by J. V. Jones
Town Dog was nowhere to be found. Crope worried about the bathing pool, wondered how a man would set about dredging a body of water. Deciding he’d better check on his lord first, he headed back to the stockroom.
The door was open. The door was never open. He had closed it himself on the way out. Immediately Crope felt the bad pressure behind his eyes as the giant’s blood moved at force through his brain. Muscles engorged and his sublungs which normally lay dormant beneath his major lungs sprang open to suck in air.
Baralis.
Crope threw himself through the doorway. Head whipping around to take in the details of the room, he saw his lord lying quietly on the bed, his body curled in its normal position, his broken and swollen-jointed hand resting on Town Dog’s neck.
“Calm yourself,” came Baralis’ beautiful smoky voice. “We have been here all along.”
Crope had stood there, heart thudding like a hammer against an anvil, his entire body vibrating with power that needed to be discharged, and stared at his lord and his dog. Town Dog raised her head a little and stared back, but quickly lost interest. Tucking herself against Baralis’ arm, she headed off to sleep.
Baralis’ darkly distorted gaze was steady, though his skin had that sheen to it that meant the poisons he was taking to kill the pain were sweating out. “I called her. She is not to blame.”
She had chewed through the rope to get to him. And what of the door? Crope glanced back at it accusingly. His lord could move himself, but very slowly and at great cost, using his arms and shoulders to drag his weight. Crope did not believe he could have made it across the room.
“You did not close it,” Baralis said, perfectly tracking Crope’s thoughts. “It was ajar. The dog pushed through.”
Crope took the door in his hand and tested its swing. Yes, it did catch a little at the last moment. Pushed without an extra spin of force it would not close. Crope nodded, satisfied. It had always been easy to agree with his lord.
That had been about five days back, and it had now become habit for Town Dog to spend a portion of her day sleeping or lying quietly on Baralis’ bed. After the first shock of it, Crope was glad. They were three now, and there were times when they were all in the stockroom together, when Crope was mending a piece of clothing or mixing up a batch of medicine or just sitting under the window shafts to get some light that he felt content. If the moments could be caught and spun out they would make an agreeable life.
Baralis had grown stronger since they had moved from Quill’s house. Some of it was the superior medicines, foods and comforts now brought regularly by Quill. The most expensive medicines were those that dulled pain—blood of poppy, skullcap and devil’s claw—and Crope had been sparing in their use. Now his lord could be given sufficient skullcap to insure he slept through most of the night. Better rested, his health had improved. The open wounds on his back and shoulders were slowly drying up as flesh knitted itself into puckered ridges. Bedsores had been eased by the new mattress, and now that Baralis’ muscles were a little stronger he could shift his weight when they began to bother him. The damp air of the stockroom appeared to suit him better than the dryness of Quill’s attic and his breaths were less labored, and there were fewer panics brought on by his failure to take in sufficient air. He had started to eat a little solid food—oatmeal with marrow butter, and raw eggs—and that made him more robust. Even his sensitivity to light had improved, and he no longer called for blankets to cover the window shafts at midday. Not that it was ever bright in the stockroom—sunlight rarely found a way in.
Little improvements in his lord’s health encouraged Crope. He knew his lord would never be able to walk or properly use his hands, but now he had hope that some kind of life was possible. There had been days in the attic when Crope had feared his lord would lapse into unknowing and die.
Now Crope dreamed of leaving the city, of buying a horse and cart and heading off in one of the good directions and not stopping for a very long time. Once Spire Vanis was far behind them they would find a good piece of land with well-drained meadows, a hard standing for milch cows and a field hoed for beans, and purchase it from an obliging farmer who would be so pleased at the offering price that he’d throw in his barn goat for free. Then he, Crope, would set about fixing and planting and milking, and Town Dog would be at his heels and his lord would be on the back porch, in the shade, beneath a warm blanket, looking up from his book now and then to tell them all what to do.
Crope glanced from the windows to his lord. Baralis was resting not sleeping, though his eyes were closed. Quill had brought fresh linens a few days back, and the sheets were clean except for a few sweat rings and some dog hairs. A series of small dark stains on the pillow might have been blood of the poppy or simply blood. Baralis’ breathing moved the tan blankets at a steady rate, and because they were pulled high around his neck a casual observer might assume the man lying beneath them was whole. If you were to look closer, though, you would notice the old white scars on his eyelids and the burn circles around his nostrils, and the melted cartilage in each ear.
They shut down his senses, Quill had said once with a small shudder. Deprived him of sight, sound and smell to break him.
“The thief comes,” Baralis said, opening his eyes.
Disconcerted, Crope nodded; there didn’t seem much else for him to do.
“Do not leave while I speak with him.”
Crope repeated the words back to himself so he would not forget them. His lord was different now, harder and purer like a metal that had gone through the fire. Only words that needed to be said were spoken, and the very few items he requested were necessary for survival. Crope had the sense that he was both less and more. Less of body and less of self. More of mind.
It upset him if he thought about it too much. How could his lord ever sit on a porch and take part in a normal life?
