Mapping Winter

by Marta Randall

Bear agreed. Raven fashioned a perfect ball of snow. She blew on it so that it glowed, and took it back to Bear. She showed Bear how to hold it up before him to light his way.

  Bear was pleased and vomited up Snow Wolf, but Snow Wolf was still furious with jealousy. He raised his leg and pissed on the white ball, leaving great dirty spots on it. Bear flung the ball into the sky and ran after Snow Wolf. Snow Wolf fled, laughing, back to his kamak where he was safe. In his anger Bear took up his kamak and moved it to the very end of the world, at the edge of the Big Empty. This made Raven so mad that she refused to lay with Snow Wolf, which made Snow Wolf angry, and for a long time they fought. They ripped great boulders from the flat land and threw them; they gouged ravines and piled up bulwarks, and shaped Uruk to the beat of their anger, peak upon chasm, plain and range.

  In time, as always, Raven’s lust spoke louder than her anger and Snow Wolf forgot what he was mad about. They came together again but Snow Wolf still howls curses at the moon, and the moon still bears the stains of his piss.

  The sun dipped below the southwestern horizon. Across the Water Road the mountains behind Abermorat glowed pale pink in the failing light and the Minstrel shone just above them, hands raised to strike the strings of his harp. The Inguruki called these stars the Gate and believed that if the Gate ever opened, the cold white fire of the River would spill through and bathe the earth in pale death. In Cherek the bright mist of stars was called the Scarf, a spanning gauze laid aside by the Minstrel as he prepared to play. The Scarf was invisible now, its thin light unable to compete with the setting sun. Not a cloud in sight; it would be cold again tonight. She buried her hands in her pockets and went down the stairs, silent on stone, snow, and mud. The shadows of the yard took her. She hunched her shoulders, restless and chill, and strode through the Neck to the barracks.

  A few lamps glowed in the sleeping quarters upstairs but the windows of the downstairs hall blazed. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the cloakroom. The wall hooks were dense with heavy winter gear steaming odoriferously in the warmth: the russet cloaks of Dalmorat, Myned’s blue, Moel’s brown, the yellow of Bergdahl, Kyst’s sea-water green. The visiting provincial Lords would each have brought men-at-arms, enough to guard them on the road and uphold their dignity on Sterk. Eight each perhaps, or ten, some of whom would be on duty. Hers was the only black cloak; Daenet had never been prone to spending his time with the Shadeen and the other provincial Lords’ Riders were, she remembered, all of them out of Dalmorat and busy at their masters’ bidding. She went into the hall. One of the cadets lounged near the door. She gave him a coin to carry her accounting to Adwyr’s chambers and he scampered away.

  Shadeen filled the room, cleaning weapons, gambling, arguing, eating. She stood in the doorway warming her hands in her armpits and watching them. The benches were full; some soldiers sat on the tables. A group by the far wall mended uniforms, needles flashing as they gossiped together. Behind them the walls gleamed with condensation. Voices sang, the words indistinct save for the shouted chorus. Unlike some parts of the castle, the barracks was well maintained and immaculate, even under the onslaught of the visitors. Commander Ilach Shadi would not, Kieve thought, have permitted it to be otherwise. Nearby, two men in Taryn’s livery talked about the Lady Isbael’s poisoned dog.

  “She knows who ordered this, but not the hands that did it,” one said. “I would not be either of them—they say, in Koerstadt, that she has little mercy.”

  “They say, in Dalmorat, that she is smart as her father, and as cold. Whoever did that was a fool.”

  “Or too stupid to tell the difference between dog and woman,” the first one said. The second laughed and a third Shadi saw Kieve and elbowed her companions into silence.

  Braith, in a tight knot of Shadeen by one of the fireplaces, shouted her name and waved. Kieve picked her way across the room, nodding at people she knew. The Bergdahl troops wore their hair cropped short about their ears, those from Myned were small and lithe and three had very pale hair. Inguruki ancestors, she thought. They looked at her as she nodded and moved on.

  “I’ll have nothing to do with it,” Braith said as Kieve came up beside her. “It’s a piece of damned foolishness, it’s senseless, it’s dangerous.”

