A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  “What’s your business, stranger?” The man in the leather apron, the tavern-keep, looked Crope up and down, his gaze lingering on the bird lime that spotted Crope’s cloak, and the raised white scars on his neck. “If it’s trouble you’re after I’ll see you get it, and if it’s ale and warmth I’ll weigh your money first.”

  Crope felt the blood rise in his face. He didn’t like being the object of so much attention, and he had a fear of speaking in case he tied himself up in knots. As he thought what to do, he noticed the bravo at the counter casually reaching for his knife.

  “Trade,” Crope said softly. “Come to trade.”

  Again, glances passed between the tavern-keep and the bravo. “Come back here, then,” said the older man. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Crope was glad to get away from the goatmen and the heat of the stove. He was sweating and the ceiling was so low he had to bend his knees further to pass under it. The young bravo moved alongside him as he approached the counter, pulling too close for comfort. Crope edged away, only to find the man with the leather apron on the other side of him.

  “Right,” said the tavern-keep. “Show us your goods.”

  Crope touched the hem of his tunic, checking for the one thing he had to trade. The smell of meat and gravy simmering on the stove filled his mouth with saliva, and he swallowed several times. The bravo saw this and followed Crope’s gaze to the black pot on the stove.

  “Reckon he’s hungry, Sham. Reckon he’s willing to trade for a bowl of meat and a hunk of bread.”

  The one named Sham refolded his arms with vigor. “He’s getting nothing from my stove until I see the measure of his goods.”

  The bravo began picking dirt from his nails with the tip of his fancy quillioned knife. Dressed in felted wool and finely napped suede, he shrugged without making a sound. “I don’t know about that, Sham. I’d bring him a bowl. A man’s better able to bargain on a full stomach.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment, and then Sham gave way and went to fill a bowl with stew. The bravo watched Crope watching the food. “Come a long way, have you?”

  Crope shook his head. He knew enough not to give this man any information about himself.

  “Seems you’ve taken a good few whippings in your time.” The bravo’s eyes were knowing. Abruptly, he sheathed the knife. “I don’t think this would be much use against a fellow like you. Reckon you can take care of yourself.”

  Crope was relieved of the need to reply by the tavern-keep returning with the stew. It was rich with blood and fat, and smelled strongly of goat. He felt the eyes of both men upon him as he drank from the bowl. The stew was finished too soon, and seemed to leave him more hungry than before. His eyes strayed back to the pot, and the bravo, seeing this, smiled knowingly at the tavern-keep.

  “So,” said the bravo, leaning forward. “I’m sure you’ll agree we’ve shown goodwill by feeding you. And I daresay Sham would be happy to fetch you a second bowl when our business is done. What say you, Sham?”

  Sham eyed Crope with displeasure. “If the trade warrants it.”

  Crope’s stomach rumbled. He was trapped between hunger and obligation, and he couldn’t think what else to do other than show the men his trade. With a slow and ponderous movement he plucked the item from his coat hem, tearing half a seam away in the process. Raising his closed fist to the counter, he was aware of both Sham and the bravo leaning forward in expectation. Crope thought his fist looked huge, big as an aurochs’s skull, and he was anxious to remove it from sight. Quickly, he opened his hand.

  The diamond seemed to capture every beam of light in the alehouse, sucking it in like a pump and using it to burn as cold and blue as the stars. Sham’s leather apron creaked as his chest expanded to draw breath. The bravo was silent and unmoving, yet his eyes glittered with the reflected brilliance of the stone.

  Hadda’s diamond. The Crone Stone, Bitterbean called it, chipped from Hadda’s front tooth as the life and warmth drained from her body where it lay at the top of the pipe. The gem was the size of a baby’s fingernail, table-cut and clear as water; a fitting reward for the woman who had found the biggest diamond ever to be mined west of Drowned Lake. Crope had not wanted to take it, yet Hadda had grasped his buckskin pants as he set her down on the wet, muddy ground above the pipe. “Take the stone from me, giant man,” she murmured, gasping for breath. “If you don’t they will. And I won’t have the first Bull Hand who finds me break my face in his haste to get it.”

