by J. V. Jones
He headed further north. Town Dog trotted off every so often, drawn by the irresistible scent of rat. Crope had been wandering the city for several days but he had never strayed far from the fortress until now, and this part of the city was unknown to him. The streets grew shabbier, and fewer people set lamps in their windows. The brazier men were still out selling sausages, but when they cut them with their big knives you could see they were nearly all fat. Men gambled beneath makeshift rawhide shelters, and women dressed as scantily as the mummers shivered in doorways and called out to passers-by.
Crope kept an eye on the alehouses, interpreting the signs above their doors. A hammer and block meant that farriers and blacksmiths drank there. Scissors and a spool of thread meant tailors. Crossed swords could mean two things; either weapon makers or mercenaries. He passed establishments for chandlers, mercers, goldsmiths, grocers, and surgeons—the finest sign yet, a man whose leg had been hacked off at the knee with an ax—when he came upon a sign he didn’t immediately understand. It was a magpie with a blindfold covering its eyes. The Sign of the Blind Crow.
Crope stopped to study it. He was in a street that was quiet and very dark. The few men that walked here kept their collars up and their heads down. No one lingered. A dead cat was floating in a pool of runoff, its paws and tail burned.
Birds were something Crope knew quite a bit about. He had spent hours watching them in the poorhouse courtyard as a boy, and much later his lord had lent him books filled with wondrous drawings of every living thing. He could name every bird he saw or heard; he knew their habits, their plumage, their calls . . . and he knew magpies loved to steal. They could not pass by anything shiny without thinking This would look fine in my nest.
Crope frowned in concentration. A blindfolded man could not see. If the blindfolded magpie was really a thief, then he was a thief who could tell no tales.
Heaving a great sigh of relief that his brain had actually worked for a change, Crope scooped up Town Dog and headed for the inn door. This was exactly the kind of place he’d been looking for.
Inside it was dark and cool, and Crope felt his good humor slide away, to be replaced by the usual fear: How would these people react to him? He shrank himself, and tried not to think about what had happened the last time he’d set foot in a tavern.
The room was quiet, and lit by only two baleen lamps. A fire stood against the far wall, but a heavy iron guard suppressed the light. Half-walls divided the room into small sections, creating private nooks where men sat head-to-head and spoke in low voices. A few people turned their heads at Crope’s entrance, but after a brief assessment of him they returned to their business. Relief flooded through Crope as he realized they weren’t interested in him one bit. A counter consisting of varnished pine boards topped with hammered copper was set to the side of the fire, and Crope made his way toward it.
As he settled himself in place, Town Dog squirmed free of Crope’s tunic and landed with a thump on the floor. She’d got a whiff of another dog behind one of the half-walls and was off to pay her respects.
“Bitter night,” said the man standing beside the counter, by way of greeting. Stocky, with a big belly and a thick neck, he looked like a pit fighter gone to seed. Crope saw interest in his eyes, but no fear. “What’s your fare?”
Crope shook his head, anxious not to have a drink poured that he could not pay for.
The pit fighter accepted this with a mild shrug, refilling his own tankard of ale from a glazed jug on the counter. “What’s your business, then?”
The question was lightly asked, but there was an edge to it that meant Do not waste my time. Crope felt his heartbeat quicken. What if he had made a mistake? The pit fighter folded his arms over his chest, making muscles the size of possums spring to life.
Crope bent and slid a hand down the side of his diamond boot. There, in the place where the leather had separated from the lining, was the thing he needed. Straightening up, he placed the object on the counter and said, “Friend of Scurvy Pine.”
Tendons in the pit fighter’s neck twitched at the mention of Scurvy’s name. Watching Crope closely, he reached for the ring. It was made from the white metal that was rarer than silver, and was as fine and delicate as a lock of hair. Words circled the inner band, but Crope had never learned what they said. The pit fighter held it toward the baleen light to inspect it. His lips moved as he read the words.
Abruptly he put it down, and slid it back toward Crope. “Where did you get this? And don’t lie to me. I won’t take a lie.”
