Watcher Of The Dead (Book 4)

by J. V. Jones

  He decided it must be close to midnight, yet the inn was still doing fair business. People came and left. Someone picked out a tune on a stringboard. Janus Shoulder sent a boy to replace the wick in the lamp. Mallin stretched into the corner and nodded off. Bram couldn’t imagine resting. The cloak alone prevented sleep.

  Another hour or so passed and the inn grew quieter. Bram could no longer hear the party of black-aproned girls. He would have liked some water but didn’t want to ask. Mallin was snoring lightly, but instantly came awake when the hard rap of booted footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Pulling himself upright, he winked at Bram.

  “Here we go.”

  A man with a drawn sword, wearing a cloak of glazed red leather entered the alcove. “Weapons on the table,” he said evenly.

  Mallin detached his scabbard and knife holster, so Bram did the same. The red cloak collected the weapons, then did a little motion with his finger, indicating that Bram should pull back his cloak for inspection. Bram obliged. The red cloak was the kind of seasoned veteran that clansmen could understand.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Bram Cormac.”

  It meant nothing to the red cloak. “Wait here.”

  He left. Bram heard footsteps, about three pairs of them, and voices. Someone grunted and then a single pair of footsteps pounded toward the alcove.

  Marafice Eye, the Surlord of Spire Vanis and Master of its Four Gates, stepped from behind the screen. Bram knew him straightaway. His size was legendary, as was the dead, exposed socket of his left eye. Bram couldn’t help himself, he began to stand. This was the man who had broken the Crab Gate. In the clanholds he was known as the Spire King.

  Marafice Eye swiped a fist as big as a dog toward him. “Dammit don’t rise, boy. I swear I’m sick of the drafts.” Easing himself onto the bench next to Bram, he said with some feeling, “Mallin.”

  The ranger replied “Eye.” Neither man was smiling.

  Janus Shoulder entered the alcove and deposited a bowl of food and a tin spoon before the Surlord. Immediately Marafice Eye began to eat, wolfing down what appeared to Bram to be ham and beans. He was the biggest man Bram had ever seen, seven feet tall and built like a block. He was dressed in something fancy beneath a plain black wool cloak. A large gold ring carved with the image of a Killhound rampant glittered on his middle finger, left hand. The Seal of Spire Vanis.

  The innkeeper brought beer, three mugs of it, checked on his surlord’s progress with the beans and then withdrew. Bram recalled that Marafice Eye was a butcher’s son. That would explain his ease here.

  “I hear they’re setting for the mother of all dog fights in the clans.” The surlord spoke between mouthfuls of food. “Mad bastards are all going to kill themselves.”

  Mallin said, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  Marafice Eye looked up at that. “Is that right, eh? Has the Phage picked who it would like to win?”

  The ranger held up his hands. “In God’s, not mine.”

  Eye chuckled. He pushed away his bowl. “Clan?” he asked.

  It took Bram a moment to realize the surlord was addressing him. He nodded.

  “And why the pretty cloak?”

  Bram opened his mouth to speak, but Mallin didn’t allow him the chance.

  “He’s brother to Robbie Dun Dhoone.”

  The surlord swiveled on the bench to get a better look. “Is that right?”

  Bram drew air through his teeth. He threw a glance at Mallin. The ranger calmly met his eye.

  Marafice Eye didn’t miss any of this. He spent a moment looking carefully at Bram, and then turned to his beer.

  Pushing both palms against his beer mug, Bram tried to anchor himself. He was spinning. Stupidly he had imagined that Mallin had recruited him into the Phage because he knew how to handle himself in tricky situations, like with the Dog Lord and Skinner Dhoone. Now he was beginning to see things differently. There were plenty of boys in the clanholds who were smarter than he was, but none of them were brothers to the Dhoone King. What if Marafice Eye were right? What if the Phage had picked a winner at Ganmiddich and that winner was Dhoone? How useful would it be to have the winner’s brother in your pocket?

  Bram took a drink of beer, studying Mallin through the foam. The ranger had just used Bram’s kinship to his advantage, hauling it onto the table to give himself and this meeting more weight.

