by J. V. Jones
With a few brief commands, she relieved the party of their burdens, arranged for sufficient chairs to be assembled around the chamber’s central firepit, ordered the fetching of ale and milk, and the tamping of the fire, so that they could parley more easily across the firewell. Such arrangements could have been made earlier, Bram realized, but then Wrayan Castlemilk would not have had the advantage of command.
When all was settled fifteen chairs circled the firewell, the camps almost evenly divided. Yet again Wrayan Castlemilk had surprised Bram by providing chairs for him and Jess Blain. As a clanwife passed from man to man, pouring the traditional dram of milk into their ale horns, Wrayan leaned back in her chair and addressed Robbie.
“So, Robbie Dhoone. What would you have of me?”
Robbie was ready for this. Placing his hands on his knees, he breathed deeply and easily. “I need to retake Dhoone.”
Wrayan Castlemilk did not react. She had been a clan chief for nearly thirty years, and Bram reckoned she must have reached the point where little surprised her.
“It’s time Bludd was driven out,” Robbie continued. “They hold too much power, and the clanholds are collapsing around them. Without Dhoone there is no center. No heart. The clanholds are vulnerable, and none more so than the middle clans. Wellhouse, Withy, Gnash, Croser—” He halted to look the Milk chief in the eye. “Castlemilk.”
Wrayan pressed her lips together in a gesture that might or might not have been agreement. “Go on.”
Robbie leaned forward in his chair. “Power must be returned to the Dhooneseat, you know that, Wrayan. When was the last time you slept through the night, knowing that Bludd sat at your door?”
The Milk chief’s smile was surprising gentle. “You’re young, Robbie, else you’d know that a clan chief rarely sleeps through the night. As for Bludd sitting at my door, you forget that Castlemilk is well guarded to the north. We have the Flow and the gorges to protect us. And—” a quick, knowing glance at Guy Morloch “—as I’m sure you’ve heard, the Milkhouse itself has never been taken.”
Guy Morloch colored hotly. Robbie, on the other hand, remained calm, amused even. He shrugged winningly. “It’s my duty to gather intelligence where I can.”
“And it’s my duty to protect my clan.”
It was a warning, Bram realized, and Robbie was wise enough to accept it. He took a moment and used it to calm himself, his blue-tattooed face settling in grave lines. When he spoke his voice was urgent. “I need your help, Wrayan. You were a friend to me when I broke relations with Skinner and needed a base to rally support. You lent your house, your protection, your blessing . . . and you must know I have wondered why.”
The hall was very quiet. Heat rising from the tamped embers warped the air between Robbie and the chief. The men in Wrayan’s party were hard-bitten warriors, powerful and graying, in the late years of their prime. Bram saw that one of them had a glass vial hanging from his sword belt. Gray liquid moved gently within the vial as the man breathed. So it was true, then. The head warrior of Castlemilk carried his measure of powdered guidestone suspended in water, so he might drink it before he rode to war or died.
Wrayan Castlemilk looked to the head warrior, and the two exchanged a brief, telling glance. Squaring her shoulders, Wrayan said, “Robbie, this clan has helped you because we believe Dhoone must have a strong leader if she is to win back her house. Skinner is not that man. I myself provided intelligence to him when the Bludd chief and his forces moved south to occupy Ganmiddich. The Dhoonehouse was left vulnerable for fifteen days, yet Skinner chose not to act. I will never forgive him for that. I have led this clan for twenty-eight years, and time has taught me many hard things. And none harder than this: A chief who hesitates kills his clan.”
Of course, Bram thought. She’s speaking of Middlegorge. Blackhail slew five hundred Castlemilk warriors that day. And all because the old chief—Alban Castlemilk, Wrayan’s brother—delayed choosing his ground.
Bram saw that Wrayan was watching him, registering the understanding on his face. He looked away quickly. For some reason he didn’t want Robbie to notice her interest.
Robbie raised a hand to his throat and unhooked the thistle clasps, letting his cloak drop to the back of his chair. He said, “When the time comes you need not worry that I will hesitate, lady. I am young, yes, and some might say untested. But know this. I will retake Dhoone. The Dhooneseat is mine, and I would sit her sooner with your help. Yet if you refuse, know you only slow, not stop me.”
