The three of them climbed the broad stone steps to tliepreathearth and passed beneath the granite doorway. Sworn clansmen stood to attention as they entered the great circular space of the warriors' hall. "Put more logs on the fire," Anwyn commanded, and three men sprang into action to do her bidding. One of them was a Scarpe, Raina noticed. A young man whose hair had that greenish tint to it that meant Scarpe's black dyes were fading.
Anwyn pointed and nodded with force, and things were done. Blankets were brought, her twenty-year malt rushed up from the still-room, Jebb Onnacre, Orwin's son-in-law, sent for. Men who had no relation by friendship or kin to Orwin Shank were dismissed. Soon the room was warm and peopled only with Hailsmen and Hailswomen. The vast, vaulted space with its stone benches arranged in concentric circles and its horse-size central hearth had probably never known so few to stand within its walls. Berta Shank, Orwin's only surviving daughter, sat next to her father and Anwyn wrapped a single blanket around both of them. Orwin was numb. He had not said a word since he'd spoken Raina's name on the greatcourt. When Anwyn handed him a dram of malt he took it from her but did not drink. Raina sat next to Jebb. Her arm was smarting and she knew she would have an ugly bruise by morning.
"Here," Anwy said, passing her a wooden thumb cup filled with malt. "Drink."
Raina did, throwing the golden liquid to the back of her throat in a motion that would normally have the clan matron up in arms. You did not gulp a twenty-year malt. You sipped and savored. Raina enjoyed the burn as the hard liquor slid down to her gut.
Drey Sevrance dead.
She watched the fire. All in the room were quiet now, their movements subdued. One of the double doors opened and Corbie Meese stepped in. Quickly assessing the mood, he found himself a seat, not close to but within sight of Orwin Shank, and settled down for a long stay. Gat Murdock came next, and although Raina had never felt much affection for the crotchety old swordsman, she could not fault him this day. Silently and without fuss he chose a seat near the back. Others came, Hailsmen and Hailswomen, and over the course of the next hour those who had at first been exiled from the greathearth were allowed back.
Raina felt moved by a strong and invisible force. Goodness, she decided later. Everyone watched the fire. Anwyn moved between the benches like a nurse bringing blankets and water and malt. No one wept, though many had taken losses. It was understood that Orwin Shank's loss was the greatest and respect was paid by minding his expression and his silence. Even the bairns who were allowed in later upheld the quiet of the hearth.
How long they sat and mourned as a clan was hard to say. The fire was kept stoked and there were no windows in the greathearth to let in light. When Raina felt someone sit next to her on the opposite side of the bench from Jebb Onnacre, she glanced around, prepared to give a silent nod of greeting. She expected the mourning to continue into night and to be present until its end.
Sitting next to her was Jani Gaylo. "The guide wants to see you," she whispered. "He awaits you in the chiefs chamber."
The parts of herself that had been buoyed by the dignity shown by her fellow clansmen sank and Raina stared at the girl coolly. She stood. Motioning to Anwyn that she was fine and nothing was amiss, Raina Blackhail took leave of the greathearth. Jani Gaylo, dressed in pretty orange and blue plaid, followed her from the room.
"Do not," Raina warned the moment the door was closed behind them, "make the mistake of accompanying me to the chiefs chamber."
The girl actually took a step back. "Yes, lady," she mumbled, as Raina turned and left her standing at the top of the stairs. The wall torches had been lit and the greatdoor was closed. All was quiet in the entrance hall and the few Scarpe warriors who were standing in groups, drinking ale, averted their gazes in something approaching respect as she passed. They must have lost men, too. she realized. It made her wonder where Blackballs and Scarpes armies stood this night. Did they intend to retake the Crab Gate? Were they bivouacked in one of the spnice forests northeast of Ganmiddich, hunkered down in three-foot snow?
The narrow steps leading to the chiefs chamber had been freshly swept of cobwebs and dust, and Longhead or one of his crew had actu-ally installed a wooden handrail along the tricky part where the steps buckled forward. Raina abstained from using it She had not been here in several months and did not want to be here now.