Crope resisted the answer and busied himself with the small attentions Baralis required. Pillows and bedding had to be straightened and Baralis himself had to be gently elevated to a more upright position. Muscles in his lord’s jaw tightened like wires as he was moved, yet he made no reference to the pain. Crope lightly combed his hair and drew a short wool cape across his shoulders. Satisfied that his lord had his dignity, but not sure how much that now mattered to Baralis himself, Crope stepped back and prepared to wait.
It was just past midday, and a failure in light told of an approaching storm. Belowground all was still and warm. The pig-shaped stove, set on the side of the stockroom opposite from Baralis’ bed, radiated heat through its thick iron casing. Town Dog, who had been ratting in the big room, began to bark. Crope went to silence her and greet the thief.
Quill let himself through the ice-house door. A burlap sack was slung over his shoulders and the first thing he did was swing it forward and set it on the ground before his feet. “Commodibles,” he said in greeting.
Crope had a feeling it was a dismissal. Take the commodibles —whatever they might be—and make yourself scarce for half an hour. Recalling his lord’s words Crope picked up the sack and carried it through to the stockroom.
Quill, realizing the way things were, wisely made no objection. “Storm’s coming,” he said to Baralis as he entered. “Not going to be much of one, though. Reckon it’ll be up and out before sunset.”
“Sit,” Baralis replied. Now that he had more strength in his lungs his voice sounded richer and more resonant. He had regained his ability to send a word softly yet make it act like a command.
The thief pulled up a stool, using the time it took to send his gaze darting around the room. “You’ll need more coals,” he said, “for the stove.”
Crope was on the verge of agreeing with him heartily, but a tiny flick of Baralis’ eyes stopped him. Quill had taken the stool Crope usually sat on to feed the stove and care for Baralis, and Crope had nowhere to sit. Awkwardly he shuffled backward so he could rest against the wall, hoping all the while that once he was there they’d both for
get about him.
“Tell me the news in the city,” Baralis said to the thief.
“Stornoway holds the fortress. Fighting’s mostly done. There’s been some trouble at Almsgate but the other gates are sealed.”
“What trouble?”
“Lisereth Hews’ hideclads stormed it. Word arrived yesterday that her son’s on his way back from the clanholds, and she needs to control at least one gate so the Whitehog can enter the city.”
Baralis closed his eyes for a fraction longer than a blink, and Crope knew he was dealing with a spasm of pain. “Will she succeed?”
Quill thought about this, one of his long thief’s fingers circling his chin like a sundial. “All she needs do is keep fighting until her son arrives—some are saying that might be as early as tomorrow. She’s managed to get hold of a battering ram and she’s a tough mother of a bitch; I think she’ll do it.”
“And Stornoway?”
“The watch is his. As long as they’re loyal to him it’s going to be difficult to break the fortress. The old goat’s sitting tight. He’s told the watch that by supporting him they’re supporting Marafice Eye—them being father and son and all now that the Knife’s wed his daughter—and his hideclads are running the city.”
“Are we safe here?”
The thief sucked in air through his lips. “If Hews makes it into the city no one’s safe. We’ve been lucky so far. Roland Stornoway was quick on his feet, took the Fortress while the city was still reeling over the Splinter’s collapse. If Hews wants it from him there’ll be no end to the blood.”
Let’s leave, Crope wanted to shout. Tell Quill to buy some horses and go. Yet his lord didn’t say those words and Crope could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t thinking them either. Baralis’ burn scars were silvery in the stormlight, and right now his dark eyes looked almost clear.
“Stornoway’s son-in-law is on his way back.”
Quill did not seem to notice this wasn’t a question, or perhaps Crope was mistaken and it was actually a question, for the thief answered it like one. “Marafice Eye commanded the army that went north. Word is that he separated from the Whitehog and is still in the clanholds.”
Baralis breathed and did not speak. Last night he had slept soundly, which was a good thing as far as Crope was concerned for it always unsettled him to hear his lord calling out in his sleep.
No.
Such a small word. Crope was not sure why he thought about it now.
“Thick snow will dampen the fighting at the gate.”
Nine words, Crope knew because he counted them, and the world shifted. The crumbly coals in the stove burned steadily as if nothing had happened and flecks of dust and burned matter sailing in the air continued on course. Yet the light changed, as it would need to, draining away like water down a culvert. Crope expected it would be dark within the hour.
And his lord would be reduced.
Already he could see it, a subtle shift from resting actively against the pillows to simply lying there. Not slumped, for the thief was still in the room and the appearance of control must be maintained. Baralis’ skin grayed as Crope looked on, and poisons began to ooze from his pores. Crope’s instinct was to rush forward, set his lord to rest properly in the bed, drip the red tea of the hawthorn berry between his lips to strengthen his heart and cool his face with damp cloths. Yet he could do nothing until the thief was gone. His lord’s will held him in place.
Quill sat motionless on the stool, yet Crope was struck with the notion that if he were to touch the thief he would feel him vibrating. Energy hummed through the stillness. Quill’s gaze rested at a point directly in front of Baralis’ face. His pupils were enlarged with revelation.