As Robbie spoke a subtle change took place in the Brume Hall. Iago Sake and the rest of Robbie’s party sat straighter, stiffening their spines and raising their jaws. The giant axman Duglas Oger actually nodded when Robbie had finished and murmured roughly, “Aye.”
Wrayan Castlemilk betrayed no sign of having heard him. Her warriors shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and for the first time Bram realized why she had allowed no younger men to attend this meeting. It was hard for a fighting man to resist Robbie’s confidence. Every word he spoke promised glory.
Robbie eased himself back in his chair, taking time to arrange the cuffs of his shirt. As a self-named chief, he was the only one of the Dhoone party who had been allowed the privilege of bearing arms in the Brume Hall, and his hand came to rest on the cross-hilt of his sword as he waited for the Milk chief to speak. Watching his brother, Bram suddenly understood that Wrayan Castlemilk had little choice here. Guy Morloch and a score of other Castlemen had already deserted their clan for Robbie’s cause, and it wouldn’t take much to lure away more.
Wrayan Castlemilk must have understood it too, for there was an edge to her voice when she said, “So. What would you have of me?”
“I need two hundred hatchetmen—either hammer or ax—and double that number of swords.”
Wrayan’s warriors stirred uneasily. Six hundred men. It was unheard of. Even Robbie’s chosen companions were surprised. Duglas Oger’s mouth fell open, and Guy Morloch looked positively stunned. Only Wrayan Castlemilk and Robbie Dun Dhoone remained calm, appraising each other across the fire like rival swordsmen.
The Milk chief shook her head. “Can’t be done, Robbie. Ask again.”
“I think it can, and I think you’d be wise to grant it.”
“How so?”
Robbie leaned forward in his seat. “You grant me the men I need, here, now, and I’ll accept them under the Liege Laws. Under these laws, as you know, the men will be mine to command only for a limited time, their oaths to Castlemilk will remain intact, and they’ll return to your house when the campaign has ended.” A draft circling the room stirred the embers into flames, and suddenly Bram could see the coldness in Robbie’s Dhoone-blue eyes. “Refuse, and you leave me no choice but to take men as they come, bind them to me with oaths and make Dhoonesmen from them. They’ll never see Castlemilk again.”
Wrayan Castlemilk stood, sending her chair scraping against the stone floor. “You play with fire, Robbie Dhoone.”
“I must, to win back my house.”
She nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of his words. “I take it you have already spoken to some of my men?”
Robbie’s smile charmed but did not warm. “You know me well, lady. I admit I’ve taken promises from perhaps a hundred. But don’t damn them for it. They’re young. They want to fight.”
Wrayan’s hand found the tail of her braid. There, wound tightly to the leather fastening, hung the broken tip of an antler. Elk lore. She weighed it as she thought. Bram wondered how much of what Robbie said was true. Could it be possible that a hundred Castlemen were willing to forsake their oaths to join him?
With a heavy sigh, Wrayan dropped her lore. “What do you offer in return?”
Robbie stood. “Jess. Bram. Bring forth the gifts. We must show this chief how highly we value her.”
Bram felt Wrayan’s gaze upon his back as crossed to the wall where the packages had been stowed. Robbie and Iago Sake had packed the sacks and baskets in secret, selecting item
s from the great war chests that had been removed from the Dhoonehouse the night of the Bludd strike. They were heavy, Bram knew that much, and he prayed to the Stone Gods that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself by dropping them. Jess Blain seemed to have a sixth sense concerning weight, for he managed to choose the packages that could be lifted with ease, leaving Bram with the ones that felt like rocks.
When all had been brought forward into the firewell, Robbie dismissed Bram and Jess with a nod. And then he drew his sword. In an instant the Castlemen stood and drew their weapons, but Robbie was already raising his arms in a gesture of no-contest.
“For the packages,” he said. “The ties must be cut.”
The Castlemen returned to their seats, their faces dark and disgruntled. Robbie had made them look foolish—his first mistake, Bram realized—and now he moved quickly to put it behind him. With a single movement he sliced the length of the first sack, letting bolts of cloth-of-gold, crimson damask, silver tissue and amber samite spill out. The clanwife who had served them their ale and milk and now stood in waiting close to the door gasped. Robbie turned to her and smiled. “For the ladies of the clan.”
