A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Raina shivered. She was afraid, and she had run out of words to argue with this woman. When Effie’s voice came from outside she was relieved.

  “Drey! Raina, it’s Drey!”

  Mad Binny had the decency to look only slightly triumphant.

  Raina Blackhail left her and went outside to greet Drey.

  TEN

  Condemned Men

  Penthero Iss stood on a stone platform cushioned with silk and horse hides, waiting to sentence a grangelord death. The man was charged with high treason, and so rightly the trial and the execution should have been held within Mask Fortress, and the man’s head laid upon the obsidian block known as Traitor’s Doom. But Iss, Surlord of Spire Vanis, Lord Commander of the Rive Watch, Keeper of Mask Fortress and Master of the Four Gates, had thought to assemble a larger crowd. You could only fit so many bystanders into the quad. Whereas the Quarter Square spread out before Iss, with its circle of gibbets know as the Dreading Ring, its baiting pits, statue garden, market stalls, cattle folds, gaming courts and slave blocks, could accommodate half a city.

  And today it nearly did. Even though the sky was steel gray and a high wind was blowing off Mount Slain, the city had come out in force. Thousands of merchants, apprentices, laborers, prostitutes, priests, pot boys, mercenaries and lords milled around in the great expanse of the square, growing restless. They had eaten from the cook stalls, gamed at dice and sticks, drunk beer and strong white liquor, inspected the corpses strung high on the gibbets, watched the spectacle of a hundred grangelords assembling on the steps of the Quarter Court, and now they were ready for blood.

  Iss sympathized with them. John Rullion, the High Examiner, was reading a list of the charges, and the man’s dour and powerful voice rose high above the noise of the wind. “Maskill Boice, Lord of the Hunted Granges, and Master of the River Crossing at Stye, you are here today charged with high treason against the lord of this city and its people. Knowingly you met with others at the Dog’s Head in Almstown, and knowingly you plotted to assassinate the surlord on the last day of Mourns as he made his progress through the city, bequeathing alms. Seventeen days later you made contract with Black Dan, master bowman of Ille Glaive, and paid him ten gold rods for his service. Furthermore, on the same day you reached agreement with the coarsehouse bawd Hester Fay, otherwise known as Big Hetty, thereby allowing Black Dan use of her three-storeyed house on the Spireway, which overlooks the surlord’s progress, in return for a payment of six silver spoons. How say you?”

  The crowd stilled, restless and ready for anger. Corpses on the gibbets swung wildly in the rising wind as the throng waited to hear what the accused man would say.

  Maskill Boice stood at the foot of the Quarter Court, an iron collar around his neck that ran chains down to his wrists and ankles and forced him to keep his head up. Boice was a big man turned fleshy, with the high color of one who drank too much and the contemptuous sneer of a grangelord. He had been held in custody for the customary twelve days, and Iss had made sure the man was well treated, even going so far as to have Caydis Zerbina deliver cooked pheasants, fortified wines and hothouse plums to his cell. Caydis had also seen to his attire, ensuring that of all the grangelord’s considerable wardrobe, it was the richest, finest cloths he wore today. Rubies glittered on the grangelord’s doublet, and the unmistakable opulence of ocelot could be seen lining his cloak.

  It was an interesting picture he made, standing there below his fellow grangelords. There could be no denying Maskill Boice was one of them, with his riches and arrogance displayed for all to see. Indeed, if it weren’t for the matter of his chains he might simply have mounted the steps and taken his place amongst them. And Penthero Iss sincerely doubted that this irony went unnoticed by the crowd. They knew a rich lordling when they saw one.

  By contrast, Iss was dressed moderately, his robe of swans-down a stark gray trimmed with executioner’s black. At his back Marafice Eye was cloaked in maroon leathers that had seen battle and hard travel in their day.

  The Commander General of the Rive Watch had brought his men out in force for the trial, and the deep red of their forge cloaks could be seen in numbers, patrolling the crowd. Iss was gratified by their presence. The population of the city had swelled these past months, taking in mercenary companies, men-at-arms, knights, footmen, sappers, engineers, armorers, and every farmer’s son within five hundred leagues who thought to make his fortune seizing battle trove rather than sowing grain.