Crope was already desperately shaking his head. “No lie. Was given in the diamond mines. Scurvy gave it. Was told to keep it. Keep it. Use when I had need.”
The pit fighter raised a hand. “Calm down, calm down now, big man. No one’s calling you a liar. You’ve got the scars of a diamond miner, that’s for sure.” And then, to a man sitting in the shadows at one of the nooks, “Quill. Over here. You need to hear this.”
Crope felt close to panic—speaking with strangers always did that to him. But this was getting worse. The man emerging from the shadows looked mean, there were no two ways about it. He had little eyes and a hooked-down mouth, and he commanded the biggest dog Crope had ever seen. The dog followed the man as he walked to the counter, and Town Dog followed the dog.
“Quill, this gentleman here’s a friend of Scurvy’s. Met him in the mines.”
Quill’s eyes narrowed to quarter-moons. He smelled of cellars and beeswax and dog. His hair was dark and greasy and his clothes weren’t much better than rags, but he wore a gold earpiece and several fine rings.
The pit fighter nodded at Crope. “Show him the ring.”
Crope slid the ring toward Quill, and as he inspected it the pit fighter told him what had been said. After an appraisal worthy of a master jeweler, Quill put down the ring and faced Crope.
“So are the rumors true?” he asked sharply. “Did Scurvy Pine escape?”
Crope nodded.
“When?”
This one was harder. To answer, Crope thought back to how the weather had been the day they broke free of the mine. “Midwinter.”
“You came straight here?” Crope nodded. “Is Scurvy with you?”
Crope shook his head.
That made Quill pause and think. After a moment his gaze strayed back toward the ring. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, barely waiting for Crope to shake his head. “It’s the ring Scurvy took from the finger of his dead child. Katherine, her name was. Used to call her Kat. And the man who raped and killed her never imagined he was signing the death sentence of his entire family and each and every one of his associates. It was the worst bloodbath the city of Trance Vor has ever known, and it was the reason they sent Scurvy to the mines.” Quill took up the ring again, and leaned over the counter toward Crope. “So what I’d like to know is: Why would he give it to you?”
Crope looked down at his feet. Shifting his staff between his hands, he said in a soft voice, “I broke the chains.”
“Scurvy’s chains?”
Crope nodded. “Shared chains for ten years.”
Quill and the pit fighter exchanged a glance. “So you’re telling me you were in the mines with Scurvy for ten years, and you’re the one responsible for his escape?”
“Helped.” Crope could not forget about Hadda the Crone. Hadda had sung the song that brought the darkness.
“Broadie,” Quill said to the pit fighter. “You’d better bring this man ’ere some food and ale. We’ll be sitting at my table for a while.”
“Aye, guv.” Broadie went swiftly about his business, apparently well satisfied that matters had been settled.
Quill held out his arm to Crope. “I’m Quillan Moxley, and my dog ’ere is Big Mox. Any friend of Scurvy’s is a friend of mine.”
Crope took the man’s arm and clasped it, careful not to grip too hard. Quill didn’t smile and he still looked mean, but the meanness was no longer directed toward Crope. And that suited Crope just fi
ne.
Quill led the way back to his table, and they sat in silence as they waited for Broadie to bring the food. Town Dog and Big Mox, having sniffed each others’ rears at some length, trotted off to tour the room as Broadie returned with a tray bearing bread, cheese, cured sausage and a jug of ale. Crope tried hard not to stare, but something must have given him away for Quill said, “Go on. Eat your fill. We don’t wait on ceremony at the Sign of the Blind Crow.”
Crope ate. It was the best, most delicious meal he had ever had. He had forgotten the way cheese clung to your teeth when you bit into it, and the way the crust on fresh bread crunched into flakes. Quill sat back on his hard wooden chair, keeping his counsel until Crope was done. Occasionally the inn door would open and Quill would turn his head a fraction and assess whoever walked in.
