by J. V. Jones
Troubled, the Dog Lord turned his attention to Marafice Eye and Sarga Veys. He had left them to stew for an extra hour in the chief’s chamber while he fed and kenneled his dogs. It had seemed a fair idea at the time, yet now he wished he hadn’t bothered. This matter was better over and done.
“Has she been given supper yet?” Sarga Veys said, his voice as high and grating as the sound of a sackpipe leaking air.
“I am not her nursemaid.” Vaylo sat at the head of the chief’s table, a block of green riverstone pitted with ancient fish fossils and petrified shells. A dozen horseshoe crabs, perfectly preserved, formed a circle below the Dog Lord’s hand. “How would I know if she’s been fed or not? What does it matter to you?” The anger was quick to come. His two remaining grandchildren were on their way home to Dhoone, escorted by Drybone and his crew. Nan had returned with them. By Vaylo’s reckoning they would have reached the halfway point by now. Stone Gods protect them.
“It matters,” said Sarga Veys with a sharp little jab of his chin, “because I need to drug her.”
Vaylo didn’t like the sound of that. “What with?”
“Nothing. A little posy to make her sleep.”
“I said, what with?”
Marafice Eye stopped pacing and dropped his hand to his weapon’s belt. It was empty, of course—the first Bluddsmen to meet the sept and its leader had ransomed their weapons until such time as they departed—yet the Knife had a way of making the gesture look threatening even when his scabbard lay slack against his thigh. He was a dangerous man, Vaylo reckoned, yet he still feared the Halfman more.
Sarga Veys sent the Knife a superior glance, one that assumed command of him by warning, Easy with your hostilities. Not surprisingly the Knife ignored it. No love lost between those two there.
“Very well,” Sarga Veys said. “If you must know, I intend to give Asarhia blood of the poppy and the pulverized seeds of henbane.”
So he meant to carry her away from the roundhouse without her knowledge or consent. By the time those two mind-deadening drugs wore off, the Knife and the Halfman would be well away from Ganmiddich, on the far side of the Bitter Hills. And the girl herself would be left so weak, she’d be lucky if she could swallow water and sit a horse.
Vaylo took a wad of black curd from his pouch and chewed on it. He had seen for himself what the Surlord’s daughter could do when she was cornered, so he understood the need for caution. Yet henbane could be poisonous in heavy doses. And that he would not have. “You will not give the girl henbane under my roof.”
“Why not?” The Knife leered. “Are you smitten with the bitch, too?”
Vaylo stood. “I would have the girl delivered safely to your master. If you and your men had done your jobs properly and found the girl yourselves, you would not be dealing with me now. But you didn’t, and you are here, on newly made Bluddground, and you will abide by the Bludd chief’s terms.”
Marafice Eye listened to Vaylo Bludd in silence.
Sarga Veys made a thin, snorting noise. “I know my master’s wishes. The girl must—”
“Silence!” The Knife took a step toward Sarga Veys. “Do as he says.”
Sarga Veys took five steps back and might have taken more if it hadn’t been for the fact that his shoulders came in contact with the wall. His lower jaw shook violently as he said, “Very well. As you wish.” Slender fingers unhooked a dun-colored pouch from his belt and retrieved a vial from within. The vial was the length of a pea pod and sealed with brown wax. Veys held it out toward the Dog Lord.
Vaylo considered knocking it onto the floor. He hated drugs and sorceries—all things that could play tricks with a man’s mind—yet there was little choice here. Not because of the power of the two men standing before him, or even the power of their master in Mask Fortress. No, rather the power of the girl. If she were awake when they carried her away from Raif Sevrance, Vaylo did not know what she would do.
He took the vial. In a harsh voice he called to Strom Carvo, who was standing guard beyond the door. Sarga Veys gave his instructions to the dark-skinned swordsman: Use all the vial, pour it in her sotted oats and drinking water, and whip it in the butter and honey she spreads upon her bread. Vaylo spat out a wad of curd as the Halfman spoke. He had a bad taste in his mouth.
As Strom withdrew, Sarga Veys said, “I think it best if I go with him to overlook the preparations. I have some skill in such matters.”
