by J. V. Jones
Iss bared his own teeth. Lisereth Hews was a fool if she thought she could take him on. He would not sit and grow old and wait for the assassins to come. The great old houses of Hews, Crieff, Stornoway, Gryphon, Pengaron, and Mar would find battles aplenty soon enough.
Once within his private chamber, Iss took time to change his clothes. The urine stain on his robe was a tiny thing, but Sarga Veys had quick eyes and a quick mind, and Iss would not allow him the satisfaction of putting two and two together and realizing that his Surlord was not as powerful as he seemed. Sarga Veys was a skilled and subtle magic user, and that meant he was dangerous as well as useful.
Iss dressed without haste, content to let Caydis Zerbina fasten the dozen pearl buttons on each cuff and lace the ties on his silk coat so that they formed an elaborate herringbone design across his chest. He was indifferent to clothes but knew well enough their many uses and always made a point of dressing in expensive silks, heavily weighted and exquisitely cut.
When he was satisfied that he had kept Sarga Veys waiting long enough, he indicated that the Halfman should be let in the room. Caydis moved to the door without making a sound.
“My lord.” Sarga Veys entered the chamber and then bowed, awaiting his Surlord’s pleasure.
Iss studied the curve of Veys’ neck, the texture and pigment of the skin. Even though Veys had just returned from a journey lasting several weeks, no dirt from the road clung to him. He must have stopped in the city and bathed before presenting himself at the fortress. Not liking the cool detachment such an act betokened, Iss made a note to have Veys followed while he stayed in the city. He already knew much about the Halfman, but it never hurt to know more.
“Sarga Veys. I trust I find you in good health?” Veys opened his mouth to reply, but Iss blocked him. “I failed to notice the sept as you returned. I trust the brothers-in-the-watch came to no harm?”
“They asked if they could ride on ahead of me when we came within sight of the city. I saw no reason to refuse their wish.”
He lied. No member of the Rive Watch would ever ask anything of Sarga Veys. More likely they had abandoned him as soon as they’d judged it safe. Iss nodded. “I see.”
Suspecting his lie had been detected, Sarga Veys straightened his shoulders. “Next time I ride on your behalf, my lord, I would prefer to handpick the sept myself.”
“As you wish.” Iss didn’t care either way. Let Veys try to handpick a sept. It would be interesting to see just how far he’d get before Marafice Eye stepped in to have his say. “Have you any further demands before we begin? Perhaps a new horse, or a new title, or a new set of robes with gold trim?”
Sarga Veys’ violet eyes darkened. His throat muscles worked, and for a moment Iss didn’t know if he meant to draw sorcery or to speak. Veys hardly seemed to know himself. After a moment he calmed himself, swallowing whatever sorcery or wordage had massed upon his tongue. “I apologize, my lord. I am tired and ill worn. I do not much care for the cold open lands of the North.”
Iss was immediately conciliatory. “Of course, my friend. Of course.” He touched Veys’ arm. “Come. Sit. Wine. We must have wine. And food. Caydis. Bring us what you know is good. Make it hot. Yes, by all means see to the fire first. How right of you to think of our visitor’s well-being as well as his belly.” It was interesting to watch the effect the little show of pandering had on Sarga Veys. He liked being courted. That was one of his weaknesses, his belief that he was entitled to better than what he got.
When Caydis left the room, closing the door as softly as only he could, Iss turned to Veys and said, “So. All has gone to plan in the clanholds?”
Veys’ smooth skin glistened like linen dipped in oil as he said, “They’re fighting like dogs in a pit.”
Iss nodded. He did not speak for a moment, wanting to settle the knowledge in his mind and claim it for his own. Absently he ran a hand over his mouth. “So Mace Blackhail acted upon the information you gave him?”
“Immediately. It was a massacre. Thirty women and children slain in cold blood—most of them kin to the great Dog Lord himself. Now Bludd is at Blackhail’s throat, Dhoone and Blackhail are at Bludd’s throat, and all the clans in between are scrambling to take sides.” Veys smoothed the perfectly white sleeves of his robe. “The Dog Lord will find thorns growing on the Dhooneseat soon enough.”
