Watcher of the Dead

by J. V. Jones

  This was news. Orwin raised his eyebrows at Raina. Ballic frowned. Grim frowned too, but he obviously knew some things about his new wife that others did not, for his frown was one of agreement, not disbelief.

  Chella touched his arm. The wind was pressing her cloak against her body, outlining her slender waist and full hips. “His father Mabb Cormac sent him away after he killed his horse. Robbie rode the old mare from the Stonefly to the Dhoonehouse without stopping to let her rest. She collapsed on the banks of Blue Dhoone Lake and he left her there to die. Mabb was furious and beat his son with a birch switch. When the beating was done Mabb still wasn’t satisfied and sent his son to Ganmiddich for two hundred and fifty days. Best part of a year later, Robbie returned riding a stallion he’d won in a race from the Crab’s nephew Addo Ganhanlin.”

  Men nodded. Now things were beginning to make sense. After being ousted from Ganmiddich, Addo Ganhanlin and others had taken refuge at Croser. It was possible Chella had heard Addo’s story first-hand.

  Raina fastened the ties on her cloak to give herself time to think. Listen first to what people say, and then second to how they say it. Dagro’s words, spoken fifteen years earlier to his young, inexperienced wife, echoed in her mind. Chella Gloyal had told a story and issued a warning: Robbie Dhoone knew more about Ganmiddich and its defenses than anyone could have guessed. The second thing was more subtle. She spoke with authority, assuming equal status with sworn clansmen, and she spoke in an accent that wasn’t wholly clan. This woman had spent time in the Mountain Cities.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that anxious clansfolk were beginning to gather by the door. The meeting was going on longer than anticipated and Hailsmen were assuming the worst. Addressing the young swordsman Jessie Mure, she said, “Pass the word inside—no Hailsmen have been lost.”

  She was not prepared for the bow the lean, dark-haired young man delivered to her, touching the hem of her cloak in courtly respect. “It is done, lady,” he said, turning to make his way to the house.

  He’d learned that from the master swordsman, Shor Gormalin. Shor had been dead for half a year now, killed by crossbolt to the back of the head. Mace Blackhail had ordered the killing; Shor had been his rival for the chiefship. And for herself.

  Heart be strong, she told it.

  “Mace is unaware of Robbie’s knowledge of the Crab house?” she asked Ballic.

  “Aye.”

  “Then a message must be sent.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Good. Chella. I would have you think on what other intelligence you possess that may benefit your new clan.”

  The Croserwoman finally had the grace to look surprised. She took a breath, considering her answer, but Raina halted her.

  “Do not speak now. You are weary from the road. If something occurs to you later visit me. You will find me in the chief’s chamber.”

  Gods do not send a bolt of lightning to strike me. Chief’s chamber? Where had that come from? Until the very moment the words left her mouth she had no inkling she would say them. Heat flushed her cheeks, and there didn’t seem much option other than to stand there and wait for the condemnation to come.

  It didn’t.

  The warriors seemed careless, as if she had said nothing out of order. Ballic was unclipping his bowcase from its shoulder harness. Grim had stepped back to steady his horse. Others were getting impatient to get inside the house and greet their kin. Only Orwin and Chella regarded Raina. Orwin had been present that day in the game room, when Raina had declared her intention of becoming chief. He knew her purpose . . . but perhaps this was the first time he’d heard her claim it publicly. After a long moment of appraising her, he said, “Come on, lads. Let’s get some food and ale in your bellies.”

  Raina watched as the group broke up and began heading toward the roundhouse. As Chella Gloyal passed alongside Raina, the woman murmured, “In the chief’s chamber. I won’t forget.”

  Raina stared ahead. Her chest was tight. Word would get around. It would get back to Mace. Raina Blackhail issues commands from the chief’s chamber.

  The wind blew across the open ground of the graze and the court, cooling Raina’s hands and face. During the meeting the only thing that had seemed important was Blackhail’s security. Over two thousand Hailsmen were camped northwest of Ganmiddich, and if Robbie Dun Dhoone succeeded at seizing the Withyhouse then Dhoone would march south to retake Ganmiddich. Dhoone, Blackhail, Bludd: The three giants would meet on the shores of the Wolf. That was what seemed important—not who took action or said what.

