by J. V. Jones
After a while Mallin asked, “Have there been more attacks?”
“We’re bleeding to death. Every couple of nights we’re attacked, brothers are killed. I don’t know what the fuck to do.”
“Fight,” Mallin said quietly. “There are no choices here.”
Stillborn made a hard sound in his throat. Shadows settled into his scars like water finding its level in a trench. After a time he said, “Have you any word of Raif Sevrance or Addie Gunn?”
Mallin shrugged. “Never heard of them.”
Stillborn nodded softly, and Bram was struck by the idea that this man was accustomed to disappointment. For a while Stillborn tended the fire and the food. “Raif Sevrance could kill those . . . things,” the Maimed Man murmured, half to himself. “He knew what to do.”
Mallin changed the subject and began giving Stillborn news of the clanholds and the mountain cities. A new surlord, a Dhoone chief who had made himself a king.
Bram stopped listening. He was wondering where he’d heard the name Raif Sevrance before. With a small jolt of surprise he realized it belonged to the Hailsman who had killed four Bluddsmen outside of Duff’s after admitting to taking part in the slaughter of women and children on the Bluddroad. So he was a Maimed Man too? Bram took another swig from the flask.
The meal Stillborn prepared was good and surprisingly varied. Dates, almonds and dried apricots were heated in liquor and served over ptarmigan. Stillborn seemed pleased to see Bram eat and pushed the last of the dates on Bram’s plate. “I’ve been keeping them so long,” he said. “I’ve forgotten why I was keeping them.”
Bram resisted liking him. He thanked him coolly.
Stillborn breathed in the coolness and stood. “You’ll sleep in my quarters tonight. No doubt I’ll miss you tomorrow, so farewell.”
Bram was glad when he was gone. Carrying the torch, he headed into the cave. A quintain with a stuffed bear’s head nailed to the top was suspended from the rock ceiling. Farther inside, there was a bed stacked with dirty blankets, and a great pile of rusted armor, metalwork, dusty clothes and pieces of furniture with missing legs. Bram was so exhausted he didn’t bother conferring with Mallin about who would take the bed. He simply took it and slept.
Sunlight shining on his face woke him in the morning. Mallin was already up and awake. The ranger was boiling water for tea. It was about two hours past sunrise and Bram felt bad about sleeping late. Mallin appeared to be in no hurry, though and they sat and watched the mist burn off the clanholds as they breakfasted on leftover ptarmigan and way bread from Mallin’s pack.
Seen from the north the clanholds were impossibly beautiful. The hills and highlands were purple and blue in the haze, and glinting lines of silver told of streams and waterfalls and melt ponds. Bram felt a strong desire to protect them. All of them, all of the clans.
He didn’t want to look down and see the Rift, not then.
Mallin said, “Look along the cliff face to the east. Up a way. You see the door?”
Bram did.
“Find us a way to get there by the shortest route.”
They killed the fire, left a token of thanks for Stillborn—a silver thumb cup from Hannie May’s—gathered their belongings and made their way up from the cave. Bram was pleased with the task Mallin had given him and determined to do it well. The cliff wall was a like a termite mound. The ledges and cave mouths had no order and were staggered across dozens of different levels. Bram quickly realized that a direct route wouldn’t work. Even if you were on a ledge directly below the door you wouldn’t necessarily be able to reach it. It all depended on the network of rope ladders and hoists. Once they reached one of the main ledges Bram was able to walk to the edge and get a better look at the cliff wall. It was easy after that.
The secret was to go above the door and then drop down on to its ledge. Bram had them there within four minutes. “There’s normally a ladder here,” Bram said as they made the hard drop from a small outcrop about seven feet above the door. “See the marks where it should go?”
Mallin gave Bram one of his flat-lipped smiles. “Last time I was here it took me half an hour to reach the door.”
It was as close to praise as Mallin ever came. Bram beamed all the way to his eyeballs, and then tried not to show it. As they walked toward the door, he risked a question. “Must you come here often?”
