A Sword from Red Ice

by Julia V Jones

  Every man in the party felt it. Andrew Perish, who was. riding two lines back, cried out the third piety. "God brings destruction so that we as men can restore His order to the world."

  Marafice did not believe in God, but the ancient words pulled at him all die same. Restore order: that would not be a bad thing. Calling out to the drummers he commanded a quick march. They were on the road now; the mules and footsoldiers could keep pace.

  The villages they passed through were deserted, and all healthy animals were gone from the fields. When they reached the fork in the road that led east to Wrathgate Marafice took it without hesitation. He could see thЈ great iron edifice of Almsgate, flanked by its twin towers. Tat said the double portcullises were down and they looked like they'd taken a few bashes. A chunk of the gate roof had collapsed and there was a big bald patch without tiles. All was as Greenslade had said.

  Marafice's heart began to pound as they neared the city's eastern gate. The kettledrums were booming, combining with the clatter of hooves and armor to create a wall of sound. Red and silver pennants flying from Spire Vanis' limestone walls ripped and darted in the mountSi winds. Men were patrolling the ramparts; you could see their heads and the top three feet of their spears. No one was at the gate. No merchants, farmers, tradesmen, scholars. No one. Everyone within the city and without must know that Marafice Eye had come home.

  "Is it open?" he asked Tat, his voice wild.

  Tat squinted. Wrathgate was built from granite blocks as big as horse stalls. It was a square and bulky gate, the least elegant of the city's four gates, and it was guarded by two four-sided towers and a stone hood. The gate itself was deeply overhung.

  "Portcullis is down," Tat said quietly.

  Marafice felt the state of his body change. Things that had been slack tightened, and others that had been tight loosened in unpleasant ways. "We keep going," he said, his voice suddenly calm.

  When the front line drew within two hundred feet of the gate, the sound of horns blasted forth from the eastern wall. Hundreds of red cloaks stepped into view. Rive Watch. His men. As he looked on they drew their swords in salute. Red steel flashed in the sunlight. The cast-iron portcullis juddered into motion with a great rattling of chains-Clods of snow and turf fell from its spikes.

  And there, waiting in the courtyard on the other side, was his father— in-law Roland Stornoway, dressed in fantastically gilded armor that was too big for his small and bony frame, and flanked by a double guard. Hideclads and red cloaks. Marafice had not realized until now that the old goat was still capable of sitting a horse. Seeing Stornoway's cold and rheumy eyes, Marafice suddenly understood several things.

  Of course the old man would welcome him back. If he didn't the red cloaks would turn on him. Today, right at this moment, they would turn. Marafice Eye had been their leader for seventeen years, and hard fighting men like the red cloaks did not easily set aside such loyalties. Stornoway's plan would be to support his son-in-law until the poor soul died a sudden but natural-seeming death. Poison, if Marafice wasn't mistaken. Then Stornoway could simply step into place as Surlord and the red cloaks would stand by him.

  With his scrawny neck and baldy head sticking out from the carapace of dress armor, Stornoway looked like a vulture. He was putting on a fine show, Marafice had to give him that. He had to be nervous. This was the tricky bit; waiting to see how his son-in-law and his son-in-law's army would react. Yet Stornoway didn't look nervous. Stornoway looked sour and bloody-minded. Marafice blew air through his lips in frustration. His brain wasn't large enough to cope with all this double-dealing.

  Yet if he wanted to be lord of this city he didn't really have a choice. A show was called for. Stornoway had set the stage, betting heavily that his son-in-law would play his assigned part. Spire Vanis was watching and Marafice knew it would not serve his cause to look confused. He must be seen to be in control and armed with foreknowledge; pretend that he and the old goat had hatched this plan together. The Surlord and his father-in-law. Stornoway and his new son.

  They both knew it. They both needed it. It was a perfectly executed deadlock.

  Iss would have figured it out a lot sooner, Marafice reckoned, raising a fist in greeting to the man who almost certainly intended to kill him.

