Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga)

by Gail Z. Martin

  The crowd at the Crooked House was fairly subdued. A few men played at dice or cards, protesting loudly when their luck went bad. A cluster of men gathered around the fire, swapping tales. Engraham was tending bar, and if he minded the shift from tavern master to bartender, he didn’t show it. “Hey there, Bl—I mean, Mick,” he said with a ready smile. “Ifrem was hoping you’d show up. Everything all right?”

  Blaine shrugged and put down enough coins to pay for a glass of whiskey. The wagon ride into town had once again chilled him to the bone and soured his mood. “Right as it can be, I guess,” he replied. “How are you catching on to the new job?”

  Engraham grinned. “What’s to catch? This bar’s not that different from the Rooster and Pig, ’ceptin’ the fact that the whiskey’s rougher and we’re more likely to ferment potatoes than wheat.” He nodded toward the room full of patrons, who seemed oblivious to his comments. “Don’t think they rightly care what we ferment, so long as it helps them forget their troubles.”

  “You and your mum doing all right?”

  Engraham nodded. “Aye. Funny thing, how someone close to you as your mum can become sort of a stranger when you lose enough years together, but we’re working on it. After all, I was just a lad when she was sent away, and I show up a grown man—there’s some adjusting to do, for both of us. But odd as it sounds, I’m glad I made it here. If I can’t be in Donderath, I don’t know where else I’d feel more at home.”

  Blaine thanked him for the drink, tossed an extra coin to him for his trouble, and headed up the back stairs. The Council was already assembled in the upper room. By the sound of it, they’d been gathered long enough for tempers to flare.

  A thump that sounded like a man’s fist hitting the table rumbled through the door. “Dammit, Adger, be reasonable. What you’re reporting is nothing but hearsay.”

  Blaine opened the door. Peters the fishmonger was half-standing, his fist still against the table. Adger, the distiller, sat across from him, his face flushed with anger.

  “This ‘hearsay,’ as you call it, comes from three different, independent sources,” Adger argued. “And all three say they’ve seen wild magic out on the far ice, dangerous magic. We’re in danger.”

  Peters sat down, scowling. “Who says so? A bunch of drunken trappers?”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve seen the wild magic and have the bruises to show for it,” Blaine said. The Council fell silent, and they all turned to look at him.

  “And how did that happen?” Peters snapped.

  Blaine sat down in the remaining empty chair at the table and sipped his whiskey. He did his best to recount their adventure without betraying Grimur’s secret or the existence of the map and pendant. When he finished, the others were silent for a few moments.

  “Those trappers that disappeared, do you think that’s what happened to them?” Trask asked.

  Blaine shrugged, unwilling to repeat Grimur’s tale. “That would be my bet. We were pretty lucky to get out of there alive.”

  Peters leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “We thought the magic was gone, but maybe it’s just broken. Could it fix itself?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Who knows? It didn’t break itself. We know from what Connor told us that the mages on both sides of the war broke the magic. We also aren’t sure the magic is ‘broken’ everywhere in the world,” he added.

  “That does us little good,” Adger grumbled. “Our ships can’t reach the Cross-Sea Kingdoms, and as it is, we’d be asking them to conquer us.”

  “I agree,” said Jothra. “But it raises an interesting question. If it required mages to break the magic, does it require mages to fix it? And if the mages of power are dead on the Continent, and we have none here, where could we find mages we trust to set things right?”

  The group was silent for a few moments, then Ifrem cleared his throat. “As interesting as the speculation is,” Ifrem said, “we have a more pressing problem, which is why we convened. Trask and Mama Jean have completed their inventory of our food stock. I’ll let them share what they’ve found.”

  Trask looked uncomfortable, and not just because his broad, muscular body was wedged into one of the tavern chairs. He drummed his fingers nervously on the table, like a schoolboy caught playing truant. Mama Jean’s expression was unusually pinched with worry, making her look older and worn.