The ranger’s nostrils flexed as he breathed in a great quantity of air. “More often than I used to.”
Bram thought that was it—answers that gave nothing away were Mallin’s stock-in-trade—but the ranger surprised him by continuing. “Need is greater. That’s more than a crack in the continent. It’s a split in the world. Things that should be sealed away are getting out. They’re escaping in handfuls now. Half a dozen here, half a dozen there. That will change. Have you ever seen a crack that didn’t get worse?” Mallin stopped and looked at Bram.
“No.”
The ranger’s yellow-green eyes darkened, and for a moment Bram wondered if Mallin hadn’t hoped against hope that Bram would reply “Yes” instead.
Mallin gathered his fear so completely he left no trace of it behind. “The crack’s running. If it gets deep enough the entire game changes. Right now we’re fighting the Unmade. Pray we do not have to fight their unmakers.”
Hairs on the back of Raif’s hands and neck rose. An updraft from the Rift rose in a shockwave, distorting the air in a great sheet. Bram smelled sulfur and something secret and almost sweet. He looked down and saw layer upon layer of rock disappearing into a thin black line.
“The Endlords are down there?” He hardly knew he had spoken.
“It’s one of the three places they will emerge if they break free of the Blind.”
Bram thought about this. So they weren’t down there, not really, but some sort of doorway was. “Where are the other places?”
“One is in the Want.”
Bram heard the slight rise in Mallin’s voice and knew what it meant. “The clanholds is the third place?”
Mallin nodded.
“Which clan?”
“We’re not sure.
“Could it be Dhoone?”
Mallin shrugged, but not lightly. “It’s one of the things we need to find out. Clans are notoriously bad at keeping records.” Seeing Bram’s expression, the ranger continued. “I would not lay coin on it being Dhoone. Unfortunately we lost two of our best people in the clanholds.”
Bram frowned. “How?”
The look Mallin gave him was a lesson in the Phage. It was a dangerous fellowship to be part of. People were killed, hurt. Lost.
The ranger began walking. “We must busy ourselves to make up for our losses.” Arriving at the gray door, he tapped softly, once.
A young woman opened the door. Her skin was olive-gold and her hair was glossily black. She looked boldly at Mallin and Bram but did not speak.
“We are here to see Thomas Argola,” Mallin told her.
“Then enter,” she said, moving only partly out of the way. Mallin slid past her without incident but Bram’s arm touched the curve of her breast. He colored hotly. The girl just looked at him. Bram didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so beautiful in his life.
“Hew. Bram. It’s good to see you.” Thomas Argola rose to meet them. He’d been sitting on cushions on the cave floor. Bram wondered why he hadn’t answered the door himself. “This is my sister, Mallia.”
The ranger showed her little interest beyond a curt nod. Bram wished her good day and then attempted to follow Mallin’s appearance of disinterest.
The girl wasn’t fooled.
By either of them.
Swaying perfectly curved hips, she sauntered across the chamber and disappeared behind an embroidered silk screen. Bram stared at the space she had just occupied. It seemed emptier than normal air.
“Sit. Drink.” Argola indicated the pile of cushions at the center of the space and then poured hot broth into three cups. “To luck,” he said handing cups to
Mallin and Bram. “When all else fails it must do.”
Mallin accepted the cup without seconding the toast so Bram did the same. The broth was sharp and salty. Bram held it under his chin and let the steam roll over his face.
“You spoke with Stillborn.” It was not a question but a request for information. Sitting cross-legged on the cushions, Argola appeared relaxed but Bram wondered if the outlander wasn’t holding himself a little too still.
Mallin made Argola wait on a response by taking a long draught of broth. “He is worried.”
“He has reason to be. We’ve lost seventy men and women in the past fifteen days. People are losing faith in him. He’s a hard worker and a good fighter but he doesn’t now how to lead.” Argola set down his cup and looked frankly and expectantly at the ranger.