  Crope had shook his head. He didn’t want a dying gift from Hadda the Crone. Hadda sang strange songs . . . and had summoned the darkness into the pipe. Any gift she gave would be cursed.

  The crone had become agitated then, her hands clenching and unclenching as she fought the death closing upon her. “Take it. You earned it . . . you bore me from the pipe.”

  So Crope had taken it, using the blunt edge of his ax to knock out the tooth and winkling the stone free from its enamel mounting. The Bull Hands had loosed the hounds by then, and Crope could hear the fearful sound of their howling. Pushing the diamond into his mouth for safekeeping, he ran for the refuge of the trees. The last sound he heard before entering the dark and tangled silence of Minewood was the ripping and sucking of hounds upon prey.

  Now the stone lay twinkling in the palm of his hand, and two men stood over it, silent and unmoving as if the diamond had cast a spell upon them. Crope had a sudden wish to close his hand and flee, but Sham reached out and plucked the stone from his grasp.

  “How do we know it’s real?” said the tavern-keep, squeezing the diamond between finger and thumb as if he meant to crush it. “Could be rock crystal or glass.”

  Crope shook his head vigorously. No one was going to tell him the stone wasn’t real. He’d mined diamonds for eight years; he knew gems from glass. As he gathered breath for a heated denial, the bravo put a hand on his arm.

  “Why don’t you bite it, Sham?” he urged. “If it breaks a tooth it’s real.”

  The tavern-keep looked suspiciously from the bravo to Crope. After a moment, he raised the diamond to his lips, opened his jaw to bite down, and then thought better of it. Offering the stone to the bravo, he said, “Seems you’re so knowledgeable, Kenner, why don’t you test it?”

  The bravo nudged the older man’s hand away. “Because I’m not a damn fool, and know genuine goods when I see them. Why don’t you set that stone down, and fetch me and my friend here a drink.”

  Sham’s cheeks reddened in indignation, but Kenner ignored him and began speaking to Crope, leaving the tavern-keep little choice but to do as the bravo said. Sham did not go quietly, slamming the flat of his hand on the counter as he deposited the stone and muttering peeved curses. Minutes later a tired-looking alewife dressed in a man’s tunic belted with a length of rope brought a jug of ale and two wood cups. She would not look at Crope, and addressed her words to Kenner. “Sham says the ale’s to come out o’ your share.”

  Kenner nodded, dismissing her. Pouring two cups of ale, he continued speaking to Crope. “I hear the snow at Drowned Lake’s been passing light this year. Too cold for it, they say. Have to keep setting fires on the ice to keep the lake from freezing solid.”

  Crope nodded. He was beginning to relax now that he was alone with Kenner, and it didn’t occur to him to wonder how the bravo had managed to pinpoint his place of origin. The ale was delicious, warm and nutty, with swirly bits of egg yolk, and he could feel it loosening his tongue. “We had bother drawing the water ’cos of the frost. Had to bring me up to man the pumps.” Pride made his ears glow pink. “Said no one could get them moving, only me.”

  Kenner poured Crope a second cup of ale. “I can see that, big strong man like you. Free miner, are you?”

  Crope shook his head without thinking. “Miners don’t pump water. That’s diggers’ work.” As soon as he spoke, he knew he had said too much. Bitterbean had warned him to tell no one who he was and what he did. Slave hunters will come and get
you, giant man. Chain you, and haul you back for the bounty. And the Pipe Lord’ll be so pleased to see you he’ll give you an iron kiss that rips out your tongue, and caress you real nice with his branding iron. Oh, make no mistake you’ll still be able to dig when he’s done, but you’ll never break rock without pain again. And the terrors’ll wake you every night.

  Quickly, Crope glanced at Kenner. The bravo was skimming froth from his ale, and his expression was relaxed and pleasant. Not the face of a man who would deal with slavers. Even so, Crope couldn’t quite stop the fear from rising. Fool, chided the bad voice. Told you to keep your great mouth shut Nervously, he glanced at the door, checking to see that no one had moved to block his escape. Slavers and slave hunters were everywhere, with their whips and chains and purses full of coin. They could hunt you down in a town full of taverns, circle and whip you, and then chain you to the axles of their wagons . . . and drag you along behind them if you didn’t keep up.