He had been promised things, gold and treasures—access to the deceased surlord’s secret stash—yet Baralis had been slow to deal them out. Hints had been dropped, a piece of information leading to the discovery of a small cache of gold had been disclosed. Crope knew how these things worked. His lord was keeping the thief on the hook. Quill hadn’t known it that day in the attic, but any man who struck a deal with Baralis stood on quicksand. What Crope didn’t know now was his lord’s purpose. Power had been Baralis’ sole motivation in the past. He had striven to control a kingdom and then a continent, and failed. Those days had gone though, and Crope felt a knife of fear slide in his neck when he thought about the new days to come.
Evil had been born in the monstrous iron chamber beneath the tower. The man who had clamped it with faucets and pulled it out was dead, but the thing he had brought into this world lived on.
Hell knows me and you cannot understand what that knowing brings. Crope knew his memory wasn’t good, but even if he lived to be three hundred years old he doubted if he would forget his lord’s words.
Crope wondered if the thief was thinking of them too. Certainly he was thinking of ways to profit from the information that a storm meant to pass through the city in a couple of hours would take an unexpected turn for the worse. Perhaps he was also thinking there was use in knowing that the fighting at Almsgate would be slowed. Or perhaps, like Crope himself, he was wondering if by holding the storm at unspeakable cost to himself, Baralis was serving or resisting hell.
Quill stood. “I’ll see you get those coals for the fire.”
Baralis nodded, accepting the complicated acquiescence of the thief.
Once Quill had let himself out, Crope went to tend his lord. He feared what Baralis would lose this day.
TWENTY-SIX
The Outlanders
Where does Thomas Argola live?” Raif asked. Stillborn did not much like this question.
They were standing on the shell-shaped ledge in front of the Maimed Man’s cave, shoveling snow. A storm had hit in the night and spring had rolled back into winter. When Raif looked south to the clanholds he saw a world turned white.
“Don’t get close to him,” Stillborn said, his breath making icy clouds from the words. He was dressed in his normal garb of a sleeveless tunic and a kilt over pants. His concession to the cold was a glossy black sheepskin draped over his shoulders and tied in place with string. Reaching the area where his firestack was buried, he stopped shoveling and began to scrape. He wasn’t about to waste good wood. “The outlander’s not one of us.”
That meant he wasn’t clan. Raif chucked snow into the Rift. None of them were clan. “I’ll find him for myself.”
Stillborn harumped. Straightening his back, he said, “Come here.”
Raif crossed to his side and looked up. Above him the buckled and uneven layers of cliff rock, caves and ledges rose for over two hundred feet.
“See that small gray door, near the same color as the cliff?” Raif nodded. “That’s where he lives. Only man in the Rift to have an actual, hinged, godforsaken door.” Stillborn scowled at it. “And a lock.”
Raif broke away from him and went back to shoveling. Stillborn was disappointed that no plans had yet been made to seize control of the Maimed Men from Traggis Mole. He did not know what Raif knew. Raif wasn’t even sure what he knew himself. The Robber Chief had been badly wounded by one of the Unmade, and for more reason than one Raif needed to find out what that meant.
He could feel it as he put his back into digging out the snow; the liquid tingle in his left shoulder where the Shatan Maer’s claw had punctured him. Abruptly, he set the shovel against the cliff wall. “I’ll be back later,” he said.
Stillborn showed his teeth. “Be sure to knock.”
Snow had stopped falling from the clouds but it was still moving in the air around the Rift. Ice crystals sparkled on the updrafts and blew off ledges in plumes. Raif stayed close to the cliffwall and took short steps. Men and women were out shoveling snow, building fires, visiting one another and taking fresh air. A group of children on the rimrock were building a ghoul out of snow. People were in high spirits, glad that the storm had passed by quickly and the temperature was rising.
The rope ladders were slick and dangerous and
Raif was glad of the rough pads on his boarskin gloves. Rock grit had been sprinkled over some of the more dangerous spots—narrow ledges, wooden gangplanks and landings around ladders—and for the first time Raif realized that the Maimed Men were capable of working together. He even found he was less disliked: no one glared at him or threw stones. Despite what Traggis Mole had predicted, Addie and Stillborn had shared credit for the meat brought back from the overnight hunt, and all who ate that night knew that Raif Twelve Kill was owed part of their thanks. The snagcat pelt was different. Set apart. To bring down a cat was a feat demanding praise and Stillborn had claimed all laudings for himself.
Raif lost sight of the gray, unfinished wood door as he worked his way up through the city, but he had a sense of its general location and headed east on one of the long ledges. As he neared a rope hoist he slowed down and considered whether to take it. The hoist bypassed an inset ledge and headed up to the next broad plateau of rimrock.
“No need to go any further, my dear boy.” Yustaffa stepped out from the shadows of a cave mouth. “As you can see I’m already here.”
He looked like a fat snow bear who had rolled in jewels.
“You like?” he said, glancing down at his outfit. “Should I spin?”
“No,” Raif told him. The jewel things were dazzling. They seemed to be suspended in invisible netting over the white winter pelts he was wearing. The feather-light fur of ice hares formed a tunic that looked made of fluff.