The door was ajar and she did not knock, simply pushed it back and entered the chamber. Stannig Beade sat behind the big chunk of granite known as the Chiefs Caim, studying a chart. A mat covered with blankets lay close to the far wall, and Raina realized with a shock that he was now sleeping here.
Beade rolled up the scroll as she moved forward, but her eyes were quicker than his hands and she saw it was a map of Blackhail and its bordering clans.
''Welcome," he said, pushing aside the scroll.
He must have trained for the hammer in his youth, Raina decided, for his shoulders were powerful and two big muscles sloped down from his neck. The tattoos across his eyelids had healed, but whoever had punctured them had done a hasty job and the pigment-filled holes looked like bird tracks.
"You know why I have summoned you?"
She could not begin to guess. 'What do you want?"
He stood and crossed over to the sole lamp in the small oval chamber and rolled back the wick. Light decreased. "Your behavior in this clan does not befit a chiefs wife. People have noted your forwardness and brought it to my attention. Raina Blackhail overreaches herself, they say. She makes decisions she has no right to make. I have tried to let it pass, if you had attended me at noon as I requested I would simply have reminded you of your place. But after the scandal you created on the greatcourt I must take action. I am guide, and my responsibilty is to the well-being of this dan. As Blackhail's armies are away, I have arranged for those newly housed in the widow' wall to move into quarters vacated by sworn clansmen. This will leave the widows' hearth free once more for the widows. After you leave my chamber you will move your belongings there, and from this night forth restrict your activities to caring for the bereaved and the sick."
"How dare you."
Stannig Beade responded to the ice in her voice by moving closer. "Never interrupt a warriors' private parley again."
"You are no warrior."
The blow was so hard and shocking Raina stumbled backward. She lost a second of consciousness, and found herself crumpled by the door.
Stannig Beade was standing over her, breathing hard. He drew back his hand to strike her again, but the sound of footsteps bounding down the stairway halted him in his tracks.
The high, girlish voice of Jani Gaylo called out, "Did Her High-and-mightyness come? I gave her your message but you know what a bitch she is."
"Get up" Stannig Beade hissed at Raina. And then to Jani Gaylo, who had just rounded the corner, "Raina is overcome with grief, help her to her feet."
The girl's red eyebrows went up and her cheeks turned pink. She stood for a moment, taking in the scene of the chief's wife on the floor with her skirts and braid in disarray, and then dashed forward to help. "Lady, I"
"Hush," Raina told her, looking into Stannig Beade's cold glittering eyes. "I can help myself."
They watched as she rose to her feet. Shaking and with the imprint of Beade's open hand flaring on the side of her face, Raina fled.
THIRTY Three Men and a Pig
The river was named the Mouseweed and it flowed between gorges and through brush-choked valleys in the Bitter Hills and Stone Hills. Herons fished in its shallows and moose picked paths along its gravel banks as they came to eat tender water weeds and drink. Bears patrolled the shores, and cracked open the overnight ice on beaver ponds in search of sluggish fish.
Yesterday Effie and Chedd had played a game of dams, which meant that whenever you saw a beaver dam you cried, "Damn!" It had been extraordinarily satisfying at first, the cussing without seeming to, but there were just so many dams along the river that within a matter of hours the game had gotten old, an
d Chedd had started repeating the word so quickly it made a noise like buzzing flies. Damndamndamndamndamn. She had poked him in the back to make him stop, which of course just made him do it more. Then she had to think of another game to distract him, but nothing quite matched the-if she did say so herself-sheer brilliance of dams, and the only thing she could come up with was bear: naked. Chedd had sniggered at this, and she wished straightaway she could take it back. Naked was not a word you used around eleven-year-old boys. She hadn't known it then. But she did now.
"Otter," Chedd Limehouse said now, swiveling his fat neck toward her. "Naked!"
Effie glared at him. There was no otter. This was the second day she'd had to put up with him naming nonexistent animals and declar-ing them naked. As they were paddling through a narrow stretch of the Mouseweed in broad daylight, Effie had some hope that Waker would silence him, but the Grayman appeared distracted. His large bulbous eyes were fixed on the way ahead.
