by Tim Pratt
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Snow Men
Points of interest were few and far between. Zaqen pointed out the forbidding face of Stoneclimb, a graceless fortress hewn from the face of a mountain, prompting Rodrick to observe, "If that's the sort of place where the wealthy nobility of Brevoy live, I think I'd rather be poor in the gutter in Andoran. My balls shrivel up just thinking about sleeping in that great stone icebox."
Not long after, Zaqen pointed to a road that wound its way up the higher peaks. "Do you see the walls up there?"
Rodrick squinted. "A city of some kind?"
"Something like that. It's called Skywatch. A settlement built around the ruins of an ancient observatory."
"What, for stargazing?" Rodrick said.
"The ancients wanted to watch the skies for something, anyways. Possibly something more dangerous than stars. They built an apparatus so cunning even our modern artificers don't understand entirely how it works. The mechanisms are preserved by some ancient magic, working as well now as they did in the time before man."
"Are we meant to steal a telescope or something, then?" Rodrick said.
Zaqen snorted. "No. I'm not sure what my master would do if we needed to get something out of that city. Because, here's the interesting bit—the same night the royal family of Brevoy vanished without a trace, Skywatch sealed its walls. No one has been allowed in or out since then. No messages have been received from inside, no trade caravans allowed in, nothing. It's locked up tight—even magical means have failed to ascertain what's happening inside the walls, with the most sophisticated divinations simply failing. How do the people inside survive without new supplies coming in? Have they survived, or is it a city of the dead now? Clearly this magical isolation is related to the vanishing of House Rogarvia, but how?"
Rodrick looked at the distant settlement, but the sight didn't tell him much, except that the people of the north liked high strong walls. "Let me guess: you have a theory."
"Me, personally? No. But the locals do. Some of them, anyway. They believe Skywatch was built to look out for imminent, world-altering threats from the heavens—like the Earthfall that brought the Starstone crashing down, drowning an empire, or the crash of the Silver Mount, which remade the face of Numeria. The theory is that the arcanists at Skywatch detected an approaching threat, sent word to the members of House Rogarvia, and then locked the royals and themselves away in some magically protected shelter to wait out the end times."
"That's a cheery thought," Rodrick said.
"Sometimes I love being a sword," Hrym said. "A little thing like the sky falling isn't going to inconvenience me very much."
"So you see," Zaqen said, "it may be even more important than you realize to bring Aroden back to life and restore him to his divinity, so he can protect us—"
"Enough about Aroden." Rodrick rolled his eyes. "He couldn't even protect himself from whatever astral assassin killed him, so forgive me if I don't put my faith in the tenuous chance of his resurrection. There are a million other reasons Skywatch could have been closed off, and you know it. Demons from the underworld annexing it as a territory of the Abyss. A plague so virulent the wise masters of the city chose to magically quarantine the place. Some fool messing about with ancient machinery and accidentally triggering some horrible stasis spell."
"True enough," Zaqen said. "You can't blame a girl for trying to convince you, though. This would all be easier if you were a zealous worshiper of Aroden."
"I can't even be bothered to worship gods that are alive," Rodrick said.
∗ ∗ ∗
They headed straight east after passing Skywatch, more or less, through the lands of House Orlovsky (which had the high ground literally and figuratively, and controlled major trade routes), across a river into the realm of House Lodovka (whose frosty lands were useless for farming, but who had the most boats and fishing rights on the Lake of Mists and Veils to the north, growing rich off the bounty of the waters), and finally into the territory of House Surtova (a clan descended from pirates and cutthroats who'd been transformed by the alchemy of time into region's oldest and most influential noble house, and who'd stepped into the business of ruling the nation when those upstarts in House Rogarvia vanished).
"Enough!' Rodrick cried after Zaqen's latest impromptu history lesson. "Unless I have to seduce one of their daughters or kidnap one of their heirs, that's more than I need to know about Brevic nobility. Brevoy isn't a large nation, and as far as I can tell it mostly consists of sprawling fields, wild woods, horrible mountains, and inaccessible cities—what in the hell do they need so many noble families for?"