  “Might as well cut to the worst of it,” Trask said in a voice still thick with the accent of the Donderath hill country. “We’ve counted colonists and we’ve inventoried what’s in the warehouses. We’ve also figured out about how much food each homestead can raise for itself, and what amount of surplus they can generally bring to market. We also managed to find most of Prokief’s receipts for supplies from the homeland and tallied what the Bay-town merchants bought from Donderath suppliers.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  “I’ll say it if he won’t,” Mama Jean interrupted. “From what we can figure, we don’t have enough food for everyone in Edgeland to make it through the winter.”

  Outcry erupted around the table, until Ifrem pounded his fist to settle them. “There’ll be time enough for riots when word gets to the street,” he said sternly. “We’re supposed to be the governing body.”

  Blaine had been quiet as the others had expressed shock and outrage. Mama Jean’s news had not really surprised him. He remembered growing up at Glenreith, watching his mother fret and argue with the manor’s seneschal over what to plant for the next harvest, always with an eye toward having enough to last the winter. Though the ships from home had been slower to arrive in recent months, no one had really expected them to stop altogether. Without ample preparation, hunger was certain.

  “By our count we’ve got enough for several hundred fewer people than we have,” Trask added. “There weren’t many newcomers on the ship, but they’re still mouths to feed. Normally, the colony only loses a few dozen over the winter to fever and accident. So we all need to do with a little less, and come up with a way to find a little more, if we’re to get through ’til spring.”

  “What are our options?” Annalise might be a seer, but she was also a good merchant, and she understood a ledger. “It’s too late to plant more crops until spring. We don’t dare eat through the seed stock or kill too many of the animals. We have no choice except to ration what we have and hunt for what we don’t.”

  “I don’t fancy telling the folks out there that we’ll need to ration,” Adger said. “And with trappers disappearing out on the ice, there won’t be a lot of enthusiasm for going hunting too far afield.”

  “We could take the herring boats out.” Everyone turned to look at Blaine. “I know we don’t usually fish beyond the bay after the long dark sets in, but if we have to, we have to.”

  “The waters are more dangerous in the winter,” Peters said.

  Blaine shrugged. “And the fish are in different places than they are when we’re in the white nights. We’re at Yadin’s mercy, even more than usual. But a full catch on just a few boats can bring in enough fish to feed most of Bay-town, at least for a while.” He paused. “One ship can bring in six tons of fish, if we take all we can carry. A few outings of the fleet, if we’re successful, should keep us in herring. If we get lucky, we might get a whale.”

  “Herring for breakfast, lunch, and supper,” Adger growled.

  Mama Jean turned on him. “Washed down with your rotgut.” She looked back to the group. “We have enough flour, if we portion it out to make it last, to go until spring. So you can have coated herring, herring and biscuits, herring and pancakes…”

  Despite the tension, the group laughed. “All right, then,” Ifrem said. “We need to leave here with a plan.”

  “I’ll rally the fishermen,” Blaine said, dreading Piran’s reaction to learning he was about to be drafted for more herring duty.

  “I’ll gather the merchants and work out a fair rationing system,” Annalise replied.

  “I’ll help you,” Mama Jean volunt
eered.

  “Adger and I can roust up some hunting parties,” Peters said with a glance toward Adger, who scowlingly acknowledged. “If we could bring down a few walrus, instead of small game, we can salt and dry the meat for later, when the storms are bad.”

  “I’ll work with Engraham to make sure we can adjust the mash to brew whatever we’ve got in the storehouses,” Ifrem said.

  “What do we tell the colonists?” Annalise’s voice brought silence.

  “Tell them the truth,” Blaine replied. “The only way we’re going to make it through this is to work together. They deserve to know.”

  “We’ll need their cooperation if we’re going to take the fleet out,” Ifrem agreed. “And it wouldn’t hurt to send gleaners out to the Velant farm fields. We brought in the cabbages, but I can’t say that we dug for all of the potatoes and root crops in those fields. I’ll gather a harvesting team.”

  Ifrem looked from face to face. “Edgeland is going to need its leaders more now than ever before. Right now, that’s us. We’ve got to help keep the peace and get people working together.”