“Perhaps.” Iss had a higher opinion of Vaylo Bludd than Sarga Veys did. Sarga Veys saw only the crudeness, the spitting and swearing and dogs. Iss saw the ruthless determination of a man who had lorded Clan Bludd for thirty-five years and was loved as a king by his sworn men. Besides, Sarga Veys was missing the point. The Dog Lord was just one chief among many. Clan Croser, Clan Bannen, Clan Otler, Clan Scarpe, Clan Ganmiddich, and all the rest had to be brought into the war. It wasn’t enough that Blackhail, Bludd, and Dhoone fight; all their war-sworn clans must, too. When the time came to send a host north for battle, it would be the promise of easy land and easy wealth that stirred the grangelords and their armies. The fat border clans would be first taken. The cold giants of the Far North, with their massive stone roundhouses, steel forges, and ice-bred warriors, would come later . . . once they’d fought themselves bloody over years.
Iss ran a pale hand over his face. Could he do this? Did he have a choice? The world was changing, and the Sull would ride out from their Heart Fires soon enough. If ever there was a chance to seize greatness and power, this was it. If Spire Vanis didn’t move to claim a continent, then Trance Vor, Morning Star, and Ille Glaive would. An empire would be created. And he, Penthero Iss, son of an onion farmer from Trance Vor and kinsman to Lord of the Sundered Granges, would not stand by and watch as others took what should be his.
“I picked up one or two other intelligences whilst I was in the North,” Veys said, his voice slicing through Iss’ thoughts like cheesewire. “I think you may find them interesting.”
It was an effort to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. “Go on.”
“Our old friend Angus Lok is on the move again. Heading north to the clanholds, last I heard.”
This was news. Angus Lok had been to ground for six months. None of Iss’ spies had been able to locate him. He and his family live within a few days’ ride of Ille Glaive, was all they could ever tell him. “If Angus Lok is on the move, then so is the Phage.”
Sarga Veys met eyes with his Surlord. “I wonder why.”
I bet you do, thought Iss. Not for the first time he contemplated ridding himself of Veys. The Halfman was too clever, too sharp. He had already betrayed one taskmaster. How much easier would a second betrayal be? “Seems you were one of them once, you tell me what the Phage are up to.”
Veys shrugged. “With the Phage . . . who can know for sure? They keep themselves as close as bats on a cave wall. In the whole of Spire Vanis there are probably only five people who have ever heard of them, and two of them are sitting in this room.” Veys moved forward in his seat, and Iss knew to expect a second revelation. “Of course, there was that raven Stovemaster Gloon brought down.”
“What raven?”
“Well, apparently the good stovemaster lives in fear of ravens flying over his chimney—you know how superstitious stovemasters can be about their god-cursed stoves.” Veys waited for his Surlord to nod. “So, whenever Gloon climbs up on his roof to clean his stack he always carries a braced bow with him in case he spots a raven flying overhead. He likes to take potshots at them. Hangs them from the rafters like trophies. Anyway, seven days before I arrived, Gloon brought down the biggest raven he’d ever seen. He couldn’t stop bragging about it. The man exaggerated, of course—little men like that always do—but when he cut the bird down to show me, I noticed a line of sinew wrapped around its leg.”
“A messenger bird.”
“Yes. And it was heading north toward the ice.”
“There was no message.”
“No.”
Then the bird was homing, toward the Ice Trapper tribe. No others besides
Ice Trappers and the Sull used ravens. Invisible hairs on Iss’ arm lifted. “What direction did it come from?”
“South. Just south.” The look on the Halfman’s face told Iss that he had already made the connection between the bird and Angus Lok. He was clever, so clever.
But the news was tantalizing. That was the problem: Veys had a way of uncovering just the sort of information that Iss liked to know. And he was so very useful, so very adept with sorcery.
Iss attended the tray of food and wine that Caydis had discreetly slid upon the marble-topped table. All things fragrant were upon it: the wine warmed with cloves and then poured into cups rubbed with lemon, the egg yolks shuddering like oysters under the weight of turmeric and sesame seeds, the fried figs split and steaming, and lamb’s tongues spread with rose jam, musk, and amber. No one prepared food like Caydis Zerbina. No one could find the things he did.