Bram recognized some of the cloth from the raid Duglas Oger had led along the Lake Road. Such materials, made with silk and gold thread, could not be woven in the Northern Territories and had to be carted all the way from the Far South. Their value was beyond reckoning in the clanholds. The next sack contained exquisite furs: whole lynx pelts, brushes of blue foxes, mink, vair, ocelot, ermine, miniver, and sable. The platter Bram had carried from the tower held three dozen bear gallbladders, preserved in layers of salt. Another held copper breast-pins, cloak-pins, warrior torcs and wrist guards set with sapphires, moonstones, diamonds and blue topaz. One basket held a suit of armor packed in delicate gauze. Robbie held the breastplate up for the Milk chief’s inspection, so she could see the honeycombed metal, the silvering and engraving, and the raised-thistle device that circled the neck.
Wrayan Castlemilk’s manner was still cool, but Bram could see the light of desire in her eyes. That armor had been made for a queen. And not for any queen, but for the great Weeping Moira herself. She had fought in it a thousand years earlier at the Hill of Flies, and clan no longer knew the art of honeycombing metal so that it was light of weight but hard as stone.
But still Robbie wasn’t finished. The last basket was long and shallow, so heavy that to move it Bram had been forced to drag it across the Brume Hall floor. Robbie paused before slitting the cloth that covered it, and addressed the seven warriors who protected Wrayan Castlemilk.
“I have offered gifts to your clanwives, your healers, your old men, and your chief. And now I offer the gift of swords to you.”
Robbie slit and pulled back the canvas, revealing a stash of twenty swords, unsheathed and laid point-to-hilt. Their edges rippled, throwing off sparks of blue light. Every man in the room grew still. Water steel. Dhoone Kings wielded it, warriors had killed for it, and only one man in the clanholds knew the secret of its forging.
Bram stared at the swords, transfixed. He did not understand how Robbie had managed to lay his hands on so many. No man who owned one would willingly give it up. And then he saw it, close to the top of the pile, the pommel shaped like a rabbit’s foot, cast from lattern and blued steel. His father’s sword. The one Mabb Cormac had ordered refitted to honor his second wife, Margret. Twin to the blade that Robbie now held in his fist. Bram blinked. That sword was his.
“I see the rumors are true, then,” Wrayan said to Robbie. “You did relieve Skinner of some of his war chests when you fled his camp.”
Robbie shrugged. “I prefer to call it taking what’s rightfully mine.”
Wrayan laughed, but this time her laughter was brittle and quickly done. She glanced at her warriors; their attention was still rapt upon the swords. “You’ve brought some pleasing trinkets, I’ll allow you that much.”
“Water steel is no trinket, lady.”
“What is easily acquired is easily given.”
“Then you refuse them?” Robbie’s voice was dangerously light.
“No. I’ll accept them. But I want something more.”
“Lady, I have no more riches to give. If you would only—”
Wrayan waved a hand to silence him. “Spare me your protests. Another sword means nothing to me.”
“Then what would you have?”
As Bram waited for Wrayan to speak, he was taken with the idea that everything had been leading to this. Robbie was clever, but this was his first time at the negotiating table, whilst Wrayan Castlemilk had been striking deals for thirty years. Outside, the moon shone through a thin veil of cloud, making the entire dome glow. Its light was cold and alien, and everyone sitting beneath it looked made of stone. Bram shivered, though instantly he wished he had not, for the Milk chief’s gaze fell upon him.
“I’ll take your brother, Robbie Dun Dhoone, to foster here at this clan.”
TWENTY-NINE
The Robber Chief
I was strange, the way the snow here seemed to hold no water, just crystals of parched ice. Raif felt it crunch beneath his boots like chalk as he walked the length of rimrock, waiting for midnight to fall.