They were making good time, Effie observed. The channel was deep here and the current logy. Good paddling conditions, she thought, taking some pleasure in the knowledge and vocabulary she had picked up from traveling with Waker Stone and his fiercely odd father, who might, or might not, be named Darrow.
They let her paddle now, and she was surprised by how hard it was and how much she needed to rest after even the briefest series of strokes. The pain in the back of her shoulders and forearms would strike quickly and once it was there it nagged continually. Waker told her she would grow into it as long as she paddled every day. Effie had taken him at his word, and had fallen into the rhythm of brief paddles followed by long rests. Three days now and the pain just got worse.
At least she didn't fake-paddle like Chedd, who could be seen even now rotating his paddle as it entered the water so that it sliced more than it pushed. Waker's father must have known what Chedd was up to. Manning the back of the boat he could keep an eye on all three of them—Waker, Chedd and herself—yet he never did anything to correct Chedd's idle ways, and Chedd had the good sense never to look around and catch his eye. Effie decided she must have less good sense, for sometimes she couldn't seem to stop herself and spun around in her seat to look at the tiny old man. Every time without fail he was ready for her, triumphantly, malignly, staring back.
The night she had been saved from drowning by Waker, the old man had told her his name. Or at least she dreamt he had. The name was hiding in her memory like a flea in a crease, and she told herself that if she just waited long enough it would spring right out. Darrow didn't ring any bells, she knew that much. Chedd had come up with that one, and now she came to think on it he might simply have overhead Waker telling his father, "Da, row."
"Naked," Chedd said for no good reason. "As a bear."
Effie watched his shoulders chuffing up and down with delight. It was enough to put you off boys for life.
More paddling was called for, and she took the wooden paddle from her lap and plunged it deep into the brown waist, She might have splashed Chedd on the first stroke, but not on the ones following. Paddling was too serious a business.
It was a calm but cold day and the sky was uniformly white. The Mouseweed was passing through a series of gorges and high-cut banks, and thin, silvery talk emptied into the river at every bend. The cliffs were red sandstone, mined with hollows and crevices, and grown over with chokeberries, black birch and vine. They had left the main artery of the Wolf three days back, following a long camp whilst Effie recu-perated from the near drowning, and without a doubt they'd passed beyond the Dhoonelands and into territory protected by Bludd.
As far as Effie could tell they were heading southeast. The Bitter Hills were a slowly lowering barrier to the south. Stony and jagged, their chutes pocked with new snow and their stiffs dark with hem-locks, they cast long shadows on the river as they dumped sowmelt into its depths. The most easterly section of Bitter Hills was called the Stone Hills by city men, and Effie had to admit it was a pretty decent name. When she was resting between paddles the imagined the city on the far side, Morning Star. Having no experience of citiai whatsoever, she fancied it as a grand collection of roundhouses wtth many outbuildings and several towers. The people would wear liners and silk, not wool and skins, and their voices would be high and fluting.
Ahead and to the north lay the Bluddsworn clans: HalfBludd, Haddo, Frees, Otler and Gray. Chedd said the only roundhouse they'd be likely to spot was Otler's and that was days east of here, but Effie thought he might be wrong. HalfBludd shared borders with Morning Star; depending upon what river branch they were on they might see it once the hills shrank away.
The Mouseweed felt different to Effie than the Wolf, older and more secretive. Last night she had seen a lynx withdrawing through the trees behind the camp. The wild and beautiful cat with its pointed ear tufts and blue-gray pelt did not seem to belong to the world of clan. She had tried explaining this to Chedd-who had rnatter-of-factly informed her the lynx was female-and Chedd had surprised her by agreeing. "Its the Sull who wear their pelts," he said. Sometimes he could say things that were exactly right. Clan did not wear lynx because they did not know how to trap or hunt them. Those skills belonged solely to the Sull.
Deciding she'd had enough of paddling, Effie shook the waer from her oar and rested it against the gunwales. Hands free, she reached for her lore.
It was someething she always did that absentminded checking, that quick motion upward to see how things stood in her world. Stupid Stupid. You'd think by now she'd have gotten used to the fact that her lore was gone, gobbled up by the pike that was more than a pike, lost for ever and eternity in the Wolf.
