd-slain Banron, buckled his sword harness so ferociously he struck sparks. Others had entered the hall whilst the two men were speaking—a gaggle of clan maids wheeling a laundry barrow and two ancient oasters from the brewhouse who stank of yeast—and all eased back against the walls, sensing the tension in the entryway like livestock sensed a storm. At her side, Raina was aware of Angus breathing evenly, even as he shifted his weight forward onto the balls of his feet.

Please do not fight
, she willed him.
You may win one-on-one, but after that you’ll die—and I don’t think I can take any more blows today.

Perhaps Angus Lok could read minds, for slowly he eased his weight back down upon his heels. He bowed his head once toward Mace, and then to the four yearmen. “Gentlemen,” he said. “Lead on.”

Raina’s ribcage slumped forward with relief, feeling at the same time a terrible kind of disappointment. She had wished Angus not to fight, but now that he had backed down and she saw how her husband’s lips came together in a cold, triumphant smile, she could only think,
Is there no one in the clanholds who can stop him?

She had no time for answers, for Angus was addressing her as “Lady” and bidding her a nonchalant farewell. Wordlessly, she bowed her head toward him and watched as the four yearmen moved to flank him as he made his exit. Once the clan door closed behind him, a brisk draft circled the entryway and died.

No one moved. One of the clan maids who’d been dragging the laundry barrow hiccuped nervously. Mace’s black-and-yellow-eyed gaze found his wife. “Raina,” he said, his voice strangely gentle. “I’m sorry you had to witness that. I know he’s kin to the Sevrances, but it was necessary to remove him from the clan.”

Raina couldn’t understand Mace’s gentleness. Was it an act of husbandly solicitude for the benefit of onlookers? Or was there something showing on her face that genuinely worried him?
You were a partner to Dagro. Be one to me
. The memory of his words in the chief’s chamber made her shudder, and for a moment she thought she saw that same desire writ plainly on his face. Suddenly it was all too much for her, and she made a break for the door.

Mace’s demeanor abruptly changed, and he put out a hand to stop her.

Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me
. She swerved to avoid him and, perhaps aware that he’d look foolish trying to grapple with his wife, he let her pass. That tiny victory gave her courage, and she found words springing to her mouth that she had not planned.

“I’m going to see Angus off. His wife embroidered a tunic especially for Drey, and I’m not letting him come all this way and not deliver it.” She hardly knew where the lies came from, but as soon as she spoke them she felt their rightness. Let him try to challenge her over them. Let him try.

Mace watched her carefully for a moment, aware that he too was being watched. “There’s no need for you to go to the stables. One of the girls can retrieve it.”

But Raina was ready for him. “I don’t think so, husband,” she said briskly, her hands already pushing the quarter-ton clan door into motion. “Darra Lok’s embroidery is known throughout the north, and I’m not going to have it passed from hand to hand without giving proper thanks.”

The clan maids, bless them, nodded in agreement and understanding. There wasn’t a woman in the clanholds who didn’t value beautiful needlework. Mace saw this and must have realized he was in danger of looking foolish. A clan chief never concerned himself with women’s affairs.

He waved a hand toward the door. “Go, then.”

She finished pulling the oak door in its oiled track, all the time knowing what he would say next and waiting to hear it.

“But, wife,” he warned when the door’s motion was complete. “Such a piece of work as this tunic . . . I’d like to see it for myself. Bring it to me when you’re done.”

Raina stepped outside. “I’ll be happy to—tomorrow, when it’s been properly pressed and aired.”
And once I’ve raced upstairs to the widows’ hearth and begged Merritt Ganlow and her widow-wives to stay up all night embroidering something for me.
Thank the gods Mace was a typical clansman and wouldn’t be able to tell clan-sewn pieces from city ones.

Almost dizzy with satisfaction, Raina hurried to the stables. She had to caution herself not to skip like a girl.

By the time the short walk was complete, her euphoria had drained away, leaving her feeling vulnerable and shaky. The early sunshine had gone, closed off by swift-moving clouds, and the air was misty with rotting ice. Spikes of new greenery—snowdrops, by the look of them—had pushed through the slush piled to either side of the stable’s double doors. Raina supposed that meant spring was here, and could find nothing in her that was glad.

Inside the stable all was dim and warm, the air kept well above freezing by Jebb Onnacre’s carefully tended safe-lamps. It was easy to tell which box held Angus Lok’s mount, for six men were gathered around the half-gate, admiring the beast within. Four of them were the yearmen sent to escort the ranger off Blackhail territory, and the others were Angus himself and Orwin Shank.

The wealthy clan overlord was speaking, a red and ax-bitten hand resting on the horse’s neck. “Aye, it’s a pity he’s gelded. Could have charged the gods’ own eyeballs for stud.”

“I heard the Sull cut any horse that leaves their heart fires,” sniped Elcho Murdock. “Won’t have outsiders breeding down their stock.”

“Is that so?” Angus said mildly. “An expert in our midst and I didn’t know it.”

Elcho, who was small-eyed and bulb-nosed like his grandfather, suspected an insult but couldn’t prove it, and scowled childishly. Young Graig Lye, who was brighter by far but no more self-restrained, sniggered at him under his breath.

“Gentlemen,” Angus said, ignoring the obvious signs of their youth. “I wonder if you’d do me the honor of waiting for me outside whilst I talk to your chief’s fair wife?”

Until he spoke, Raina had thought her entrance had passed unmarked. She should have known better. It was the treader fly again, sensing the slightest ripple on the water.

Elcho puffed out a disbelieving breath. “I don’t think so, ranger. What if you mount your horse and escape us?”