Mallin pushed a hand though his finely braided hair. It looked to Bram as if he was assessing Argola. And finding him wanting.
“Have you word of Raif Sevrance?”
Mallin said, “The Sull have him.”
Bram concentrated on breathing—in and out, in and out—as he absorbed the evidence of Mallin’s deceit. The ranger had looked the leader of the Maimed Men in the eye and lied to him. Suddenly everything that had happened last night looked different. Stillborn’s dislike and distrust now seemed like a reasonable response to a snake in his house. Yet even wary as he was he’d still been fooled.
Mallin was that good.
You lose your clan, and then you keep on losing.
Stillborn hadn’t just been talking about the Maimed Men.
“There is more,” Mallin said. “Sevrance was taken by Yiselle No Knife and her Night Army.”
Muscles in Argola’s face slackened and the faintly amused expression he had worn since their arrival disappeared. “She’s barely Sull. He Who Leads expelled her from the Heart Fires. What’s she doing with Sevrance?”
“Breaking him. No Knife wants him in her army, riding at its head.”
Argola stood. He was clearly agitated. “She can’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Mallin’s yellow-green eyes lost focus for a moment. When he spoke again there was uncharacteristic heat in his voice. “They’re drugging him, isolating him. Playing with his mind. She wants him so far gone that he no longer knows who he is.”
“How could he fight in such a state?”
“How did Raven Lord fight? By most accounts he was insane at the end.”
Bram shuddered. He hardly knew what was he was hearing, but he understood there was horror here. Sull were torturing a clansman. And these two men, the ranger and the outlander, were not nearly as outraged as they should be.
As he looked from Mallin to Argola he saw the embroidered screen move. Argola’s sister was listening. Quickly Bram glanced at Mallin, but the ranger was speaking and did not appear to notice.
“No Knife will use Sevrance to gain power. When she’s finished with him he’ll slay the Unmade better than any Sull. With Mor Drakka in her army, others will join her. She will win victories. He Who Leads will not be able to compete with her. He’ll lose standing and power. And when he’s weak enough, she’ll strike and take his place.”
Argola said, “Does Sevrance have the sword?”
“He took it from the ice. Yes.”
There was a draw in the cave, Bram noticed. He felt its cool, upward current on his skin. Argola was standing close to the door, a slight man, plainly dressed with something that looked like victory in his blood-flecked eyes.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“In the Sway, northeast of Bludd.”
Calculation passed like a tremor across the outlander’s face. “You did not tell Stillborn?”
Mallin shook his head. “You could send five hundred Maimed Men there—they’d all die.”
“And you need us here, don’t you? We’re your early warning, your bird in the mine.”
Bram’s head was reeling. The air in the cave was turning, spiraling as it rose toward the natural flue in the rock ceiling. He was only just beginning to understand the stakes the Phage played with. Argola wasn’t Phage. They used him—wasn’t that the point of the visit? Argola used them right back. It was a network, like the ledges, and you might be able to see where you wanted to go but there was no straight line to get there. Both of them—Mallin and Argola—were taking winding paths.
One thing was certain: Both of them wanted control of the clansman, Raif Sevrance. Yet the Sull had him.
And what the Sull had they never gave back.
Argola said, “What number does No Knife command?”
“A hundred.”
Silence followed as both men gave the number its due. If it were clansmen or city men it would mean nothing. But Sull, on their home territory: a hundred were a wall of swords. Mallin had been protecting Stillborn then? If the leader of the Maimed Men went east to fetch Raif Sevrance, chances were high he wouldn’t come back. Yet even that protection could be manipulation. If Argola was right, Mallin needed the Maimed Men to be strong.
Bram let all possibilities float in his mind. He was beginning to understand that there were things he might never know for sure. Looking up, he saw a sliver of Mallia Argola’s face in deep shadow behind the screen. Their gazes met and Mallia put a slender, painted finger to her lips.
Everyone here was working their own angle. How could you know who was right or wrong?
“We have a problem then,” Argola said, gathering the cups and copper kettle. “We can’t help him so we must wait.”