She had tried to make them go after it—spread nets, dive into the river, build dams—and in fairness to Waker Stone he had not dismissed her pleas out of hand. "Its gone," he had told her firmly. "Even if I dived for it how would I know the difference between that a thousand other stones?"
She had not told him about the pike. She had lived for a month with Mad Binny on Cold Lake, and knew the importance of sounding sane. The words A pike ate my lore were too close to My sheep knows how to fly for comfort. Instead she had commandeered Chedd Limehouse, forcing him to search the rivershore and set fishing lines. Guilt had prevented him from asking too many questions about the fishing lines—if he hadn't vomited the boat would never have capsized—and he had worked diligently for two whole days on the task of locating Effie's lore. On the third day she'd felt well enough to join the search and had waded thigh-deep into the now calm water, but her restored health had worked against her. When Waker saw her chastising Chedd for setting the lines in the wrong place, he had decided she was fit enough to return to the boat, and they were out upon the river by midday.
She held no ill feeling toward Waker for his haste. He had saved her life, and although she knew that he did so because she was in some way valuable to him—like gold—it didn't alter the fact that her life was saved. Effie was very much fond of her life. She wasn't one of those silly girls who heedlessly put their lives in danger by riding horses over high hedges, or sticking their heads underwater and counting how long they could hold their breath. Tree climbing, rock scaling, bridge swinging, roof walking, pool diving and even the wearing of insufficient layers in the cold were not things that Effie Sevrance did. Granted she used to sleep with the shankshounds, but even if they had torn out people's throats, they were good as lambs around her.
Waker had treated her a little differently since the near drowning and she had treated him a little differently back. She understood now that the abduction and journey were nothing personal. Waker Stone was doing his job. She and Chedd were cargo, and what a man wanted in his cargo was simply that it be easy to stow. If she did not fight against the stowing, which by her reckoning was the equivalent of getting into the boat promptly each morning, Waker was satisfied. Freedom could be had in a sideways kind of manner. She and Chedd could do whatever they wanted at the camp—as long as they remained in sight. They could now talk in the bo
at—as long as woodsmoke wasn't in the air. Nothing much was expected of them— they weren't even forced to paddle—and that meant they were free to enjoy the river and its sights. And as long as you ignored old crazy Waker Senior and forgot that you were being hauled east against your will the journey wasn't bad. She had even begun to think that she owed it to Waker to be good, what with him saving her life and all and she being precious cargo.
It was this realization that she ought to behave well that had made all the difference. Waker had recognized this shift in her, which was mostly detectable in fee quickness she responded to his requests and her determination to show him she was a good paddler, and he had responded in some kind back. Just this morning he had thrown her a small pouch of dried spiced peas. No word, barely any warning that she needed to get her hand ready to receive a catch, just a white bag chucked at her chest. Spiced peas were strange and set your gums tingling, and it took her a while to realize they were meant to be a treat. Once she understood their specialness they began to taste better.
She had the feeling now that if Waker had possessed a pick with the correct bore to knock out the pins in her leg irons he would have freed her.
"Stoney broke. Brokey stone. What's it like, girlie, to he all alone?"
Effie spun around in her seat and glared at Waker's father. He was sitting on the stern seat, calmly pulling his paddle through the water. His lips were closed and his green eyes sparkled with spite. He was wearing the shaggy brown otterskin jacket he always wore, but today he'd thrust a bunch of clubmoss though one of his string holes.
"I know what you said," she told him.
He looked at her and started moving his mouth like a fish. Spittle wetted his lips as his old pink tongue jabbed out.
Disgusted, she faced front.
"Nothing to like about pike."
She did not turn back. Suddenly cold, she decided to warm herself up with another bout of paddling. Mounds of hackled snow capped the rocks and gorges, and the river water had that thickness to it that meant it wasn't far above freezing. Chedd had fallen asleep in his seat and was snoring. Effie used her own paddle to hook his back in the boat. The clump of wood hitting the gunwales roused him, and he shook his head like a dog shedding water. Within five minutes he was back asleep.
A Sword from Red Ice Page 49