  To keep himself calm he addressed Tat Mackelroy, making a necessary show of nonchalance. Reveal surprise and he also revealed weakness. "What did you learn from the hostages?" he asked, saying the first thing that sprang Into his head.

  Tat, God love him, went right along with the game, squaring his shoulders and keeping eyes front as he said, "The young one, the ring— leader, is called Drey Sevrance. Wouldn't give me the name himself, but I beat it from one of the others."

  "Good, good," Marafice replied, barely listening. His father-in-law was riding forth to meet him. Marafice had thought Stornoway to be greedy but harmless, and he wondered how he could have been so thoroughly wrong. The man was a cold anmcalculating opportunist.

  "Welcome," Stornoway hailed as Marafice Eye rode through the gate, "Lord Commander, Surlord. And son."

  Marafice entered Spire Vanis as its one hundred and forty-second Surlord, with the man who intended to be its one hundred and forty-third raising his dry and wrinkly cheek to be kissed by him.

  FORTY The Cursed Clan

  The river smelled different at night, older and deeper, black with tar. Insects hunted its surfaces, black flies and phan-tom crane flies, mosquitoes and biting midges. Effie wondered if they hatched from the snow. Mist slid along the sides of the boai keeping close to its breeding ground, the water. The alders and water willows were quiet, unmoved by wind, and the only sounds beyond the splash of poles breaking the surface were the hollow cry of the night heron and the shriek of wild dogs far to the north.

  It was a bleak and uncertain landscape filled with traps for the boat. The Curseway, Waker had called it. The watery path that led to Clan Gray. Effie swallowed and tried not to think about what Eggtooth the pirate had said about the Cursed Clan. She tried, but did not succeed. Know what they do to young uns there? Tie stones to their chest and sink em" Effie began shivering and could not stop. She really should have learned how to swim.

  Waker Stone and his father had taken to poling after sunset and often struck camp during the bright hours of the day. Until today this had suited Effie Sevrance well enough, for in all her eight-almost-nine-year life she could never recall being afraid of the dark. Tonight was afferent, though. Cold and strange-smelling. And she couldn't get Eggtooth's words out of her head.

  "Pull em up a week later and eat what the fish didn't want"

  A water rat launching itself into the river nearby made a soft sloshing noise as it carved a trough in the water. Overhead the quarter— moon seemed to keep pace with the boat. Directly ahead of her Chedd Limehouse had faked his way into sleep. It had started out with a bout of pretend head-nodding and some truly stupendous wet-sounding snores—he had definitely taken notes from Eggtooth's pig. The next thing you knew the snoring had gotten softer, the head had tipped forward and he was really, properly asleep. That boy had some undeniable talents, Effie reckoned. Until she'd met him she'd never realized that a space existed between fake and real, let alone that it could be exploited.

  Thinking about Chedd helped Effie feel better. Not that she was afraid, of course. Just… anxious.

  Chedd was interesting to Effie. He knew things in the way she knew things. Different knowledge, but got the same way. Take that water rat. All she'd need to do was poke Chedd's chubby shoulder and ask "Girl or boy?" and Chedd would tell her its sex. Might tell her a few other things too. Like whether or not the rat was hunting or fleeing or simply out to have a cooling swim. He was good at finding hibernating turtles and salamanders under rocks, though for some reason he had less luck with fish. Always he saw things on the shore before she did; the beaver amidst the sticks, the fawn in the trees, the heron standing still in the rushes. "There's a bear cub over there," he would say casually, flick
ing his hand toward one of the banks. Effie had given up trying to prove him wrong, for even when the animal never emerged from hiding they both knew it was there. "How do you know?" Effie had asked him more than once.

  Chedd had a way of shrugging that made his neck disappear into his chest. "Dunno," he'd told her jusathis morning as they stood ankle-deep in the snowmelt pool searching for fairy shrimp. "Until I was your age I thought everyone knew when animals were around."