Offering a silver cup filled with wine to Sarga Veys, Iss contemplated all he had learned. So the Listener of the Ice Trapper tribe had sent a raven? That meant the North was preparing itself for the dance of shadows to come. Iss sat back in his chair, stilling himself with deep breaths held long in his lungs. Let them dance, he thought. Let the Sull dance with shadows and the clanholds dance with swords, and let those bold enough to move while the music plays steal a world from under their feet.
Sarga Veys popped a fat fig into his mouth. He was looking more than a little pleased with himself. “I hear your ward has gone missing. The sweet and lovely Asarhia. I could help you track her down if you like.”
“No.” Iss let the word stand alone. He would not explain himself to a second-rate envoy who had neither land nor family allegiances to call his own. The thought of Sarga Veys even touching Asarhia filled Iss’ chest with cold unease. Asarhia was so young, so unknowing . . .
Iss put down his wine cup untouched. She had to be found. The city was no place for her to be. She could get hurt, raped. She could lose her fingers overnight to the cold, starve to death in some dingy little tent in Almstown, or curl up in the cairn-size snowdrifts that massed along the city’s north wall and sleep her way to death. Iss had seen it happen. Every spring, during first thaw, a hundred or more bodies would be carried through the sluice gates along with the snowmelt. The poor fools all died with smiles on their faces, thinking that the blue tongues of frost that killed them were as warm and soothing as flames.
Iss breathed heavily. He needed to call the Knife. The search must be expanded, the reward doubled, Almstown and all its shanties razed to the ground. Asarhia must be brought home. He had not spent sixteen years in her rearing to let her fall into another’s hands.
Catching Veys looking at him with eyes that knew and guessed too much, Iss rose and walked to the door. Caydis Zerbina waited on the other side, and one word was all it took to give him purpose.
“Will you need me to head north again, my lord?” Veys said.
Iss shook his head. “No. It’s a delicate game we play, this making of wars. Push too often and we risk making our intentions known. Far better to watch and wait and see. Blackhail has lost its chief, Bludd has lost women and children, and Dhoone has lost its clanhold: Let clannish pride and clannish gods do the rest.”
“But what of their war-sworn clans? What of Ganmiddich, Bannen, Orrl . . .”
“All in good time, Sarga Veys. If the game slows or the rules change, you’ll be the first to know.”
The Halfman bowed his head. “As you wish.”
Iss waited for the next question, knowing full well what it would be.
“And my next duties?”
“I haven’t given them much thought, my friend. There’s nothing pressing. Obviously, I’d be grateful for any word you might bring of Angus Lok and his family. Apart from that I suggest you rest yourself after your long journey, take time to enjoy the refreshments of the city.” Iss flipped the lid on a silver box crusted with emeralds that had once belonged to the Surlord Rannock Hews, whom Borhis Horgo had slain in the black mud of Hound’s Mire forty years earlier while five Forsworn held him down with the heels of their boots. Taking something from the box, Iss smiled indulgently at Sarga Veys. “Here,” he said pressing the object into the Halfman’s hand. “Spend it wisely.”
Sarga Veys’ face was a thing to behold as he stared at the golden piece the Surlord had given him. The idea that he wasn’t needed, that he could be dismissed as easily as a wetted prostitute, was something that had never occurred to him before. He was the young and brilliant Sarga Veys, the Phage’s greatest find in over a decade. Who would not want or need him? Any other time Iss might have been tempted to smile at the specks of stricken pride shining like salmon roe in Sarga Veys’ eyes, yet for some reason he did not. Veys was dangerous. And although it had been necessary to teach him a lesson, he was exactly the sort of person who collected and nursed his slights.
Iss was saved further thought on the subject by the arrival of Marafice Eye, swiftly brought by Caydis Zerbina. The Knife neither knocked nor waited. He entered the room, claimed space, then set his small blue eyes upon the game: Sarga Veys.
Instantly Iss regretted summoning him. His intent had been to intimidate the Halfman and put him in his place. Yet the business with the gold piece had already achieved part of that, and Iss knew he was in danger of going too far.