  Marafice Eye was doing as he had promised at midwinter: raising an army to invade the clanholds in late spring.

  Iss was well pleased with what his Knife had accomplished so far. Camps had been established to the north of the city: makeshift towns where men lived under canvas and spoiled the neighboring fields. Training was under way, with large groups of men-at-arms being drilled in how to fight in formation with shields and spears, and raids for provisions and arms had been mounted as far east as the Hound’s Wall. Still, there was danger in having so many free lances in the city. Danger also in those hundred grangelords assembled in costly splendor upon the Quarter Court’s limestone steps. And a wise man could see further danger in Marafice Eye and his red cloaks.

  All in all, Spire Vanis was a hazardous place to be in.

  And for no one was that more true than for Maskill Boice.

  The accused man looked defiant, rattling his chains as he declared himself innocent of the charges. Iss felt Boice’s gaze come to rest upon him, challenging him to meet his eye, but Iss was not about to engage in such theatrics. It was time to move the proceedings along. He nodded once to John Rullion.

  “Bring forth the witnesses,” ordered the High Examiner in response. Rullion was a hard man, not gently born, and he bore no love for the grangelords. His arrogance came from his belief in the One God, and although he had been High Examiner since the time of Borhis Horgo and had amassed vast wealth over the past thirty years, he still dressed like a priest.

  Two brothers-in-the-watch brought forth the whore, handling her with some care as they knew her to be a favorite with the crowd.

  Hester Fay winked at Marafice Eye as she passed him, drawing a great guffaw from the front ranks. She was a large woman, dark and bejeweled like a gypsy, with hoops in her ears and a bodice perilously laced. She had the audacity to call the High Examiner by his first name and ask him how his gout was faring, as she’d heard he’d had an attack at midwinter.

  The High Examiner kept his dignity by ignoring her remarks and clearing his throat. The crowd quieted in anticipation: a priest examining a whore. This should be high sport.

  “Hester Fay. Do you recognize this man before you?”

  “I do.” A small adjustment to her bodice accompanied the words, bringing forth cheers of appreciation. “Used to come into my establishment every week, he did. Liked ’em young. Willing to pay for ’em, too. And let me tell you, those kind don’t come cheap.”

  “What about you, Hetty?” cried someone from the crowd.

  Big Hetty thrust out her hips. “Darlin’, you can have me for two silver spoons!”

  The crowd roared with laughter, pushing and jostling for positions closer to the steps. Iss suppressed a smile. This was going very well. Who could have guessed the whore would be so amusing?

  “Quiet!” commanded the High Examiner. His authority was such that he was immediately obeyed, and his voice soared into the growing silence. “Is it true, Hester Fay, that Maskill Boice caused you to come to the Dog’s Head seventeen days back, and there requested that you rent one of your upper rooms to the bowman, Black Dan?”

  The whore nodded. “That he did. Though I can’t say as I knew Black Dan for a bowman at the time. Master Boice said he was a carpenter, lately come from the Glaive, who had need of a small room.”

  “And was Maskill Boice particular in his request for a room?”

  “That he was. Wanted Kitty’s room, right at the top o’ the house, with the overlook to the Spireway.”

  The crowd drew
breath. All knew the surlord was due to ride the length of the Spireway the next morning.

  The High Examiner, sensing triumph, moved quickly to finish Boice off. “And when did you learn that Black Dan was indeed a bowman, not a carpenter as reported?”

  Big Hetty looked contrite. She appealed to the crowd. “Well, you know how it is when a stranger moves in. You don’t know him, you’re worried about your girls. Has he got the means to pay? It’s only natural you’d want to inquire into his finances. All I did was slip into his room when he was out taking his supper—just a quick look through his effects.”

  “And you found the crossbow?”

  “Aye. A real big ’un. All fancy, with a hand crank and trigger. And ten good quarrels with barbed heads.”