Vaylo didn’t doubt it. “No. You will stay here and wait.” He slammed the door shut. He would not have the Halfman walking freely about the roundhouse. With Drybone and his crew gone to Dhoone, they were short of men, and that was one fact the Dog Lord didn’t want anyone to know.
Marafice Eye said, “Name your terms for the other two prisoners.” His small mouth pulled tight like scar tissue as he spoke, and his hands—the largest Vaylo could recall seeing on any man—pushed against a rotten timber in the wall.
Vaylo suddenly longed for the company of his dogs. One of the bitches was in heat, and the rest were half-crazy with jealousy or lust, and he’d had little choice but to shut them away for the night in the dog cote. He ill liked being without them, but nature was one thing he knew better than to fight. Marafice Eye was another thing entirely. He said, “Angus Lok and the Hailsman are not for ransom.”
The Knife smiled, his lips splitting like a sausage on a grill. “I said, name your terms, Dog Lord.” As he pushed himself off from the wall, Vaylo marked the bulge of a handknife concealed above his right kidney.
“And I said the prisoners are not for ransom.”
“You owe my master,” hissed Sarga Veys. “He won’t be pleased when he hears of this. I shall advise him to withdraw all assistance—”
“Tell him do it!” Vaylo roared. “I want no more kindness from the Spire King. Stone Gods help me, I wish I’d never given ears to him or his schemes. Tell him from me, the Dog Lord, that once his foster daughter leaves Bluddground this night, all agreements between us are sundered. The girl is payment in full.”
Sarga Veys opened his mouth to speak, but both Marafice Eye and Vaylo Bludd moved forward to stop him. For one moment the Knife and the Dog Lord locked gazes, and shared intent and shared opinions on the Halfman made passing comrades of them. He was a fighting man, Marafice Eye. He knew better than to squawk and bluster when he was outmanned and far from home.
With a mock bow, Vaylo stepped back and let him deal with his man.
Marafice Eye approached Sarga Veys, drawing so close that their shoulders touched. Putting his small lips to the cartilage of the Halfman’s ear, he said, “Silence,” in a voice so cold it caused the flames in the Crab Hearth to shrink.
Sarga Veys sat . . . quietly.
Vaylo poured two drams of malt liquor, keeping the first for himself and offering the second to Marafice Eye. The Knife accepted it, and the two men struck cups and drank. Any other time Vaylo might have savored the silent companionship that came with sharing a fine malt with a man he did not hate, but his mind was too agitated, and he drank his liquor fast and with little joy. When the Knife returned the empty dram cup to the stone surface of the chief’s table, Vaylo said, “I’d have you take a message to your master.”
The Knife raised his chin, indicating he would listen.
“Tell him to keep his fingers out of the clanholds. I know what he’s doing, and if he doesn’t stop, I’ll gather all the clans that are loyal to me—Clan Broddic, Clan HalfBludd, Clan Otler, Clan Frees, and Clan Gray—and ride south to Mask Fortress and tear down his gates. Iss has played me for a fool once, and I’m an old man with a high opinion of myself and I’ll not let him use me again.
“I know I wasn’t the only chief he approached with his dirty little promises of sorcery and aid; while one of his faces was busy whispering Dhoone secrets to me, the other was talking treason to the Hail Wolf. Mace Blackhail and your master arranged the raid on the hunt party in the badlands, made it look as if Dagro and his clansmen were attacked by a troop of my
men. The Hail Wolf got a chiefdom for his trouble, and Iss drew Blackhail into the war. Now I don’t know which other chiefs he’s approached and what other deals he struck, but I do know he’ll make no more. The clanholds are no longer his business. Tell him that from me, the Dog Lord. Tell him that from this day forth all wars we wage will be of our own making.”
Vaylo was shaking by the time he was finished, his throat raw. He was not one for speeches, but a warning needed to be sent. Penthero Iss had to be told that the clanholds were no longer his field of play.
Marafice Eye held Vaylo’s gaze for a long moment, then said, “I’ll pass your message on, Dog Lord, though I see no easy end to the Clan Wars.”
He was right. Lines were too clearly drawn and hatred too deeply entrenched for any clan chief to face another over a table and speak of peace. Yet that wasn’t the point. “It’s a matter for the clans now.”