“He should not have been there.” Mallin suddenly looked dangerous, like a fighter displaying his knives. “The Sull cannot bear him. They believe he will end their existence. How do you imagine they will treat him?”
Argola showed some weaponry of his own. Bram did not know how he did it, but something in the outlander shifted and the slight figure in the brown robe became a sorcerer. His eyes glittered and his fingertips moved in a way that looked barely human. “He had to possess the sword.”
“Swords kill. As long as a blade is sharp one will do as well as another.”
Argola smiled at this. “Really, Hew Mallin of the Long Watch. Would you take that very sharp sword of yours into battle with an Endlord?”
There were no longer two men in the chamber. There were two forces, standing off against each other. Bram realized he had made the mistake of assuming that Mallin, and therefore the Phage, was the superior power. He was wrong. Argola commanded something equally ancient and knowing.
Mallin gave under its force. “What is done is done.”
Argola nodded in acknowledgment, and instantly whatever willpower or real power he had spooled into the room was retracted. “We watch and wait?”
The question sounded like an offering to Bram; a magnanimous victor sharing his spoils. Mallin shrugged. He looked old and weary and ready to leave. “We prepare.”
“Mor Drakka fighting for the Sull is still Mor Drakka.”
Mallin swung a hand into the air, pushing back Argola’s words. “No Knife is renegade Sull. She’s half insane, and she’s attracted the worst kind of followers. I would not wish her on my enemy.”
Argola did not disagree. Crossing to the door, he said, “We would all wish it different.”
Mallin studied him a long time, and then stood. Bram followed. He waited for the ranger to say something but Mallin did not speak. Argola’s words gained weight in the silence.
The outlander opened the door.
“He’s a Hailsman.” Bram hadn’t known he was going to speak until his mouth opened. “He has clan and kin.”
Argola and the ranger looked at him. Again, there was nothing more to say.
Bram stepped out into the cool brightness of a spring day. Not wanting to hear whatever words of parting the two men would say to one another, Bram walked to the edge of the cliff.
He stood there and did not think. Then, with slow deliberation, he unsheathed Robbie’s great two-handed longsword and threw it
into the Rift.
CHAPTER 19
A Day in the Marshes
CHEDD’S CHIN WASN’T looking good. The cut under his jaw was black and wet-looking and his entire lower face looked puffy. His hands went to the wound constantly. “Doesn’t feel right, Eff.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” she told him impatiently. “Swelling’s a natural response to injury.”
“But that was five days ago.”
Effie couldn’t think of a reply to that so she changed the subject. “It’s stopped raining. Let’s see if we can get outside.”
Chedd frowned. “But we’re supposed to be on pump duty.”
“You’re too sick and I’m too . . . small.”
“Buckler will come and find us.”
“Let him. What did he do when he found you sneaking fishcakes from the kitchen the other night?”
“Put me on pump duty.” Chedd thought about this for a minute, then grabbed his cloak. “Let’s go.”
The Grayhouse was dripping. The clinker blocks were like sponges that had absorbed their capacity and were now leaking. It had rained for the past four days, a cold icy curtain that hammered the marshwater into an unreflective surface and flattened great saddles of reeds. The Salamander Door was open and no one appeared to be on guard duty, so Chedd and Effie made a run for it.
Outside, the wind was up, pushing water against the roundhouse’s platforms and blowing the flames off the gas vents. Men and women were out in the thin, peapod-shaped boats that were used to navigate the narrow channels of the Reed Way. The women were clearing reeds from the lake, a job that was done from dawn to dusk every day. The lake surrounding the roundhouse was the only open water for leagues. It was a precious commodity, ever-threatened by invasive, choking reeds. Clansmen were out trapping birds and game. Unlike other clans, trapping was men’s work here. Big, complicated bamboo-and-bulrush cages were floated onto the islands and out into the sea of reeds. Effie spotted a man wearing green-dyed muskrat skins in one of the trapping boats.