  “Of course it is,” Dunun protested. “That’s the whole point.” Short, tight braids framed his eager face.

  “What is it?” Kieve reached around Braith for the hot wine.

  “These iceheads,” Braith told her, “want to run forfeits. With the visitors. Now. From Lord’s Walk to the barracks. Not giving a damn, I suppose, that it’s dark and icy and Cadoc’s up tower dying.”

  “And has been,” Dunun said, “for over a month. I suppose we’re to die with him—of boredom, perhaps?”

  “Ilach won’t like it,” Braith said.

  “He will,” Kieve said. “If you come with us. Tell him that...that it’s a good way to keep the troops in trim, out of mischief.”

  “And warm,” a Kyst shadi said with feeling, rubbing his hands against his arms. A boy from Myned, pale hair and smile somehow familiar, slapped his arm and called him a warm-weather nursling, and their friends had to keep them apart.

  Braith looked at Kieve. “You’d come? Your eye?”

  Kieve laughed. “I know this castle nearly as well as you yourself. The eye is better in dimness.” She took off the patch and tucked it into a pocket. Her eye did not hurt too much and she could see in depth.

  A smile tugged at the corner of Braith’s mouth, pulling the straight line of the scar off true. “I’m not explaining this to Ilach by myself,” she said. The Shadeen, sensing victory, cheered. “Hush, we don’t want to empty the place. All right, teams of two, from the tip of Lord’s Walk back here. Two hours. Who’s running?”

  “I am,” Dunun said. “Kieve, and you. We’ll pick partners. Pren, are you coming?”

  “Are you mad?” the shadi demanded. “I just got off duty.”

  “Fine,” Braith said. “You’re duty officer and you can list the tokens.”

  Pren went off to seek pen and paper. Braith straightened and glanced around the hall. Save for the group around her, no one paid attention.

  “Fine,” she said again. “One of us, one visitor on each team. And no cheating, understand?”

  The pale boy from Myned, sliding between his friends, put his hand on Kieve’s forearm. “I’ll partner you,” he said, hair silky and brown eyes gleaming. “Can you keep up with me?”

  She looked down at him, eyebrows raised. He couldn’t be more than seventeen, and cocky with it. She remembered that she had seen him playing at the bones that morning in the coolness of the Great Hall.

  “I lead,” she said. “And you follow.”

  “Of course!” He bowed, with a flourish. “Leyek of Korth.”

  “Kieve of the Riders Guild.”

  He turned to say something over his shoulder to a friend and in that moment Kieve ducked away toward the door. He would catch up later, Braith would bring him along. She found the extra short cloak that Braith kept in the corner, shrugged into it, and stepped outside, into the silence of the ward. Another two steps took her into the deep shadows beside the barracks and there she stopped and closed her eyes.

  “You must assign each distraction a picture in your mind.” Thus Master Quarren, sitting cross-legged in the Apprentice Yard at the Guild Hall in Koerstadt and teaching them the art of concentration. “Then you may think of each picture and tuck it away for safekeeping, in a special room deep in your mind, and close the door upon it. It will be there when you return to it, it will not disappear. But while you have it tucked away you may do your work without disruption.” She looked at them, waiting until all the wriggling and whispers had fallen away. “Now. Let us begin.”

  A picture for Cadoc. A picture for the heirs. One for Jenci, one for the boy. And the one she had used for four years to represent who she had become in the service of her master, and what that service entailed. She put them away,
each by each, and closed the door upon them. When she opened her eyes again her body seemed light enough to float. She smiled as the barracks door open and Shadeen slipped into the ward. She joined the group and put her hand on Leyek’s shoulder.

  “Keep up with you?” she said.

  He startled. “I’m very fast,” he said as they walked through the ward. “And I’m very good.” Moonlight illuminated his grin. “Would you like to find out?”

  “No. How’s your luck at the bones?”

  Leyek looked abashed. “This morning, not very good. But tomorrow will be different, very different. Lord Cairun will be sorry he played Skull with me.”

  “You dice with your betters. How much did you lose?”

  Leyek shrugged. “Nothing much. Something my father gave me. I’ll get it back. When do we start, Rider?”

  “Soon.” She quickened her pace to catch up with Braith. Leyek trotted behind.