  Your age. She'd feigned some disgust over that particular comment but in a way Chedd's answer was oddly reassuring. You knew what you knew. That's how Effie had always felt about her lore: when it was there, hanging around her neck, she just knew things. Nothing fancy about it. No hocus-pocus or song-and-dance. Knowledge was there and if she chose to she could draw it in. It was like sporting something blurry in the distance: you could stop and look and concentrate upon the object, or pass it right by.

  Effie extended her arm over the gunwale and let her hand touch the greasy black water. She hoped it wasn't bog. Eggtooth had been most particular about that: it was bog she and Chedd would be fed to, not river water.

  Annoyed with herself for still shivering, she set her mind on something else. She tried to sort out who and what she was without her lore. Effie Sevrance, daughter to Tern and Megg, sister to Drey and Raif, bearer of the stone lore, Hailsman: those were her names and titles, Tem and Megg were dead. Drey might be too. She doubted if she'd see Blackhail in a very long time—Clan Gray was the direct diagonal opposite of Blackhail, and maybe a thousand leagues away-and to top it all off a fish had eaten her lore. Now she was simply Effie, sister to Raif, bearer of no lore, not even the twine that had held it. Did that mean her knowledge had gone? She didn't know. Some days it felt as if it had.

  And then there were days like today when something tingled in the center of her breastbone, right in the place where her lore used to lie. It had happened while she and Chedd were eating the fairy shrimp. They were tiny things, floating upside down in the icy water. Chedd said you ate them whole and raw, so that's what they did. They'd tasted like fish fins, which, as far as Effie knew, were the one part of the fish you weren't supposed to eat. Chedd had disagreed and said quite seri-ously they tasted like fish eyes. Bony fish eyes. That had them both laughing. And that was when she'd felt the queemess in her chest. It was like a thumb jabbing against her chest. No laughing matter. Not today.

  After that she didn't eat any more shrimp and went to sit alone by the boat. Some of the shrimp shell had stuck in her throat. Now Eggtooth's words were stuck back there too. Tie stones to their chests and sink 'em.

  The ghost of her lore, that's what she decided to name the sensation in her chest. The ghost of her lore had spoken and given her a warning about today.

  And tonight. Effie swatted a black fry who fancied a piece of her wrist. The horn-covered lamp clipped to the bow of the boat created an eerie circle of light She wished she could paddle. To do something would be good, to get tired and a bit sore, and have something else beside her thoughts to think about—if that made any sense. Waker and Waker's father were poling though, standing in the boat and using long sticks to punt — through the water. T he fiver was too shallow for paddling, barely a river at all anymore.

  The Mouseweed. Only a few days earlier Effie had thought it an underserving sort of name. She and Chedd had spotted beaver dams and big barnacly trout, and the river was at leas thirty feet across. Now the only things to spot were flies. And its width had grown decidedly uncertain. Black water wept beyond the banks and into fields of sedge and rushes. The hills had ended and the land had sunk. The tallest things around were the alders and silky willows, trees clinging grimly to last summer's crisped leaves.

  The river was too shallow for paddling. And too full of weeds. The water meandered around great islands of bulrushes and cattails, and then widened into wet fields. Channels were no longer obvious and Waker and his father needed to be able to turn the boat on a point.

  Four days back they had passed Clan Otler's roundhouse in the night. Waker had snuffed the prow lamp and his father had propelled the boat while he himself did something strange. Waker had sat forward in the prow seat and made sweeping motions with the pole. Chedd had whispered that Waker was checking for trip wires above the water. Effie had frowned at this at first, thinking it a highly unlikely figment of Chedd's overly dramatic imagination. Trip wires above the water indeed. What was next, attack fish? This odd behavior had gone on for nearly an hour—Waker pivoting the butt of the pole against his chest as he swung the tip in a half-circle—and during that time Effie couldn't come up with a single explanation that sounded better. And Waker had never repeated the action any night since then. It certainly made her think.