  Blaine thought about the long dark in years past, and how, inevitably, toward the end of the sunless period, even at the best of times, Edgeland saw its peace disturbed by brawls, suicides, and murder. “Then Charrot help us, because we’ll have our hands full,” he murmured.

  Blaine waited until the Council adjourned and its members had filed downstairs before he removed the arrow from its hiding place within his cloak. He had signaled Ifrem to stay behind, and now he laid the arrow on the table between them.

  “What do you make of this?” Blaine asked.

  Ifrem studied the arrow, then lifted it for a better look. “Looks like military issue to me. Where did you find it?”

  “Someone shot it at me earlier this evening,” Blaine replied dryly. Ifrem listened as Blaine recounted his story, and sat down, frowning at the arrow in his hands.

  “Light’s bad this time of year. And a lot of the weapons went missing when Velant fell. Maybe someone mistook you for an elk.”

  “Maybe,” Blaine replied, unconvinced. “Or maybe there’s more to it.” He leaned forward. “First, someone tried to kidnap Kestel from the homestead.”

  Ifrem chuckled. “Someone who didn’t know Mistress Kestel’s reputation at court, I warrant. Where did you hide the body?”

  Blaine shook his head. “Kestel said whoever it was, was a professional. He got away, although she slashed him good.” He gave Ifrem a meaningful look. “Then you were attacked, not long afterward.”

  Ifrem held up his hands in protest. “What could that have to do with anything? Probably a drunk who thought I had a few coins on me.” He paused. “And I doubt anyone mistook Kestel for you.”

  “No, but everyone knows she’s part of my ‘family,’ ” Blaine replied. “Someone might assume that she’d be easy to grab, figuring that I’d come after her. And as for your attack, you said it yourself—our cloaks are nearly identical. What if you weren’t meant to be the target?”

  Ifrem frowned and leaned back, studying the arrow anew. “I’ll grant you that our cloaks are similar, and we’re nearly the same height. But this is all guessing. The three attacks could have nothing to do with one another. Kestel’s a pretty woman. Perhaps one of Prokief’s soldiers thought she’d make an easy target, and learned his lesson the hard way. What happened to me might have just been a botched robbery. And you could have run afoul of a hunter with bad eyesight.”

  Blaine shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Besides, why would anyone be out to kill you, Mick?” Ifrem set the arrow back on the table. “Most of the colonists like you. And Prokief’s dead.”

  Blaine met Ifrem’s gaze. “Prokief said something odd just before he died. He said I was a dead man and didn’t know it yet.”

  Ifrem’s gaze widened. “That puts a different slant on things. What did he mean?”

  Blaine gave another shrug. “Don’t know. I meant to have a look at Prokief’s papers, whatever survived the fire. But I don’t know what became of them.”

  Ifrem brightened. “That I can help you with.” He rose and rummaged in a trunk at the back of the room. When he returned, he had a wooden box that was soot-scarred and smelled of smoke. He set it on the table. The box was carved with Prokief’s initials. It was plain that the lock had been smashed. Ifrem opened the lid.

  “Mama Jean insisted we send someone back to Velant that first night, to see if we could find bills of lading or other documents to help determine whether Prokief was hiding any food or equipment. Any of those kinds of papers I gave to her for the inventories. These I kept, just in case they turned out to be important.” He pushed the chest toward Blaine. “Go ahead. Have a look. They didn’t mean anything to me.”

  Blaine removed the papers from the box and spread them out on the table. He paged through a sheaf of papers filled with cramped handwriting in faded ink. After a few moments, he looked up. “These appear to be reports from Prokief’s spies. I’d say he had spies everywhere, but he kept a close eye on the warden-mages. Maybe that’s how he kept control.”

  Ifrem nodded. “Makes sense. Anything else?”

  At the bottom of the stack of papers was another parchment, this one with a broken wax seal. Blaine frowned and picked it up. The parchment was fine stock, and the wax seal bore an ornate symbol with a “P.” “P” for Prokief? Blaine wondered. Another possibility crossed his mind. Or “P” for Pollard?

  He opened the parchment. “This is dated from four months ago. It must have come on one of the last ships from home.” He scanned down through the writing, noting that whoever had written it had a strong, flowing hand, completely unlike Prokief’s clumsy script. The farther he read, the greater his suspicions became.