  “Whoa, big man. Settle down.” The bravo’s voice seemed to come from a very great distance. Only when his hand touched Crope’s arm, gently restraining him, did Crope realize he had stepped toward the door. “What’s your hurry, big man? We haven’t finished our business here yet.” The bravo’s voice sharpened. “And lest you forget, you owe a debt of ale and vittles to this tavern.”

  Crope let himself be drawn back to the counter. His heart was pumping wildly, and it was suddenly hard to think. Kenner said he was in debt. Debt. Debt meant magistrates and jail. Locked up and never let out. The overwhelming urge to flee came upon him. But everyone was looking at him, and all the goatmen had mean eyes and leather stock-whips. Great stupid chicken-head, gone and got yourself trapped. He was gulping so much air, he could barely make sense of what the bravo was saying.

  “Now I see the problem, big man. What you’ve got there is contraband. Mighty troublesome stuff is contraband. Sooner gotten rid of the better.”

  Crope didn’t know what contraband was, but he seized upon the last thing the bravo had said—Sooner gotten rid of the better—and nodded fiercely in agreement.

  Kenner’s gray eyes gleamed with satisfaction for an instant, but just as quickly his expression changed to one of serious thought. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “This stone is trouble. Trouble for you. Trouble for me. I take it off your hands and suddenly the very same people who are looking for you start looking for me. I know, I know, we won’t name them here and now. Best thing we can do is get this trade over and done with quickly, and go our separate ways. Now, I’m willing to keep quiet about where you’ve been and what you’ve done, but that silence is a risk. It’ll cost me dear, and that cost must be factored into the trade.”

  Crope was trying hard to understand what Kenner said, but there were big words here, and it was easier to focus upon the smaller ones he knew. Risk. Silence. Trouble. Hadda’s diamond twinkled on the counter, attracting a lone moth who mistook it for a light. Looking at it, Crope was overcome with a powerful urge to be free of the thing, and he put his thumb upon the stone and pushed it toward the bravo. Kenner became very still. His gaze met Crope’s and his eyebrows lifted in question. Are you sure? Even before Crope finished nodding the diamond was gone, pocketed away in a compartment concealed beneath the bravo’s gear belt. Crope felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. For a moment he forgot to stoop, and his head bumped against the rafters. He grinned at his own foolishness, and Kenner grinned too, and suddenly it was easy to speak.

  “Trade?” Crope prompted, nodding toward the bravo’s gear belt. Seeing the blank look on Kenner’s face, he elaborated, “Trade, like you said . . . for the stone.”

  Kenner made a minute gesture to the tavern-keep who stood watching by the stove. A rustle of movement disturbed the room. Goatmen shifted forward in their seats. Someone let the tail of a whip drop against the floor. The bravo pushed himself away from the counter. “Look, stranger. We don’t want no trouble here. The door’s there. Use it.”

  Crope was confused. Kenner’s voice had changed, and he was acting as if they weren’t friends. “Trade,” he repeated uncertainly. “For the stone.”

  “Get out!” shouted the tavern-keep, sliding an iron poker from the stove. “Won’t have no dirty freaks in my alehouse.”

  Crope looked to Kenner, but the bravo had already moved away. The tavern-keep took advantage of his momentary distraction and lunged forward with the poker, stabbing Crope’s shoulder with the smoldering point. Crope yelped in pain. Wheeling around, he lashed out at the thing that had hurt him. He caught only the tip of the poker, but his weight and momentum were enough to send it flying from the tavern-keep’s hand and clattering into the huddle of goatmen sitting about the stove. The tavern-keep cried out in fury, nursing his twisted wrist. One of the goatmen, a scrawny herder in a fleece hat, rose from his seat, the tail of his stock-whip bunched in his fist. Others followed his lead, edging forward, careful not to step within the turning circle of Crope’s massive seven-foot arm-span. The bravo watched from a safe position behind the counter, his fancy quillioned knife nowhere to be seen. Crope stared and stared, but Kenner wouldn’t meet his eye.