  Do and be damned, that was what Dagro always said about being a chief. Mostly he said it with defiant joy—I’m chief, to hell with my critics—yet there had been times when he’d spoken it softly with fear, when he’d ridden into battle outmanned and outpositioned. To lead one had to do, Raina realized. That was the message of Dagro’s words. Inaction did not make a chief.

  Risk did.

  Settling that thought into her mind, Raina made her way to the house.

  As she passed into the dim lamplit space of the entrance hall, she spied a group of Scarpes building a fire in an iron brazier. Bristling, she gathered herself to engage them. Smoke would choke the ground floor. Yesterday, when they had dragged the brazier indoors she had done nothing. Not today though. That was the thing about declaring yourself chief-in-absentia: Once you did it you had to act like one.

  As she opened her mouth to issue a command, she realized she hadn’t thought about Stannig Beade in hours.

  CHAPTER 4

  Marafice Eye

  MARAFICE EYE SPOONED the jellied eel into his mouth and swallowed. Twice. Sweet mother of all beasts, how did these grangelords do it? Sitting around in their stiff silks and itchy collars, sipping wine as tart as acid and chewing fish parts? Any beggar in Hell’s Town could eat better than this: beer and sausage, beer and pork pie—and they could slouch in loose linens as they did it. Frowning in disgust, Marafice pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair.

  The throne.

  “Is my lordship displeased with the food?” The question came from Marilla Theron, Lady of the Salt Mine Granges. Her husband, Philip, was hosting this feast in the newly cleared space of the quad. Red and gold canopies had been erected overhead and long oak tables had been laid out in a giant U. Marafice sat at the head of this construction, elevated a foot above everyone else on a dais of gilded wood. There was no room underneath the table for his knees and he sat with his thighs and weaponry exposed, on level with the tabletop and its unappetizing array of food. Some fool had made a three-foot-tall killhound out of cherries and turkey feathers, and there was a smoking dragon formed from salmon that was beginning to attract the flies.

  It was not pleasant being here, with the sun losing power in the west and sharp mountain winds blowing through the two-hundred-foot gap in the wall. The Splinter, the tallest tower in the North, was gone, fallen, and it had taken part of the south ward and curtain wall with it. For the first time in two thousand years the city of Spire Vanis was not securely walled. And here were five dozen of the most powerful grangelords in Spire Vanis, making merry by the timber scaffolding and rubble heaps, as carpenters hammered nails and raised joists and laborers wheeled away carts loaded with granite and dust.

  Bizarre did not begin to describe it. High atop one of the hills of fallen stone, a group of masons were sitting on tarps, gnawing on chicken bones and gawking at the spectacle below them. Marafice imagined he could feel their scorn. It made him hot and grumpy.

  “The food, my lord?” persisted the unlovely boniness that was Marilla Theron. “Is it not to your liking?”

  “Yes,” Marafice growled. And then, just to make sure, “No.”

  He always found himself flustered around highborn women. He suspected they were looking down on him, and if the glance Marilla Theron shared with her long-nosed sister Margo was anything to go by, he was right. These women had nothing to do all day, save dress themselves in stagger
ing amounts of jewels and silk and gossip about the shortcomings of men. At least working women worked.

  Laughter drifting down from the masons was suddenly too much for Marafice and he flung down his handcloth and stood. He’d been surlord for twenty days now and he still wasn’t used to it: stand and everyone else followed suit.

  So much gold glittered as the grangelords and their wives rose, Marafice was temporarily blinded. When his eye cleared he saw his handcloth had landed on the table, in a bowl of gravy and . . . something. The cloth turned brown as it soaked up the sauce.

  Marafice frowned harder. “Sit. Eat,” he commanded the party, hearing the rise in his voice but powerless to stop it. “I thank our friend the Lord of the Salt Mine Granges for this fine supper. Feast,” he corrected himself. Suspecting a compliment was called for, he cast his mind for one and then corrected himself again. “Eye-boggling feast.” People tittered. Marafice stepped back. His left heel struck his chair leg and it toppled from the dais with a loud crack. Heat rushed to his face.

  “I’m off.”

  Snickering followed him as he walked across the open ground of the quad. I’m off. Where was his brain? Surlords didn’t say I’m off. Surlords said farewell and good tidings and blessings to you and your sons.