  Oder's roundhouse had been lit with fiery red torches that doubled their light by reflecting in the water. It was strange to see a roundhouse built from wood and raised on stilts. The Otlerhouse was huge and beautifully made. Entire stripped logs had been carved into curves to form the roundwall. The cedar gleamed in the firelight, thickly oiled against mist and river damp. Three turrets rose from its domed roof. Lamps burned in the top galleries of each tower and the windows were guarded by meshed wire stretched over X-shaped frames. Both the towers and the roundhouse were roofed in white lead; probably to reduce the risk of fire, Effie guessed. Lead had also been added to the chinking between the logs, endowing the roundhouse with a series of pale horizontal stripes that reflected in the dark water as glowing rings.

  As far as Effie could tell normal kinds of trees—oaks and cedars and elms—grew at the rear of the roundhouse, so solid ground must lie back there. At the front of the roundhouse a series of landings and jetties projected out across the water and many small boats were tied up there. Guards were watching from both the turrets and the highest landing, but they never spotted Waker's boat. Waker's father was poling through the reeds on the southern shore and you couldn't even hear his paddle enter the water.

  Effie had wondered about the passing. Beforehand both Waker and his father had been nervous, shifting in their seats, making adjustments to the load, communicating in the terse hand signals they seemed to prefer over language. Clouds had snuffed the moon and there was no mist. Good and bad. Just as they spied the first lights, Effie felt a little creepy sensation crawl along her skin. She thought it might be a cloud of midges, only how had the midges managed to fly into the bodice of her dress? Then she thought about the day Eggtooth had stopped the boat by chucking a big stone into the water. She remembered the prickly sensation in her mouth when Waker's father had removed her tongue and teeth; either winking them out of existence entirely or concealing them behind shadows so deep that no normal glance could find them. Whatever had gone on, Effie had been mightily glad to get them back.

  The night they'd floated past Otler she suspected Waker's father had been up to his tricks. Nothing as drastic as with her teeth but something—a blurring or shadowing or some subtle misdirection—had taken place. How else could you explain the fact Otlermen armed with crossbows and looking out across the water had not seen a shallow boat containing four people moving along the opposite shore?

  The creepiness Effie had felt subsided quickly once they'd passed the roundhouse. Waker's father had rested in the back while Waker returned to poling. The whole episode struck Effie as odd. Otler and Gray were neighbors, they shared borders and vulnerability to Trance Vor. You'd think they'd be friendly out of necessity if nothing else, seeing as they were both stranded in the far southeastern reaches of the clanholds. And they both held war oaths to Bludd. So why then couldn't a Grayman paddle past Otler at midday? Because Clan Gray is different, stupid. It's cursed. Effie frowned. Needing some distraction she did the crawly hands on the back of Chedd's neckJghedd's head jerked back and his hand came up to slap away the fly. Effie pressed her lips together to stop laughing and ended up making a snorting noise instead. The beauty of the crawly hands was that she could do it easily to Chedd but Chedd wouldn't do it eas
ily back. It was a masterstroke of gaming and it very nearly made up for the now-legendary disaster that had become bear: naked!

  "Eff," Chedd said, using the kind of voice she had not expected, quiet and puzzled. "There's half-things around."

  "Ssh," Waker warned from the bow of the boat.

  Effie looked at the back of Chedd's head. Her feet and legs suddenly felt cold, and the chains around her ankles chinked as she shivered.

  "The way to Cray is lined with prey," Waker s father whispered softly in her ear. "Nothing worse than being cursed"

  She hoped Chedd hadn't heard him.

  The moon was setting now, slipping behind the low alders. Something rustled on the near shore, hopefully a muskrat or river rat—or weird nocturnal duck. Waker's father thrust his pole deep into the river mud and held it there for a moment, allowing Waker to swiftly turn the boat. As the butt of the poll came out of the water Effie saw it was glistening with tar.

  Old peat and tar beds lay here, Chedd had told her earlier back at the camp, that was why the water was so black. You could dig up the mud, light it, and watch it burn. He was all for giving it a try, but then they'd found the pool with the fairy shrimp and got distracted. The water had been clear in the pool, she remembered. Snowmelt, not river water. It was difficult to imagine fairy shrimp—or much else for that matter—living within this murky, acidic water.