The Rift Music had started, and hundreds of fires blazed against it, one at the entrance to every inhabited cave in the city. With so many fires burning it should have been light, but it wasn’t. The Rift vented darkness like a volcano venting steam. Raif grinned at his own fancy. Mostly he felt old inside, as if the things he’d seen and done had aged him, but tonight he felt strangely light. Mad. Lost. Addie’s song had revealed a path for him, and he knew he wasn’t fit to take it. But if he didn’t, who would?
Raif knew the answer—he could hear in the Rift Music.
No one.
Sobered, he turned away from the rim, and let the dry smoky air cool him until he felt ready to face the Robber Chief, Traggis Mole.
Raif had never been close to the chief’s cave before, but he knew where it was. Most Maimed Men chose to live in the upper terraces, closer to the sun and stars, yet Traggis Mole had made his home low. The lower terraces were the oldest part of the city, and the walls and stairs were roughly mined and crumbling. Bird lime had bleached the outcroppings, and some trace of phosphorescence made random edges glow. Raif followed a stairway where the stone steps were so badly deteriorated that oak boards had been laid over the powdery rock. Below, he could see the ten-foot longfire that burned at the mouth of the chief’s cave.
No one stood guard by the entrance, and as Raif crossed the ledge toward the fire he wondered what he should do. The longfire was burning fiercely, completely sealing off the mouth of the cave. Glare from the flames prevented him from seeing inside. Just as he was about to call out, a flagstone was thrown over the coals, flattening a section of the flames and creating a narrow bridge through the center of the fire. Raif moved forward. He still couldn’t see beyond the flames, but the message was clear. Enter.
He stepped onto the flagstone, hearing coals pop beneath him. For a moment his ears roared with heat and he smelled the singeing of his own hair, and then he was safe on the other side. Quickly, he ran a hand over his scalp, checking that he wasn’t actually on fire. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shape move inside the cave.
“It’s a true Orrl cloak, then,” came Traggis Mole’s rough, quiet voice. “The flames touched it, but it didn’t char.”
Raif was angry at being watched. He made no reply, using the few moments this bought him to take in his surroundings. The chief’s cave was narrow and twisting, its gallery sloping downward, boring deep into the cliff. The walls were painted, and Raif could see traces of color peaking through the scale of soot and lichen that coated the rock. Crosscurrents touched his face, and he realized that the chief’s cave must lead to other caves and tunnels that he could not see. The living quarters were sparse and orderly. A pallet bed was pushed against a flat stretch of rock wall, its fur coverlet pulled straight. A second f
ur lay on the floor, close to a cast-iron brazier and two leather camp chairs. A hogbacked chest stood at the foot of the bed, and a weapons stand holding both live and guarded steel stood at its head.
“Step aside,” Traggis Mole commanded.
The moment Raif did so, Traggis Mole tugged on a length of rope, dragging the flagstone off the coals. Flames leapt up immediately, blocking the way in. And out.
The Robber Chief moved close to Raif, and sniffed him. The bore holes in his wooden nose made a sharp little piping noise as he inhaled. He was dressed richly but with little regard, like Orwin Shanks at the Dhoone Fair: aware that he must display his wealth, but careless of how he went about it. Raif recognized the finery of several clans on his back. The heavily embroidered tunic was pure Wellhouse, its design picked out in all the colors that heather could be. The double-woven cloak trimmed with swan feathers had once belonged to a Harkness warrior, and the hare-skin pants were the type made by the Hailwives each summer when the hares ran wild in the Wedge. Other items—tooled leather boots, a metalwork sword belt, and a linen undershirt gathered at the neck and cuffs—were city-made and foreign to Raif.
“Not all Orrl cloaks are created equal,” Traggis Mole said, his black eyes looking steadily at Raif. “Only a very few are proofed against flames. Cloaks made for chiefs and the sons of chiefs. But then, you know all about that.”
Raif held the Robber Chief’s gaze and did not speak.
Traggis Mole’s finely shaped lips curled, then he was gone. Raif saw him settle down on one of the camp chairs, and wondered how he moved so fast.
“How old are you?” the Robber Chief asked.
“I passed my eighteenth name-day this winter.”
“When?”
It was a question Raif didn’t want to answer . . . because he’d never be entirely sure. “Recently.”
Traggis Mole let the silence lie there until Raif felt compelled to fill it.