  I’m off.

  Truer words had not been said. Marafice Eye, Surlord of Spire Vanis, Rive Watch Keeper of Mask Fortress, and Master of the Four Gates was seriously off. His surlording skills were wanting and his patience was worn as thin as those fancy wafers that dowagers ate instead of bread. How had Iss managed to do it? Put up with all the cronying and flattery? The hours of ceremony, the feasts, banquets, balls, parades?

  Reaching the entrance to the east ward, Marafice accepted the salutes of the sentries stationed by the gate. “I see you made ten years,” he said to Flukey Brown, the older of the two brothers-in-the-watch. Flukey’s bloodred cloak was fastened with a killhound brooch mounted with chips of jet to represent eyes. The jet chips were the mark of ten-year service. Another ten and they would be replaced with rubies.

  Flukey did not raise his gaze to his surlord as he pushed back the door. “Aye, sir.”

  Marafice studied him. He and Flukey had ridden side by side during the Hound’s Mire campaign. At the end of the daylong pitched battle, it had been he and Flukey who had ridden through the killing field dealing mercy to fatally wounded brothers-in-the-watch. Now the man wouldn’t look at him.

  Get used to it.

  Ducking under Flukey’s arm, Marafice entered Mask Fortress.

  No matter how often the servants swept they couldn’t get rid of the dust. A shear of white powder had settled on the polished granite floor in the places where men and servants rarely stepped. The corridor leading to the Red Forge was clean, and not for the first time Marafice had to resist the urge to take it. That was his old stalking ground—the Rive Watch barracks—and the desire to head there for ale and the silent camaraderie of fighting men was strong. There’d be a big fire, overcooked ham and beans and small coin gambling. Old-timers would be passed out on the rear benches and new recruits would be heaping their plates high, unaccustomed to the luxury of free mess. God, he missed it. Now it was impossible for him to go there without upsetting the peace. Overnight he’d gone from being a fellow brother-in-the-watch, to an intruder. When a surlord entered a room soldiers stood.

  And kept standing until you left.

  Turning a sharp right he headed across the dust field to the Cask. It was the principal fortified structure in the fortress—and therefore the entire city of Spire Vanis—and it housed the surlord’s official and private quarters. The walls were twenty feet thick at the base. Inside it was as cool and quiet as a mountain cave. The Splinter’s collapse had damaged the two other standing towers, cracking masonry, collapsing roofs and destroying struts, but the Cask had remained untouched. It was where Roland Stornoway had holed up during the first ten days of his regency as he claimed power in his son-in-law’s name.

  Marafice pressed a fist into his empty eye socket. Thinking about his father-in-law was not good for his sanity, yet he couldn’t figure out how to avoid it. The man was always there for one thing, wheezing and tap-tapping around the fortress on his canes. One look at the floor and you could see that he’d been here. The cane tips left tiny holes in the dust. Spying them, Marafice comprehended that Stornoway was ahead of him. The Lord of the High Granges had taken the Walk of Bastard Lords toward the surlord’s chambers, and had not returned. Marafice touched the grip of his sword and then slid his hand along the gear belt to the hand knife mounted in the small of his back. If pushed he could draw it left-handed.

  The Impaled Beasts of Spire Vanis, grotesquely cast in black iron, flickered in the torchlight as Marafice rounded the hall. Dragons, basilisks, werewolves, serpents, saber-tooth cats, moon snakes and dozens of nameless monsters had been rendered thrashing on sharpened poles. Legend held that the Founding Quarterlords had rid the Spire Valley of fearsome beasts before building the city at its head. Marafice didn’t know about that, but he understood well enough the message of the poles. Spire Vanis was a violent city. Rule it, and be prepared to put on a show. It wasn’t enough that your enemies died. They had to die in agony, in public, screaming your name.

  “My lord.”

  Caydis Zerbina, Iss’ former hand servant, stepped out of the surlord’s chambers and held open the door. Zerbina had continued his duties since Iss’ death, and Marafice wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Certainly it was good to have someone care for the fancy chains and silks of office, and discreetly bring food and drink and women when necessary, but it was a new and not entirely comfortable experience to have someone serve and anticipate your needs. In the past if he wanted a whore he’d walk to Cunt’s Street and buy one. If his kit needed cleaning he’d clean it. Now he couldn’t leave the fortress without an armed escort, and he had so many ceremonial robes and gewgaws that caring for them would take half of every day. At least Zerbina spared him that.