  Bram thought about the well.

  Two ledges down, not one.

  Marafice Eye pushed his empty beer mug the way of the bowl. “So,” he said to Mallin. “What do you want?”

  “I want the four hostages you took at Ganmiddich.”

  The surlord did not bother to cover his surprise. The eyebrow above the dead eye went up. “The clansmen?”

  “Yes. Two Hailsmen, two Crabmen.”

  Marafice Eye puffed air through his lips as he thought about this. “You’re not the first to want them.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yelma Scarpe tried to take them off my hands.” Something unpleasant happened to the surlord’s face as he thought about the Weasel chief. “I didn’t let her have them.”

  “I’m not Yelma Scarpe.”

  The surlord did not appear convinced of that. “What do you want with them?”

  Mallin shrugged. “A little bargaining power. Grease for the wheels. They’ll be returned to the clanholds in the end.”

  “All of them?

  This seemed to Bram an especially penetrating question. He would be willing to bet on Mallin’s answer being a lie.

  “All. If Blackhail and its allies triumph at Ganmiddich they’ll be used to sweeten relations.”

  “And if Blackhail and Ganmiddich lose?”

  “They won’t be sold to Dhoone.”

  Marafice Eye leaned back on the bench. Bram sensed that he was withdrawing his curiosity, that to probe any further would not serve the surlord if he wanted to strike a deal. You could almost tell what he was thinking. Two parties had negotiated for these men: what were they worth?

  Despite everything, Bram felt his excitement rising. This was where he wanted to be, in places like this at times like this, where decisions were made and deals were struck that altered the world. The Phage might use him but look what they paid in return. Who else was sitting next to a surlord to night? Who else was party to such a meeting?

  The inn was very quiet. A timber ticked in the ceiling. Marafice Eye drew air deep into his chest and held it there like a thought.

  Meeting gazes with Hew Mallin he exhaled slowly and said, “Kill Roland Stornoway for me.”

  Mallin did not hesitate. “Done.”

  For a moment the surlord looked abashed, like a dog that had been wrestling for something only to have its opponent release it unexpectedly. He said, “It must not appear to come from me.”

  “Of course.”

  “And it must be soon. That man has tried to kill me twice.”

  “Within ten days,” Mallin promised.

  Blood began to pump at force through Bram’s head as he realized the implication of this statement.

  The surlord stood. The table legs scraped across the floor. “Come see me when it’s done.”

  The ranger rested his cool gaze on the surlord. “We will.”

  The surlord grunted and left. Several pairs of footsteps pounded along the corridor and then the inn lapsed into silence.

  Bram stared at the table. He was aware that Mallin was waiting for him to look up, to confirm his readiness for the latest task, but he needed a moment to think.

  We will.

  We.

  This wasn’t two ledges down. This was cold-blooded assassination: it was a plunge to the bottom of the well.

  Bram thought about his brother, thought about what Robbie would do if he were in Bram’s place. Robbie stopped at nothing to get what he wanted: the end justified all means.

  Bram Cormac met Hew Mallin’s gaze across the table at the Butcher’s Rest. He was Phage. The decisi
on made itself.

  Bram unclasped the Dhoone cloak and let the heavy fabric fall to the floor.

  The next day he began his training. Mallin said there was currently a shortage of trained assassins in the North.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Night River

  ASH MOUNTAIN BORN was beginning to suspect something and as Zaya and the Trenchlander pushed off the barge, she thought about what it would mean if it were true.

  It would change everything.

  Zaya Mistwalker clambered onto the barge as it moved from the shore. The Trenchlander pushed it farther, wading thigh-deep into the water until the current caught the craft. Ash felt the tug of it, felt the massive power of the tow. She experienced a moment of unease as she realized the raft was at the mercy of the current, and then the Trenchlander released his grip and the barge and its three occupants, two alive and one dead, moved smoothly downstream.