  Lord’s Walk, on the far side of the castle, was cold and deserted, its crumbling parapets and uneven pavement gleaming with ice. Where it loomed above the frozen rapids, stone paving blocks lay as though some immense hand had crumpled and discarded them. Moon was well risen. Kieve balanced on the balls of her feet, the short cloak brushing her thighs, and watched the other teams while Leyek peppered her with questions.

  “We run the whole course,” she told him. “Without being caught, and by the public passageways only. The winning team declares forfeits for the others—that’s the second-best part.”

  “And the first-best part?” Leyek demanded.

  “Stealing,” she said. “Pren’s made a list. To win we must be first back to the barracks with everything on the list.”

  “Stealing,” Leyek repeated. “I like it. Do we keep what we take?”

  “No.” She bent and straightened, stretching her legs. “Korth. That’s near the border, isn’t it?”

  “Just south of it,” Leyek said.

  “Indeed.” She was right, there but for an accident of geography stood an Inguruk. She stretched again. Beside her, Leyek’s hands moved and he murmured something under his breath. She watched him obliquely. He repeated the gesture, trying to hide it under his cloak. She grinned.

  “A battle ritual?” she said. She could see his blush even in the moonlight. “It’s a game, boy. Just a game. You won’t die running forfeits—if you do, I lose points.”

  Pren coughed to get their attention, raised her lantern, and read the list for them in its shielded glow.

  “A rose, a ring, a rock, a rhyme.” Her high voice skittered through the night. “A toad, a king, a dog, a chime. Now!”

  Kieve tapped Leyek, spun, and raced over the jumbled rocks of Lord’s Walk, leaping from stone to stone, the wind cold along her temples. She knew the stones so well that her hazy vision did not matter. Leyek caught up as she reached the high white parapet surrounding the Garden of the Lady.

  “You do well,” she said, not breaking stride. The balusters to their left gleamed.

  “Moraine,” Leyek said, keeping pace. “You’ve done it too, haven’t you?” He laughed, not waiting for her reply. “Rider, a rose?”

  “A ring, a rock, a rhyme,” she said. “A toad, a king, a dog, a chime. The rose and the toad are the easy parts.” She drew ahead of him.

  The wall-walk twisted to the left and opened onto the broad plaza before the Crescent Bathhouse. Kieve ran silently along the blank wall behind the bathhouse, judged her moment, and dove for the back entrance.

  She put her hand up, covering Leyek’s mouth just as he started to speak.

  “The others will try for the chimes first,” she whispered. “If we’re not caught, we have two, maybe three minutes on them.”

  “And if we’re caught,” he said, lips on her palm. She dropped her hand.

  “With Cadoc dying and the sword not passed? We’ll be killed first and questioned later.”

  “Yes!” Leyek bounced a little on his toes. “And now?”

  “Hush.” She opened the door and ushered him inside, into hot, damp, lightly sulphurous air and the smell of animals. A few torches burned in the distance, casting a soft light over the menagerie keeper’s most delicate charges and the head gardener’s exotic plants. A torch on the far wall glowed on the latticed stone that separated this part of the bathhouse from the bathing pools. It took her a moment to locate what she wanted in the potted jungle. After a second of rustling she tossed the rosette of a small succulent to Leyek.

  “Rock-rose,” she whispered. “That’s two together.” She slid her hand into a pool and closed her fingers around a toad. Reaching back, she dropped it into Leyek’s hand. He made a soft, disgusted noise.

  “Put it in a safe pocket,” she said. “It must come back alive.” She opened a cage door and, opening her tunic, dropped this latest theft against her skin. After a moment it curled against her stomach. Leyek, busy with his toad, didn’t see her.

  Dunun did, however, a bare minute later, flying up the stairs from the Garden of the Lady with his Moel partner close behind. Kieve darted across the narrow walk between bathhouse and stairs. She led Leyek into the dark alley that curved upward between the walls of the nobles’ apartments and around the White Tower. Twelve paces, fifteen, twenty-two.

  “Half done,” she said as they rested for a moment at a corridor’s mouth, waiting for distant footsteps to recede. The steps and walk behind them were empty.