Marafice Eye nodded, understanding immediately. Vaylo respected him for that.
They waited in silence for an hour. Marafice Eye did not sit once during that time, though Vaylo noticed that he rested his left leg from time to time and favored his right when walking. Sarga Veys sat exactly where the Knife had placed him and neither moved nor spoke. Vaylo resisted the urge to drink more. Waiting made him weary. He longed for Nan’s gentle company and the closeness of his dogs. He worried about his grandchildren and wondered if Drybone had them riding through the night.
Every now and then he would glance at the southeast wall in the chamber and fix his eyes upon the window, shuttered and bolted, there. Raif Sevrance was never far from his thoughts. Even to look in the direction of the Inch brought on feelings so intense, he could taste them in his mouth. Vaylo wished Drybone had broken down just once in his self-controlled, iron-willed life and beaten the lad to death where he had found him. At least that way there would have been swift, unthinking justice. Not this slow, ever more complicated torture of truth and lies.
Vaylo pushed a hand through his braids. It had been a mistake to see him. He didn’t want to see Raif Sevrance as a young yearman still protecting the honor of his clan from a cell that stank of death. He wanted to look upon a Hailsman and see a murderer instead.
Vaylo called for Strom Carvo and gave the order to check on the girl. Only when she was gone and a new dawn had come to the roundhouse could he finally put steel to the Hailsman’s throat.
“She’s sleeping, Chief,” Strom said when he returned four minutes later. “I called her name, but she didn’t respond. I shook her arm, and still she slept.”
Vaylo nodded. “Bring her to me, Strom. Pull on her coat and boots as best you can—”
“And make note of how much food she has eaten.”
The Dog Lord raised an eyebrow Veys’ way. Hadn’t anyone bothered to tell him that no one interrupted a clan chief when he was speaking? Strom’s dark, storm-lined face brightened at the prospect of a verbal lashing, but Vaylo let the incident pass. He would not waste breath on the Halfman. Placing a hand on Strom’s arm, he walked with the swordsman out of the chief’s chamber.
When they were past earshot, Vaylo said, “Do as the Halfman says, Strom. But first, find Ranald or one of the others and tell him to search the Halfman’s saddlebags and remove all powders or potions.” It was little, but it was something. Henbane was scarce in winter, and Sarga Veys would not easily lay his hands on more.
Strom nodded.
“And tell Branon that I want all clansmen and clanswomen war dressed and mounted within the quarter. When Marafice Eye and his sept leave Ganmiddich I want the last thing they see to be the armed might of Bludd.” Strom turned. Vaylo halted him with a final caution. “We must be careful, Strom. Marafice Eye has a soldier’s mind; he’ll spot our poor numbers given chance.”
Strom Carvo, who was Cluff Drybannock’s blood-brother and one of the finest swordsmen in the clan, simply nodded and said, “Due care has already been taken.”
Vaylo felt better for hearing those words. They made the next waiting period bearable.
High winds blasted the walls of the roundhouse as the Knife, the Halfman, and the Dog Lord stood in silence and waited for Strom to bring the girl. When hail began to batter the shutters, Vaylo was neither worried nor surprised. A storm suited his feelings well enough.
When the knock came it seemed too soon. Sarga Veys’ tongue came out to moisten his lips. Marafice Eye stopped pacing and shifted the massive fact of his body toward the door.
“Enter,” called the Dog Lord.
Strom Carvo carried the girl into the room. The swordsman had taken care to wrap her tightly against the storm, and her slim body was thick with as many layers of wool and oilcloth as the remaining Bluddswomen could spare. Strom had even thought to tuck her lovely ash blond hair beneath her collar, where the wind could not find it as she rode. The girl herself was lifeless. Her head lolled back and forth with every step Strom took.
Sarga Veys moved forward. Vaylo heard the excited inhalation of his breath. It sickened him.
“Lay her on the table.”
Strom obeyed his chief, yet Vaylo saw the glint of anger in his eyes. He didn’t want to give her up to these men.
Sarga Veys was first to approach, pulling down the fox hood that Strom had tied in place. “Oh yes,” he said. “It’s her.” Then to Strom: “How much food has she eaten?”