"Nobles breed regardless of how many of them are required," Zaqen said. "They're a bit like mosquitos that way."
They were on a real road, now, an actual trade route, and there was a tarp thrown over the back of the cart to hide Obed's tub from casual view. Cilian had joined them more or less permanently, riding Rodrick's old horse in the rear of the caravan, muttering to himself about the absence of trees and the lack of cover and how it should not be so cold in summer.
Zaqen pointed to a branch road that led off to the northwest. "Go that way, Rodrick. We'll head up toward the Lake of Mists and Veils, and take the main road all the way to Port Ice—where, my master assures me, we will find our final key."
"Port Ice," Hrym said. "I like the sound of that."
"Oh, yes, it's profoundly inviting," Rodrick said. "I'm sure it's a warm and welcoming place."
Zaqen snorted. "In the winter, any travelers foolish enough to try and reach the city are likely to die outside its walls while the guards peer down to see if they're carrying anything worth stealing from their corpses. The rest of the year, it's a wide-open trading port, stockpiling supplies like mad to survive the brutal winters. If you come when the walls are closed, you'd better be able to prove you won't be a drain on the city's limited resources. Potatoes are more valuable than gold there in the winter. But the rest of the time, fear not—gold will do. The city's nobles live on the backs of their peasants, like always, but those peasants live in dozens of fishing villages strung all up and down the shore of the Lake of Mists and Veils, and in winter, they leave their huts behind and huddle together behind the city walls."
"Why anyone would choose to live in a place where just going outside can kill you baffles me," Rodrick said.
Zaqen shrugged. "It's not so bad for the nobles, of course. As for the peasants—where are they going to go? Risk everything and flee across the border to Numeria, where the Kellids will kill them just for a laugh? Head into the contested lands of the River Kingdoms and be murdered by bandits for the half a loaf of bread they're carrying? Not everyone has the wealth of my master, or my natural magical powers, or a magical sword of ice."
"Please. I made a success of myself despite my low beginnings—"
"You were no peasant," Hrym said. "Your parents kept a roof over your head, and even saw to it that you were educated as much as you'd let them. And you were born in Andoran, where the common man is given more opportunities than the average peasant elsewhere. You also happened to be slightly less stupid than your peers, and better looking, and with a total lack of, oh, what's the word ..."
"Shame?" Zaqen hazarded.
"Flaws?" Rodrick suggested.
"Conscience," Hrym said. "You also didn't live in a place where, as you mentioned, just going outside could kill you. If you'd been dumped in one of these villages as a baby ...to be honest you'd probably have been murdered by your neighbors for stealing fish. You wouldn't be a swaggering bravo with a talking sword, that's for sure."
"Fine, I take your point," Rodrick said.
"If Aroden returns, we can improve the lives of all these people," Zaqen said. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could raise the standard of living for everyone, everywhere?"
Rodrick and Hrym were quiet for a moment. "Hmm," the sword said. "I suppose that would mean a lot more people we could steal gold from."
"A risin
g tide lifts all ships," Rodrick agreed. "Let's usher in this golden age of yours, Zaqen. With an emphasis on the ‘gold.'"
∗ ∗ ∗
"It's a bit ratty-looking for a seat of power," Rodrick said as they rolled toward the chipped stone walls of Port Ice.
"I gather it's more dramatic in the winter, when everything is covered in deep snow and shining with ice," Zaqen said. "But, yes, in summer, the flaws do show."
The roads leading to the wide-open gates were thronged with people leading mules and donkeys, and carts laden with heaps of furs and casks of ale and barrels of salted meat. Little knots of disreputable-looking long-haired men stood here and there, directing traffic or amusing themselves by intimidating random passersby.
"The city guard?" Rodrick said.
"Or what passes for it here. Retainers of the Surtova family, which rules here, and has for generations. When this half of the country was the nation of Issia, they were the supreme leaders, and this was the capital. Noleski Surtova was in charge here, but when House Rogarvia vanished, he seized the opportunity and took over the entire kingdom, at least in theory. He relocated his court down to New Stetven and left some uncle in charge here."