  Crack. A whip struck down at Crope’s feet, its leather tail slithering on the floorboards before its handler snapped it back. Suddenly Crope was back at the pipe, and the Bull Hands were closing in around him. Fear came so quickly he could taste it. It tasted of leather and salt. Through a haze of rising panic he spied the tavern door. The oblong of light seeping in around its frame looked like the sky overhead in the pipe. It meant escape. A second whip lashed his foot, and another licked the hamstring at the back of his calf. Raising his hands to protect his face, Crope barreled toward the door. If the goatmen had been carrying man-whips instead of the shorter, finer stock-whips they could have stopped him. For the man-whips were twelve-footers, their leather cured to the hardness of steel ribbons, and when they curled twice around a man’s leg their handlers could bring that man to the ground. But the stock-whips didn’t have the length for it, and they snaked Crope’s ankles but didn’t catch.

  Crope fixed his sights on the door. When a goatman failed to move out of his way quickly enough, Crope blasted into him, flooring the man instantly. Ribs in the goatman’s chest snapped with wet, explosive cracks as Crope tramped over his torso to reach the light. The delicate slot-and-groove mechanism of the doorlatch proved too much for Crope’s big, shaking hands and he smashed that too in his haste to be gone.

  Finally the door swung open. Cool mountain air touched Crope’s cheeks. Sunlight dazzled him and he blinked many times, his miner’s eyes weak when struck by the sudden light. It seemed impossible that it should only be midday after so much had happened in the tavern. A pain in his chest in the place where his breaths came from made him press a hand against his ribcage. He would have liked to sit down right there, upon the tavern’s stoop, and rest until he caught his breath and all the trouble had passed. But the goatmen in their greasy skins and fleeces were driving him on with the crack of their whips.

  “Get off with you, you filthy monster.”

  “Go back to your hell-cave where you belong.”

  Crope put his hands over his ears to shut out the noise. Hadda’s diamond gone. Fool, taunted the bad voice. Suet for brains. One day someone will talk you into walking off a cliff. Angry at himself, he lashed out at the air. Stupid, stupid, stupid. As he wheeled around he saw the goatmen watching him from inside the tavern. Something about the way they had gathered in a half-circle to watch him, their lips splitting in ugly leers, their fingers stroking the tails of their whips, shifted the anger in him. They weren’t slavers or Bull Hands. They were men who herded goats.

  The first stirrings of white rage moved within him, and he felt the skin across his back tighten and the blood pump into his eyes. The white rage was bad, he knew that, but it was hard to remember why when the pressure pushed all thoughts from your head. He had to act. Nasty men had stolen Hadda’s diamond. Nasty, laughing
men.

  As he sprang toward the tavern door, the leers on the goatmen’s faces faltered. The herder in the fleece hat stepped back. Crope recognized the man’s fear, but took no satisfaction from it. People had been afraid of him all his life.

  The desire was in him to run the goatmen back into the tavern and rip the whip-arms from them, but an old warning pierced the haze of his rage. Use it. Don’t let it use you. It was his lord’s voice, rich and beautiful, as calming as water dripping into a deep pool. His lord was the wisest of men. He got angry too, but he rarely let that anger rule him. He would never storm a tavern when outnumbered many to one. No. His lord would bide his time, watching and waiting, only striking out when his enemies least expected it and could be taken unawares.

  Thinking of his lord cleared a space in Crope’s mind. The white rage still burned, contracting his muscles and making him fever-hot, but now there was a pocket of air. Abruptly, his gaze alighted on the stang of green wood that was bracing the charred and rotten timbers above the door. The stang was taller than he, a fifteen-year growth of black spruce, three feet round and oozing pitch, and looking at it Crope knew what he must do. Wrapping his arms around the gray and papery bark, he hugged the stang fast against his chest. The men inside the tavern, realizing what he meant to do, began shouting and cracking their whips. Crope barely felt the leather lick his skin. It was like the day when he’d brought down the horse: once the white rage was upon him he could not be stopped.