Sarga Veys, who still hadn’t recovered from the blow of being judged unnecessary to his Surlord’s immediate plans, colored slightly under the force of the Knife’s gaze. Without realizing what he did, he shrank back in his chair.
The Knife did nothing except stand; he needed to do no more.
Iss looked from one man to the other. A change of plan was in order. Taking a shallow breath, he addressed himself to the Knife. “The sept you sent north with Sarga Veys needs disciplining. See to it.”
Marafice Eye scowled. Iss turned his back, dismissing him.
Footsteps shook the room and then the door was slammed with enough force to split the frame.
Iss turned to Sarga Veys. “I will not keep you idle for long.”
The Halfman’s cheeks glowed prettily with spite; he had very much enjoyed the dressing-down of Marafice Eye. “I await your call, my lord.” Standing, he slipped the gold piece into a fold in his robe. “I trust my lord was pleased with the duties I performed in the North?”
All this and praise, too? Iss’ dislike for the Halfman deepened. Smiling, he crossed to the door and opened it. Splinters of wood fell in great chunks to the floor. “You have more than proved your worth.”
Sarga Veys continued to glow as he walked through the door.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Iss called to Caydis to bring back the Knife.
TWENTY-TWO
Matters of Clan
Pain rode with him like a second skin. Boot-shaped bruises marked his flesh, organs and soft tissue leaking blood beneath. Wounds sewn closed with black thread punctured with soft hisses, spilling pus. Hurts riddled his body like pine beetles in wood. His sliced lip throbbed. His black eye turned every blink into an agonizing procedure of weeping flesh and pain. Crusted yellow stuff accumulated in his swollen ear, and the blister on his right hand was fire upon the reins.
Miserable, cold, and tucked deep into a place well warded against thoughts, Raif Sevrance rode at Angus Lok’s side. Bleak, gray light shone upon a landscape glittering with frost. A predatory wind stayed close to the ground, content to let the terrible cold weaken its victims before moving in for the kill. Stands of hemlock, their trunks dulled by rime ice, rose like a ghost army to block the advancing night.
Angus rode in silence, his back bent and his head sunk deep within his hood. Although Raif could not see his uncle’s face, he knew all about the bruises and lesions there. Raif shuddered to think of them. There was even a bite mark.
How many days had passed since the night at Duff’s Stovehouse was difficult to tell. Perhaps a week. Maybe longer. All days and nights were the same in the taiga. Raif could remember little about th
e night of the fight. Dimly he recalled Angus leading him away from the hacked pieces of flesh that had once been the Bluddsmen’s bodies. He remembered the looks of fear and horror on the faces of the Dhoonesmen, then the coming together of Scarpe, Dhoone, Ganmiddich, and Gnash to draw a guide circle around the six bodies in the snow.
They couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Angus and Duff had taken him to the stables and seen to his injuries there. As soon as Duff finished the stitching, Angus had forced a flask full of malt liquor down his throat and hefted him over Moose’s back. Raif’s last thought was that one of Duff’s famous teeth was now missing: He would never pull a sled that way again.
Only later, much later, did he realize that he had been the cause of Duff’s missing tooth and the bite mark on Angus’ cheek. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Angus had told him what little he judged it necessary for him to know. Raif knew he was holding back and was glad of it. He didn’t want to hear all the details of the fight. Angus himself had been strangely quiet these past days, holding his peace around the stove at night, speaking of little but the weather and journey by day. Glancing over at the hunched, frost-dusted form of his uncle, Raif felt a rough soreness press against his throat.
You are not good for this clan, Raif Sevrance.
Now Angus knew the truth of it, too.
“Angus,” Raif said, surprising himself by breaking the silence.
Angus turned his head so Raif could see his face. All the cuts and bruises were heavily waxed; broken and damaged skin was an invitation to the ’bite. “What?”
Raif felt his nerve waver so rushed on before he had chance to think. “Why did you let me go? You and Duff fought me all the way to the door, but then you said something and both you and he pulled away.”
A soft grunt came from Angus’ lips. Turning his attention back to the way ahead, he said, “Aye. You would ask that. And you’ll be wanting the truth of it, too.”