Rodrick, watching two of the "guards" engage in a spitting contest, said, "I can't imagine why the king would choose to move south. This place is so charming."
"It's a pirate port, really," Zaqen said. "Though how you can do much piracy on a lake is a mystery to me."
"It is a very large lake." Obed's voice emerging from beneath the canvas cover stretched over the rear of the cart. "It borders three nations. It is the source of the mighty Sellen River, down which pirates also ply their trades. There is ample room for murder and mayhem and pillage there."
"I never liked piracy," Hrym said from his sheath on Rodrick's back. "It's just like stealing, only there's a chance you'll fall in the ocean and be lost forever, so why not just stick to stealing things on land?"
One of the guards stopped in front of the cart and raised his hand. "Here now, we need to see what you're carrying."
"Oh?" Rodrick said. "Why's that?"
The guard patted the curved sword at his hip. "Because I said so." He grinned, showing off a gold tooth.
Rodrick shrugged. "Climb on."
The guard went around the back of the cart, saw their mounts, and whistled. "Is that a, what're they called ..."
"Camel," Cilian said from his mount. He chewed his lip for a moment, then said, "Long story."
The guard snorted. "You could sell it for a pretty penny here. I've only seen them in pictures. Doubt it would survive the winter, though. They're made for hot, dry places, aren't they? This is pretty much the opposite. Help me peel back this canvas, would you, half-elf? We want to make sure you aren't smuggling anything inappropriate into the city."
"Out of curiosity," Rodrick called, "what kind of cargo would be considered contraband?"
The guard shrugged. "I dunno. I guess I'd know it if I saw it. Small demons? Corrosive oozes? Carnivorous plants that grow amazingly well in frozen soil?"
"Nothing like that for us," Rodrick said.
Cilian helped the guard untie the canvas cover and roll it out of the way.
"And just what is this supposed to be?" the guard said, standing in the back of the cart and scowling.
"That is Obed, a priest of Gozreh," Zaqen said. "He is currently at rest in a tub of blessed seawater brought all the way from the Inner Sea. The waters are a sacred offering to his brothers and sisters at the temple of Gozreh on the shores of the lake."
The guard scratched his chin. "Huh. Right. You mean that bunch of bearded men, and women with long hair all woven with reeds and fish scales and things, the ones who live in those little driftwood huts in the summer?"
"That sounds like them," Zaqen agreed.
The guard thumped the side of the tub with his boot. "Huh. Why doesn't this priest have a beard, if he's a follower of Gozreh?"
"He's never been able to grow a beard," Zaqen said. "It's a source of great shame to him. We think it's because he has some elven ancestry."
"All right, but then why's he under the water? How's he breathing under there?"
"He worships a god of the waves." Zaqen's voice was remarkably calm and patient. "Water-breathing is a simple magic for him. As for why, he's taken a vow of immersion. He will be poured, with these waters, into the Lake of Mists and Veils, and thus bring his blessing to the north." She shrugged. "He does come out occasionally to eat, though, and to relieve himself—the tub would be a bit foul by now otherwise."
"He gets out to yell at us for not traveling fast enough, too," Rodrick said.
Zaqen nodded. "None of it makes any sense to us, either. The priest just hired us to escort him, that's all. It's just ...religion."
"Can't argue with religion," the guard said, affably enough. "I've spent enough time on ships that I'm not about to mess with the priest of a storm god. Carry on, then. Try to spend some of that money he paid while you're here, though, would you?"
"This is the first real city we've seen in weeks," Rodrick said. "We're planning to linger here as long as the priest will permit and reacquaint ourselves with civilization."