Muscles on the swordsman’s face shifted with the deceptive smoothness of ice plates riding a rough sea. “Nothing. She drank only the water.”
Vaylo closed his eyes. Only water. How strong is the drug the Halfman gave her?
As Sarga Veys plucked open her eyes and picked up her limbs and dropped them, Marafice Eye moved toward the table. His face darkened as he beheld Asarhia March, and his large hands came together to crush the air above her chest. Watching those hands, Vaylo almost said, You cannot have her.
Sarga Veys produced a second vial of poppy blood from his pouch. “The few drops she drank with the water are not enough. She’ll wake in the night if we’re not careful.”
Strom looked to his chief. Vaylo said, “Take the vial from him and put two drops only upon her tongue.” Strom did his bidding in silence.
When all was done and Marafice Eye was busy cracking his knuckles in readiness to bear Asarhia’s weight, the Dog Lord approached the table. The girl’s face was pale, her lips almost blue. Frozen. It was easy to imagine her mouth full of snow . . .
Abruptly he turned away. “Go!” he commanded, chasing ghosts and men alike. “And be sure to tell your master that all debts are paid in full.”
Raif woke.
Ash.
His hand clutched at his throat, seeking his lore. It wasn’t there. Memory flooded back to him; the Dog Lord had cast it into the standing water at his feet. It hadn’t seemed important to search for it at the time. The raven lore always came back.
Steeling himself against pain and weakness, Raif rose from the stone bench and waded through the shin-high water. Storm darkness filled the cell. He couldn’t see anything, not even his hands as he plunged them into the black substance of the river and began questing for his lore.
Weeds wrapped around his fingers, slimy as uncooked meat. Other things floated by his wrists, soft things, jellylike things, bits of something smooth like hollow bone. He smelled his own filth and the filth of those who had been here before him, yet he could find nothing within him that was repulsed. He had to get to his lore.
His body was weak, weak, and he cursed it a dozen times in the darkness. When his legs began to tremble beneath him, he knelt in the water and continued searching. Raking his fingers along the cell floor, he probed the cracks and creases and river-worn hollows, disturbing centuries of mud and shit each time he moved a hand. The water was bitterly cold, yet he barely felt it. Outside the storm howled like a wild beast, swiping at the tower with claws of wind and hail, yet it mattered less than the hiss of his own breath. Something was wrong with Ash.
Icy water deadened his fingers, turning t
hem into wooden sticks. Skin split and tore as he dredged through the silt. Where is it? Had the current carried it away? Raif shook his head. No. As a child he had thrown the lore from him a dozen times, yet the clan guide had always found it and brought it back.
It had to be here.
Water sloshed against the walls as he grew more frenzied. His clothes were sodden, stinking. Knife cuts on his thighs and belly burned like white fire. His rib cage felt big and swollen, the bones making unnerving creaking noises every time he took a lungful of air. He thought he heard Death laugh at him, a high, tinkling chirr that chilled him in ways no cold water could. Ash . . .
As he dragged his hand along the crease where the wall and floor met, a length of twine tangled in his fingers. Snatching his fist closed, he caught it in his grip and pulled it through the water. The moment his hand broke the surface, he knew his lore had come back to him.
Here it is, Raif Sevrance. One day you may be glad of it.
The small length of bird horn came dripping from the water. Raif held the twine, only the twine, until he had returned to the dry island of the bench. His heart beat against his rib cage with quiet force as he moved. He thought his hands might shake when he pulled the twine through his fingers, but they held steady. River water dripped from every point of his body, pooling onto the bench where he sat. He thought about signing to the Stone Gods, asking them to keep Ash safe, then decided against it. Stone Gods were clan gods, and neither he nor Ash was clan.
Forcing his lips together, he placed the lore in the palm of his right hand and closed his fist around it.
The knowledge came to him instantly, warm as his own blood, slipping into his mind like just another thought. Ash was gone. She was no longer close and unharmed. Someone had taken her away.
Spitting to clear the taste of river from his mouth, Raif rose from the stone bench. Slowly he crossed to the cell door. When he was within two paces of the oak and ironclad planking, he halted. Tensing his body for a long moment, he filled his lungs with air. Then, with a movement so fast it split the standing water in two, he sent his shoulder smashing into the wood.