When the last of the sausage disappeared down Crope’s throat, he said, “So. What can I do for you?”
Those were the very words Crope had hoped to hear when he’d remembered Scurvy’s ring, but now that he was face-to-face with a man who could help him he was unable to find the words. He could not speak of his lord.
Quill looked at him thoughtfully, the gold rings on his fingers glittering as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I can find you a place to sleep, probably set you up in a tavern or a coarsehouse, keeping order. You’d certainly put a damper on the fights. But I’ve got a feeling you want something else. Am I right?”
Miserable, Crope nodded. What he wanted was so fantastic that he might as well ask for a flying pig.
“Say it,” Quill insisted. “I’m a man of various means.”
Crope took a big breath. Come to me . . . In all the years Crope had known his lord he had never heard him beg until today. “Need to break into the fortress. Need to save my lord.”
Quill’s eyebrows lifted, and a light of interest entered his cool gray eyes. “That’s a new one. So. If I understand you rightly you need to enter the fortress and rescue your master who is being held there?”
Crope nodded. He was relieved at how quickly Quill understood him.
“This lord of yours. Do you know if he’s been held below the Cask or under the quad?”
Puzzled Crope said, “Below the pointy tower, the white one.”
“The Splinter.” Quill considered this information for a moment. “Someone once told me there was a deep chasm beneath there that housed a chamber lined with iron—I took an ear from him for his perjury. Seems I may have been hasty.”
Crope nodded. Hasty he understood.
Quill leant forward. “I can’t help you gain entry to the Splinter—that’s been locked down and sealed shut for years—but I can help you get inside the fortress.”
“How?” Crope’s heart was beating very fast in anticipation of a grand scheme. In a way Quill reminded him of his lord; both were clever and capable men.
Yet when Quill spoke Crope was puzzled, not amazed, for Quill said very simply, “You’re going to walk right in.”
Crope listened as the thief explained.
THIRTY-FIVE
Harlequins
Effie was growing pretty accustomed to the wagon. It was beginning to feel as if she’d lived here her whole life. Dregg had begun to seem like one of those places in bairns’ tales: somewhere you dreamed of but never got to go. And the thing was, she wasn’t sorry one bit. This life of camping and traveling and waiting for the men who should have picked up the gold half a month back had become her, Effie Sevrance’s life. She had things she was responsible for: feeding and brushing down the horses, warming the ale, cooking all food that didn’t involve meat—roasting game was Clewis Reed’s territory—keeping the wagonbed clean, doctoring any cuts or grazes, and sometimes even acting as lookout for the gold men.
Neither Clewis Reed nor Druss Ganlow had spent much time around children, Effie guessed, for they didn’t treat her like adults usually treated a child. She was given no special consideration, not fussed over at all, and that was something she’d grown very much to like. They barked orders at her in the exact same voices they used for each other. She was a member of the crew now.
As she scrubbed the black stuff from the base of the cooking pot, she checked on the positions of Clewis Reed and Druss Ganlow. Druss was doing man’s business behind a bush close to the river cliff—she could just see the top of his head—and Clewis was a quarter-league farther to the north, walking the tree line, keeping watch.
They’d been camping these past few days amongst the slate crags and fire pines of western Ganmiddich, holing up for the storm. The storm had been quite splendid, Effie decided. So much better when you were out in the middle of it, with only the tree canopies and a stretch of canvas to cover you, than in a roundhouse, all protected by stone. She’d been scared at first, but the inside of the wagon was so snug, like a cave, that it had already started to feel like home, and after a while the fear had slipped away of its own accord. As long as she was inside nothing could hurt her.
Lightning had brought down a tree. The shell was still smoking beyond the tree line, sending up a line of black smoke that rose vertically in the calm air. Even though the storm had passed two days earlier, Druss and Clewis had so far judged the going too soft for the wagon. Even now, runoff was still spilling down toward the river, the water stained brown with tannin from the trees.