  He was a queer bird though, a brother of the Bone Temple, and you could never tell what he was thinking. His dark brown face with its striking features and high cheekbones remained still as Marafice approached. Long fingers pushed against the ironwood door.

  “Is Stornoway in there?” Marafice asked.

  Zerbina bowed his head. Mink oil in his hair flashed green.

  “How long?”

  Twenty, Zerbina mouthed.

  “Anyone else?”

  No.

  Marafice nodded. “Bring me ale . . . and a fresh cup.”

  The servant understood the urgency of this request and departed. It was, Marafice supposed, one of the benefits of inheriting Zerbina. He’d served one surlord; he knew the drill. If Stornoway had spent time alone in the chambers there was no telling what mischief had been done. Food and drink were not the only thing that could be spiked with poison. The vessels that bore them could be tainted too.

  Bracing himself for impact, Marafice entered the room.

  The first thing to hit him was the scent of burning amber. The fumes made his eye sting and set off tingles of pain in the cavities behind his nose. Knee-high smoke rippled ahead of him as he moved toward the fire. White coal burning in the grate released small, tooth-shaped flames. Roland Stornoway stood in front of them, poking the embers with one of his sticks.

  “Has Theron hit you up for cash yet?”

  Stornoway did not turn around as he spoke, and Marafice was forced to address the back of his bald head.

  “Theron gave a feast. He said nothing about cash.”

  The Lord of the High Granges cackled with delight. His small bent back huffed up and down and he had to work to stabilize himself with his canes. “Chair,” he commanded as he wobbled out of control.

  Fall and die, old man. Marafice couldn’t explain why he brought the chair anyway. Or maybe he could but it made him feel shame. After a lifetime obeying grangelords the habit was hard to kick. “Here. Sit,” he said, pushing
the chair seat into the back of Stornoway’s knees and forcing the man down.

  “Not so close to the fire,” Stornoway cried, lashing out with his right cane. The tip was smoking from the fire. It missed Marafice’s shin by half an inch.

  Grabbing hold of the seatback, Marafice dragged Stornoway and the chair away from the fireplace. The man weighed less than a bunch of twigs. Roland Stornoway had to be eighty years old. He might have shrunk in size and weight but what remained was so hard and sharp that it seemed far more dangerous than bulk. Marafice was quick to release him.

  Father-in-law. Marafice tested the phrase, hoping to find some sense in it. He was married to this man’s daughter. By seizing control of the fortress after Iss’ death, Stornoway had made it possible for Marafice to name himself surlord on his return from the clanholds. Trouble was Stornoway fancied that title himself. It hardly seemed possible—the man was hobbling into his ninth decade—but the truth was in his eyes. A gaze as shrewd and flat as a raptor’s pinned Marafice Eye.

  “When a grangelord feasts a surlord it means he wants something. In Philip Theron’s case he’s after cash. He’s broke. He’d been banking on the clanholds campaign to fill his coffers but we all know that ended duck’s arse up.”

  Marafice felt at a loss. Stornoway had that effect upon him. The man knew things—personal information about the grangelords that Marafice hadn’t figured out how to discover for himself. “Why didn’t Theron come out and ask me?”

  Stornoway answered this with a withering look that said everything about how the grangelords viewed their new surlord, the butcher’s son. “He’ll send a request to your Master of Purse.”

  “I won’t allow it. That bastard left us for dead in Ganmiddich, rode right off the field with the rest of them.”

  “Yet you managed to swallow his food without choking.”

  Thrusting away the words with his fist, Marafice stalked to the far side of the room. High-backed chairs carved from ebony and zebra-wood sat on a rug the size of a bull ring. Behind them a series of tapestries embroidered in red and gold depicted the military triumphs of Spire Vanis. Unframed and crudely nailed to the wall, their edges were curled and fraying. The hind legs of Callan Pengaron’s horse were gone, reduced to dangling thread. Marafice gave its rider another decade at most.