  “Something’s got your attention, Mick,” Ifrem said. “What’s so interesting?”

  Blaine sat back in his chair. “I’d bet a day’s wage this letter is from Prokief’s patron back in Donderath.”

  “Prokief had a patron? That’s news to me. How’d he get sent here?”

  “Maybe his patron wanted someone positioned in Edgeland,” Blaine suggested. “There were always rumors that some prisoners who disappeared actually got sent home on the sly.”

  Ifrem grunted. “I always thought those rumors were wishful thinking. More likely, they were buried out in the fields.”

  Blaine set the letter on the table. “According to the letter, Prokief was to receive payment as agreed, plus various hard-to-find items like good wine and caviar, and a ‘special workman.’ ”

  “A workman?” Ifrem echoed. “What in Raka does that mean?”

  “This workman,” Blaine read, picking the letter back up, “was supposed to be turned loose against the target if there was a ‘significant change’ at home.”

  “A change? Like the war going badly for Donderath?” Ifrem replied, leaning close for a look at the letter. “Gods, Mick. Someone sent Prokief an assassin?”

  “What if Prokief had a patron with the money of a lord and the morals of a cutpurse?” Blaine replied. “Someone who might have need of henchmen who were sent away to Velant, and could give them a job if they happened to find their way back home? Someone who could pay Prokief well to do his bidding?”

  “You have someone in mind?”

  Blaine nodded and held out the wax seal for Ifrem’s inspection. “Vedran Pollard.”

  Ifrem nodded. “Pollard did have a reputation as a blackguard.”

  “Second only to my father,” Blaine added, not bothering to hide the bitterness in his voice. “They hated each other.”

  Ifrem fixed Blaine with a look. “Enough to send an assassin to kill you?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Would Pollard flinch at having a man killed? Probably not. Why he’d care about killing me when I’m already at the end of the world, I can’t imagine.”

  “If Pollard wanted you dead, why did Prokief wait so long? He could have killed you when you were in Velant.”

&
nbsp; Blaine sighed. “No, he couldn’t,” he admitted, looking away. “Prokief told me that himself, one of the times he sent me to the Hole. Apparently, Merrill’s order of exile specifically forbade Prokief from killing me.” He grimaced. “Although Prokief certainly tried to make sure I had plenty of opportunity to die of ‘natural causes.’ ”

  Ifrem let out a low whistle. “Never knew you were quite so special, Mick. But you said it yourself—why now?”

  Blaine’s gaze returned to the arrow. “I don’t know, Ifrem. But if I want to stay alive, I think we’d better find out.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  BRING IN THOSE NETS, YOU SLACKING BASTARDS!” Captain Darden’s voice rang out over the windswept deck.

  Connor bent his head to focus on the fish he was gibbing, but he stole another glance toward the rail, where teams of men put their backs into hauling bulging nets of fish onto the ship’s sea-soaked deck.

  It was Connor’s second week aboard a herring buss and already he had the calluses to prove it. He glanced with grudging admiration toward where Blaine and Piran moved in rhythm with the dozens of other men who were on their shift at the net. Eight-hour shifts, by turn gibbing, sleeping, and hauling, all under a twilight sky where the sun would not rise for four more miserable months.

  Connor had done little hard work and he knew it showed. As the third son of a minor noble, he’d had education but no inheritance prospects, and he had been appointed as Garnoc’s assistant as soon as he was old enough for fostering. Lord Garnoc, a longtime friend of his family, had taken him on. It was a job that required discretion, but could hardly be considered physically taxing.

  Salt water sloshed around Connor’s feet and sea spray stung his eyes. Despite the oilcloth garments and heavy boots, he was wet to the skin and nearly frozen. His fingers were numb with cold and the repetitive motions of his job. Grab a freezing cold, flopping fish. Chop the head, slit the gut, cut the tail, toss, repeat. His hands were nicked in a dozen places where the sharp scales or the tip of his own blade had cut into the flesh, and the seawater burned with every touch.