The river itself was moving swift and high, its waters the color of mud. Somewhere upstream a saturated bank must have collapsed, for huge chunks of earth and whole trees complete with root balls sped by from time to time. The river made Druss and Clewis frown: it was the cause of all their problems and the reason they had to wait here in the borderlands, unable to return home.
Effie had learned the truth of everything pretty soon after she’d discovered the gold. Druss Ganlow had been against telling her at first, but Clewis had pointed out in his slow, rational way that now Effie had seen the gold with her own two eyes they could either murder or enlighten her. And since he, Clewis Reed, could not allow the murdering of a child in circumstances such as these, that meant they might as well tell Effie enough to ease her mind.
Druss Ganlow hadn’t liked this one bit. After inventing several new combinations of curse words, he had made Effie swear a dire oath. I will not mention the gold to any other person, alive or dead, even if tortured with blades and hot coals, and I vow to take this knowledge to my grave. I do swear this on the lives of Drey and Raina, and the souls of Mother and Da. He had even taken a spoonful of her blood.
The gold, it turned out, had been mined from Blackhail’s own Black Hole. Two years earlier the miners had been reworking one of the oldest seams, a full league beneath the balds, at the head of a tunnel called Dark Maiden. For weeks they had been finding crystals of yellow metal fused to the silver in the wall of quartz they were breaking. They were just flakes at first, a scattering of specks, but then the Lode Master ordered a collapse. When the miners reentered Dark Maiden after the water blast they thought they’d stepped into another world. Gold, a reef of it three feet wide, stippled the newly exposed quartz.
The Lode Master had called a meeting. The miners were already operating a stone mill and a furnace without Blackhail’s knowledge, and it was a simple thing for them to refine the gold. Clan need never know. As Druss Ganlow had already been in business with the miners, carting contraband silver south to the city holds, he was the man they called upon to turn the excess gold into goods.
Two years later and the reef had still not run its course. All the tied miners had stashes of gold. A few had drifted south to spend it, but most simply hoarded it in cache holes in the shanty. The miners were cautious men, Clewis said, and their faces showed something close to relief whenever he and Druss turned up to unburden them of the newly poured rods.
Druss and Clewis were due back there in twelve days, but it did not look as if they would make it. The city traders who took the gold from them in return for goods and money on account in Ille Glaive had failed to make the appointed meeting, and
now Druss and Clewis were stuck. The gold men had not come, and there was little to do but wait and see.
The Wolf River had been running high for fifteen days. Just when it had looked set to fall the storm had hit, and now it was high again. None of the river crossings were open, and the barges were all beached. Bannen’s Bridge of Boats, which Effie had learned to her disappointment was little more than a collection of skiffs and punts roped into a line with boards run across them, had not been afloat in a month. The gold men had been unable to make the crossing into the clanholds.
It was all very worrying. Clewis Reed insisted they moved camp every few days for caution’s sake, for a wagon bearing nine stone of gold was a sitting duck.
When Effie had first heard Druss mention the weight she had been impressed. Anwyn Bird had weighed Effie last year on her meat scales and had pronounced her just over four stone. That meant there was enough gold in the wagon to make two of her. She’d been disappointed when she’d finally seen it laid out. Just twenty-four rods the thickness of tapered candles and half their length. That was all the gold it took to make two Effie Sevrances.
The other things in the baskets were just lading. There was some raw ore, its lode of silver still entombed in chunks of quartz, a few sacks of powdered antimony used for making hell-fire, and a dozen bars of lead. These were mostly diversions, Clewis said. They gave the gold something to hide behind.
Done with scrubbing the breakfast pot, Effie stood. Her knees had gotten stiff after being so long on the damp earth and they made noises like cracked knuckles as they locked into place. Druss was done with his man’s business and was now poking the ground with a long stick. Every so often he would squint downriver and then look up at the sky. The day seemed fine to Effie: the grasses and ferns freshly scrubbed by the storm, the sky covered by the kind of high clouds that seldom meant rain, and the grounded ducks clashing noisily. Only the harlequins entered the water. The berserkers of the river birds.