  “Rock, rose, toad. We only have three,” Leyek said.

  “Four, highlander. Four.” She ran down the corridor, boots silent on the stone. Just as silently, he followed.

  The corridor passed Master Adwyr’s storerooms but the Chancellor’s guards kept watch from the warm inside and did not see them. She skirted rocks fallen from the ceiling. As they rounded a corner Leyek picked up a loose rock and skipped it back down the hallway. Shouts and the clatter of metal erupted from the storeroom.

  “Idiot,” Kieve said. She grabbed a handful of silky hair and dragged Leyek, choking with laughter, up another flight of stairs. The noise receded behind them.

  “Do you want to get us killed?” she whispered, furious.

  “Let me go,” he said, still laughing. “The others can’t come that way now, can they?”

  She grinned in spite of herself. The stairs led to a portico half-opened to the night and from there over the covered bridge above Hueil’s Garden, the air crisp and bright around them. Braith, below, rummaged with a Bergdahl soldier for the small winter roses that lived under the mantle of snow. Kieve turned right up another staircase, and right again into a narrow canyon between stone walls. The canyon ended at an abrupt drop. Kieve saw one window lit below them, put a cautionary fingertip to her lips, and went over the side. She landed running. Leyek landed hard, grunted, and hurried after her as the one lit window was flung open and an irritable voice demanded to know what was going on. Leyek did likewise when he caught up with her.

  “A chime, a rhyme, a ring, a king,” she said, working her belt knife between a pair of shutters. The latch slid open. She dove inside, winnowed through a wonderland of gears and shafts and bells, and emerged, waving a small box.

  “Chime?”

  “Chime,” she agreed, stuffing it into her belt pouch. Leyek closed the shutters. “And king. It has enamelwork on the back. Six.”

  “Five,” he said, but she was already down the walk. He scurried to keep up.

  A flight of exterior steps, curving, icy, and worn, led down to the roof of the Great Hall. Kieve touched her pockets and tunic, making sure her thievings were well stowed.

  “Rider?” Leyek said.

  “Look to your toad,” she said. She sat on the top step and pushed off, careening down the stairs, fending off the walls with her boots and gloved hands. The cloak filled with wind and tugged at her neck and shoulders. The bumps smoothed as her speed increased, wind shrieked at her ears, and all the world went away save for speed, night, the sharp stars glittering beyond the overhang. She quelled the urge to shout jus
t as Leyek, above and behind her, punctured the night with a cry, high and sweeping and chillingly familiar. She reached the bottom of the stair, tucked in her shoulders, and somersaulted to land on her feet in time to snag Leyek as he shot past. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and cloaks, leaving Kieve, not by chance, on top and holding Leyek pinned to the cold stones.

  “Korth, south of the border?” she whispered.

  Leyek, catching his breath, smiled at her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be quiet.”

  “See that you are, snow brother,” she said in Akeguruk, releasing him. She started to rise but Leyek came to his knees and grabbed her forearms.

  “How did you know?” he said in the same language. “Are you—”

  “No.” She broke the hold and stood. “Come,” she said in Cheran. “We have a race to win.” She ran her hands down her tunic and breeches, making sure her tokens were intact, and ran. Leyek made no noise as he followed.

  She held up her hand for silence at the stairs leading to the Scholars Garden, crept to the edge of the walk, and peered over the balusters. Dunun and his partner were prying one of the metal rings from the wall. Kieve retreated, whispering curses. She had planned to do the same thing herself.

  “But you speak—” Leyek said.

  She raced over the walkway, through a door, down a dark hallway, and through the interlocking rooms of the castle’s school.

  “Where did you learn to—”

  She popped through an arras, sped to the corridors in the scholars’ apartments, and stopped again. “A ring, a rhyme,” she said, pinning her braid into place. “If you ask one more question, particularly in that language, I’ll kill you myself.”

  “But—”

  “Any soldier who’s fought on the borders knows that cry.”

  “Just so! Just because I know it doesn’t mean that I’m a—”

  “Of course. But you know the tongue, and you run silently, and you look like a winter sprite. You’ll have to tell me,” she said, “how you lied your way into Myned’s army.” She smoothed her expression and knocked on a door.