  The Night River was two leagues wide here. Its sparkling black surface was alive with birds and insects. Herons claimed shallow banks in the river’s center, and swans floated on slow currents close to its black shale shores. Geese and ducks ran ahead of the barge, racing into flight. Clouds of mayflies hung above the surface, and damselflies, dragonflies and blowflies flitted through the river-pushed air.

  Ash reclined in the cushioned barge seat, feeling like a queen. Zaya was behind her, working the tiller, and Mor Xana was standing on the barge’s front edge, silently watching the way ahead. Khal Blackdragon had commanded him to be her ghost. During the thirteen days she had been at the Heart Fires, Mor Xana had rarely left her side. Ash did not know who he guarded.

  Just like a child queen, she was dangerous and in danger.

  It was late afternoon and light left the river as they floated south. Other craft, boats and barges and sculls, had taken to the water. More were being launched from the shore. All carried lamps that burned with the pure white light of the Heart Fires. The Sull were creating their own moon this night.

  “It is said it takes a thousand fires to make a moon,” Zaya had told Ash earlier. “If we take to the water and our fires are reflected we pray the moon we make will be full.”

  Ash thought about that as the sky darkened and the silent, grave Sull lit the river with boats. She was not the only one here living in fear. It was a new moon tonight, which meant there was no moon. The Sull were warding against forces that moved in its absence.

  The Unmade.

  Hugging a pillow close to her belly, Ash floated through the Heart of Sull. Their fortresses were set amid icewoods at the river shore. They were unlit and Ash believed unused. The Sull preferred to live in tents or out in the open. Only winter storms sent them inside.

  A horn note sounded, long and low to the water. Others followed and a solemn and sad music played, like the moan of human voices.

  Ash turned to Zaya. “Why do they play?”

  The young woman was crouching by the tiller. Her black hair fell unbound to her waist. She was dressed plainly in deerhide pants and tunic. A large white stone hung from a silver chain at her throat. “We mourn,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Our own who held themselves separate and now are dead.”

  Ash heard steel in the Sull’s voice. “I don’t understand.”

  Zaya pushed the tiller, guiding the barge into the slow water midriver where a gravel bank broke the shore. Other boats were slowing too and the music soared as the horn blowers gathered around the island.

  As she steered, Zaya said, “My grandmother, the Longwalker, had a sister who was named Lea Night Heron. Night Heron stole my grandmother’s mate and had a son and a daughter. The daughter was named Yiselle No Knife. Some might call her my aunt. I do not—did not. She is dead. And those that followed her are dead also. We mourn for a hundred this night.”

  Ash said quietly, “I am sorry.”

  Zaya gave her a heartbreakingly lovely smile. “It is difficult, for No Knife was Sull and she was loved and needed, but she was rival to my father and he did not agree with how she chose to arm her fight.”

  “What did she do?”

  Zaya’s eyes were the exact same color as the Night River. They were liquid and beautiful but the face surrounding them was stone. “She tried to claim something that was not and could never be Sull.”

  Hairs along Ash’s spine, arms and neck rose. She fought to stop herself from shivering, hugging the cushion close. Zaya was watching her intently. Ash glanced at Mor Xana. The ghost was standing with his back to them, his paired swords forming an X.

  Unable to help herself, Ash said, “How did they die?”

  “This Sull will not speak of that.”

  Ash felt as if she had been warned. Something that was and could never be Sull. Had Zaya meant those words for her?

  It was hard to enjoy the evening after that. Even when the Sull came together at the end of the island and roped their boats into a single, circular mass, she found it hard to enter the spirit of the ceremony.

  As hundreds of boats floated as one on the Night River, creating a reflection of a moon that did not exist, Ash Mountain Born realized she was alone.

  Later they walked the nine leagues back to the center of the camp. The forest was cool and alive with bats, and lines of mist smoked from the icewoods. Ash found herself positioned close to the head of the procession and wondered if an honor was intended. Possibly it meant nothing at all. She still did not know the Sull well enough to make that judgment.