“Then I’d be off your hands and away from your clanhold just as your chief commanded.”

Raina had to smile at the befuddled looks on the yearmen’s faces. Angus was tying them up in knots. Luckily, Orwin Shank stepped in before the poor lads could be sold a dead horse. “You boys run along outside. I’ll stand second to the ranger’s word.”

Orwin Shank was father to four living sons and one daughter. He was the greatest landholder in the clan and keeper of the most gold. He kept a stable of thirty horses and more sheep than there were days in winter. He’d fought at the Griefbringer’s back at Middlegorge and lost two grown sons to Bludd: no man in the clan was worthy of more respect. Even young, untested yearmen knew better than to doubt him.

Raina smiled her thanks at the aging axman as the four yearmen filed out through the stable door.

“ ’Twas nothing, Raina,” he replied brusquely. “If two people can’t speak in private without watchers then what sort of clan are we making?” His hazel-eyed stare seemed to challenge her. “I’ll be waiting over there by the pump. Speak quiet now, for there’s no such thing as trying not to overhear.”

She watched him cross to the far side of the stable wall and begin drawing water to wet his face from the crank-pump. Behind her, she was aware of Angus breathing lightly, waiting for her to speak. Now that she was here and had her way, she was no longer sure of her motives.

First things first. “Angus,” she said, turning to him. “You must give me a package, one large enough to hold a man’s tunic.”

He did not ask for an explanation, merely leaned forward to search his leather saddlebags that had been hooked over the stall door. The beautiful Sull horse, his coat as dark and glossy as tree syrup, popped his head over the half-gate to watch. Raina scratched him gently on the nose as Angus laid a smooth, linen-wrapped package at her feet.

She did not thank him. Quite suddenly she knew they were about to speak treason of the chief. She took a breath. “Why did you infer Mace had something to do with Shor Gormalin’s death? Everyone knows he was killed by a Bludd cowlman.”

It still hurt to mention Shor’s name. “
Wed me, Raina
,” he had said, the night before she rode west with Effie to the Oldwood. “
I know it’s too soon after Dagro’s death, but I would not see you unprotected. I . . . I would not expect to share your bed, but in time I hope you’ll come to love me as I love you.
”

And she had not answered him. Fool that she was, she’d made him wait, though in her heart she’d already said yes. And by the next day it was too late . . . and Shor had ridden to his death thinking Raina had rejected him for Mace.

Angus cleared his throat. “Raina, what if I were to tell you that Bludd has not raised one cowlman these past thirty-five years? That the Dog Lord has little patience for the sort of wars where trained assassins bivouacked in the snow can terrorize an entire clan? I know him, and he’s not that sort of man.”

Hay crunched beneath Raina’s feet as she shifted her weight. “What of a cowlman gone wild? They live in the field for years, often with little or no contact with their chiefs. Isolation drives men insane.”

The ranger nodded. “You speak the truth, but the only living cowlman in Bludd is over sixty. His name is Scunner Bone and he’s afflicted with an arthritic right hand, and he fishes and raises chickens for his keep.”

The truth of Shor’s death was there to see in the ranger’s steady gaze, but she couldn’t face it just yet. “And what of another clan? Dhoone? HalfBludd? Gnash?”

“Gnash has cowlmen, that’s for sure, some of the best in the North. HalfBludd . . . well, if you’re undersized in HalfBludd and can’t raise one of their giant war-axes shame might well turn you to stealth. As for Dhoone . . . well, I’m sure once young Robbie takes over they’ll have them by the cartload. He’s the kind who’ll need assassins.”

Gods, what doesn’t he know about the clanholds?
Suddenly Raina wanted very much for this to be over. “Have you any proof Mace was involved in Shor’s death?”

“I’ve handled the two quarrels he was shot with. Beneath the new red paint I saw the work of Anwyn Bird.”

Many things went through her mind at once. Who had shown him the arrows? Why had they even been kept?

Angus was looking at her closely. “Anwyn’s workshop was ransacked a week before the shooting. Several items were stolen, including a set of a dozen quarrels she’d made especially for the Lowdraw.”

Raina put a hand against the half-gate to steady herself, and as she did so she began to realize how deep Angus’ connections ran in this clan. Others had aided him in this. She was aware of her body cooling, despite the warmth of the mica-covered safe-lamps.

Shor had been killed by his own clansmen.

Oh, Mace’s hand would never have loosed the arrow. He was too clever for that. Always he used others for his dirty work; meetings by the dog cotes and stoke holes, words whispered in a willing ear, denials ready on his lips. Shor had been a threat to him, both for the chiefship and Raina’s hand. So Mace had spoken soft words and loosed an assassin, and killed Shor before he could claim either.

Dagro, help me.
Raina raised her gaze to meet Angus’s. In Dregg she had been taught that hell was a place without stone or earth to stand on, that souls sent there drifted for eternity, in search of a place to rest their feet. Until this moment it had always seemed a pleasant concept, that floating. Now she knew that to float was to be powerless. A man or woman could do nothing without their feet upon the ground. There was a choice here: float with the rest of the clan, following the current created by Mace Blackhail. Or plant two feet on the earth and take a stand.

Angus read the decision on her face almost the moment she made it. His nod was barely perceptible . . . and it made her shiver with fear.

She knew he would leave her to speak first. Although he had led her this far, with this one goal in mind, the treason must be hers.

Letting her thoughts come to rest upon the woman in the Oldwood, Raina found the words to say:

“My husband must be removed. It’s time Blackhail had a new chief.”

TWENTY-THREE

Hauling Stones