"If by civilization you mean whiskey and wenches, we've got those, right enough," the guard said. "Welcome to Port Ice. Be sure to leave before winter." He grinned, showing his gold teeth again. "When we run out of food during the time of the deep snows, we always eat the outsiders first."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Two Best Thieves in Port Ice
The pirate guard suggested an inn where they could stay, and it seemed no more horrible than any of the other options—it looked like an ungainly heap of irregular stone and timber salvaged from shipwrecks on the outside, but was snug and well-insulated inside, probably a necessity for all dwellings in this place. They gave the innkeeper a variation on their story about Obed being a holy man delivering sacred waters to the lake, but said they had to wait a few days for a particular seasonal and astronomical alignment. The owner grudgingly made room for their cart and the tub in a weedy courtyard behind the inn, charging a merely outrageous sum of gold for the privilege.
"Here we are again." Rodrick sat on his lumpy bed and leaned against the wooden wall, ankles crossed before him, Hrym unsheathed on the covers beside him. "Plotting, with a roof over our heads. How I've missed this."
Obed sat stiffly in a wooden chair beside a low table, glowering, and Zaqen sat in another chair beside him. Cilian paced up and down just inside the door, like a predator stuck in a cage, casting suspicious looks at the ceiling, as if he expected it to fall down on his head any time.
"We are here for the final key," Obed said. "You now understand my wish for haste. Had we failed to reach Port Ice before the first snows, it would have been much more difficult to travel, and we would have been noticed and remarked upon if we did make it here—strangers are vanishingly rare in the winter."
"Imagine if you'd just told us the reason for your hurry," Rodrick said, cleaning his fingernails with a dagger. "Why, think of all the resentment you could have avoided!"
Obed curled his lip scornfully. "I do not explain myself to hirelings—"
"Yes, as you have so often explained to me," Rodrick said. "And here I thought we were becoming a family. United on a sacred quest to resurrect Aroden! But, I'm sorry, that's too important for me to worry about. I should focus on the details. This last key, then. Where is it, and how are we supposed to get it? So far we've had a rigged duel, the murder of a great many bandits, the traditional blinding of a mind-controlled yeti—"
"Simple theft should suffice in this case," Obed said. "The key is in the manor house of a minor noble, a distant cousin to this nation's present king. My inquiries about purchasing the key were not even rebuffed—they were ignored. When I sent an emissary, he was beaten and tossed outside the manor's gates, for the offense of bothering the master of the house."
"Even Piero was friendlier than that," Hrym s
aid. "Of course, he was hoping for an excuse to murder someone."
"Certain divinations I have undertaken reveal that the item is kept in a locked strongbox in a basement treasure room," Zaqen said. "Along with a great deal of other treasure. It's best if all of the treasure is stolen, so the noble won't connect the theft to those peculiar inquiries he received from me earlier this year. Ah, yes—I thought you'd like that part, Rodrick."
"I do hate leaving treasure behind," he said. "So: what's the gaffle?"
Zaqen looked at him blankly. Obed didn't even give him that much of an expression.
"The plan, he means," Hrym said. "The scam. To get into the house, and into the treasure room, and away with the strong box, and so on."
"Ah." Obed made a face as if he'd smelled something foul. "Those are trivial details. That's why we've hired you."
Rodrick exhaled and smiled. "Oh, that's a relief."
"Indeed," Hrym said.
"Why do you say that?" Zaqen said.
"I've been hired by amateurs before, to pull jobs," Rodrick said. "It's never a good idea. They overcomplicate things, or undercomplicate them, or depend on too much precision, or don't plan enough precision, or they're inflexible and unprepared to improvise. I am pleased you've chosen to leave the plotting in the hands of the experts. Some of those amateur events were very successful jobs, admittedly—"
"Because amateurs are easy to rob," Hrym said.
"True," Rodrick said. "They're often willing to pay you just to come listen to their plan, too, even if you refuse to participate. I've been to as many as three meetings like that in a week—very lucrative, considering how little work is required." He cracked his knuckles. "Now. Tell me where this manor is, and everything you know about the noble in question, and, oh, what the key actually looks like—"
"It looks like a key," Obed said. "A silver key, as long as a man's hand from the heel of the palm to the tip of the middle finger, the end worked with elaborate designs that seem to twist when one gazes upon them."