  When she arrived at her tent she was light-headed with weariness and hunger. Zaya, who had walked at her side most of the way, commanded water and food from one of the Trenchlander servants. Her concern appeared genuine. She took a bowl of warm water and a cloth and wetted Ash’s brow as Ash lay resting. “This Sull feels foolish,” Zaya said. “She should have told you to prepare for the long walk home.”

  Did everything have two meanings this night? Or was she being too sensitive?

  Snuggling under blankets as light and warm as summer air, Ash decided she was too tired to worry, closed her eyes and slept.

  She awoke at some point in the night. She was alone. A single lamp burned on the tent floor. The food Zaya had brought—smoked salmon, flatbread soaked in honey, and dried cherries stuffed with nuts—lay on a wood platter in the center of the tent. Ash ate hungrily. The cherries were bitter and sweet. She finished everything and then drank water from the jug. Afterward she thought she’d better head to the latrine and pee before returning to sleep, so she pulled on her cloak and boots and left the tent.

  Mor Xana was sitting outside on a carpet of silver tissue. He rose as she walked past him. His hand descended into the space his body had just occupied, pulling up the carpet as he left. Ash was no longer surprised by his presence, though she did wonder if he ever slept. Together they walked the short distance to the screened-off area where latrines had been dug to service the tents in Khal Blackdragon’s tent circle.

  Ash had brought the lamp and she set it on the floor as she relieved herself. Mor Xana waited on the other side of the screen. You could almost hear him listening.

  To surprise him Ash decided to walk down to the water. It wasn’t far and she was beginning to feel awake.

  Sull were asleep in their tents. A few were at their fires, sitting on the ground in silence as they awaited dawn. Moths fluttered through the camp, winking in and out of the darkness like stars. Ash descended to the shore. The shale crunched beneath her feet, and she noted that although the ghost’s footsteps were lighter than her own she could still hear them.

  She suspected he had been instructed to slay her the moment she began to reach.

  The fortress dome built from milkstone glowed against the blackness of the river and Ash headed toward it. She was still waiting on a summons from Khal Blackdragon. She had seen him several times since her arrival but never alone. He Who Leads had asked her a question at that first meeting and there was no doubt in her mind he required an answer. Can the Reach control hers
elf? Was he giving her time to achieve that? Or was he simply watching her and judging for himself?

  She didn’t know. She thought perhaps she was safe until he called her into his presence for an accounting. Until then she had time to observe and learn about the Sull.

  Zaya had been helpful, and had shown her many things. Yesterday they had crossed the river and ridden south along its east bank. They had passed several settlements, the bony ruins of the Moon Palace, and a giant bowl-like crater that had been excavated for meteor steel. In the far south she had seen the cinder cone of a defunct volcano so high it was still clad in snow. Zaya called it Moll’a Orko, Sleeping Bear, and said smoke rose from it once a year. The young Sull was prepared to answer questions, but there was usually a point where she closed down conversation, making it clear she no longer wished to speak. Was she holding secrets or simply being Sull? Ash wasn’t sure.

  She wished the Naysayer had not left. “I will return,” he told her four days ago at dawn. “Hold yourself until then.”

  He had gone south to visit Ark Veinsplitter’s birth camp. It was his duty and honor, he told her. Ark’s father and sister still lived there and the Naysayer must be the one to bring news of their beloved’s death. It was owed. Ark had been Mal Naysayer’s brother-in-arms, his hass.

  Not for the first time Ash wondered about the Naysayer’s instruction. Hold yourself. Would he have spoken those same words to anyone else?

  As she skirted the base of the dome Ash startled a pair of nesting geese. As they honked at her indignantly, she saw they had eggs. The female spread its wings and began to chase her. Ash darted to the side, and the female who was indignant and raring for battle turned her attention to the ghost. She charged him. Ash grinned. Here was proof Mor Xana wasn’t wholly dead.

  Shale tumbled as softly as a key turning in a lock. A figure rounded the curve of the dome. Ash knew its identity straightaway. The shape of the shoulders, the bearing of the head. It was Lan Fallstar. The last time she had seen him was at the Fortress of the Hard Gate when he had directed two Sull to kill her and then fled.