  The crowd erupted into a frenzy, drawing weapons and stamping their feet. Marafice Eye made a spreading gesture with his gloved hand, signaling a thousand red cloaks to close ranks around the square. Right on cue the chant began and was quickly picked up by the masses, becoming a thunderous roar for justice. Kill Boice! Kill Boice!

  Iss kept himself still. It was a nice touch, those ten barbed quarrels. The whore had earned her money well.

  On the steps of the Quarter Court the grangelords grew pale with fury. They were powerful in their granges—those vast ranging estates they held outside the city—but when faced with an angry mob they were vulnerable. The people loved them not, and from time to time it served a surlord well to remind them of that fact.

  Iss looked over their ranks. All the great houses were there: Crieff, Stornoway, Mar, Gryphon, Pengaron. And Hews. There he was, that young princeling Garric Hews, with the badges of his granges surmounted on his shoulder-guards, and the sword named for his great-grandfather strapped to his muscled thigh. The Whitehog. He was the only one of the hundred who had had the forethought to wear armor this day.

  Iss felt the familiar burn of resentment as he looked over at the Lord of the Eastern Granges, a mere boy of eighteen, untested in battle and statecraft, yet so certain of his own worth. House Hews was ancient, stretching back to the time of the Quarterlords, when Harlech Hews bore the standard for the Bastard Lord Torny Fyfe. Harlech had been granted lands along the Sheerway following the Founding Wars, and his ancestors had been adding to their holdings every since. Rannock, Owaine, Halder, Connor, Harlech the Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth and Sixth: all had amassed wealth and titles for the house. And all had been Surlord before Iss. Now this arrogant son-of-the-Hewses thought it was his birthright to take Iss’s place.

  Raising his hand high, Iss brought the attention of half a city upon himself. Watch very carefully, Garric Hews. Maskill Boice’s fate might be yours one day.

  “Grangelords!” Iss commanded the hundred men on the steps. “What is your decision: freedom or sword?”

  The grangelords stared at Iss with fury. They were trapped, and they knew it. Only grangelords could stand in judgment of high treason, and here they were forced to judge one of their own. They did not like it. Most surlords would have taken justice into their own hands and had their attempted assassin summarily executed. But not Iss. He would make a show out of this. The whole of Spire Vanis would learn just what they risked if they lifted a finger against him.

  Ballon Troak, Lord of Almsgate, stepped forward from the grangelords’ ranks. Troak was grossly fat and dressed in sparkling green samite. He held one of the oldest granges within the city and was not so easily intimidated by angry mobs. “Surlord,” he said in his high, nasal voice. “Surely you know we need more evidence before we condemn a man to the sword. Where is this bowman, Black Dan? Bring him forth. Let him be examined before the city.”

  Iss let his face show no emotion. The crowd had grown settled again, and the chant of Kill Boice! was nearly lost to the wind. Pointedly, Iss let his gaze rise to the nearest of the six gibbets where the headless remains of a man were strung. “There’s your bowman, Lord of Almsgate. Perhaps you should ask him how he lost his head.”

  Uneasy laughter rippled through the crowd. Blood rushed to Ballon Troak’s cheeks. “You dare to take—”

  “I dare much,” Iss hissed, directing his voice solely to the grangelords. “Be grateful I don’t dare more.” Then, to one of the pages, “Bring the bowman’s weapon. Hold it up for all to see.”

  The weapon, a fine crossbow made from costly limewood varnished to a high sheen, drew murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. When a second page raised the arrows, they went wild. Ten deadly points, barbed and of Glavish design, just as the whore had said. Stronger than ever, the chant was renewed. Kill Boice! Kill Boice!

  He’s mine now. Satisfied but unsmiling, Iss returned his attention to the grangelords. “I ask again. How find you? Freedom or sword?”

  Sword! Sword! Sword! screamed the crowd.

  The grangelords moved to form a rough circle on the steps. Fergus Hurd, Lord of the Fire River Granges, and appointed Speaker, went from man to man, collecting pieces of killhound bone from each. White for freedom. Red for the sword. Iss could hear them rattle in the Speaker’s silk pouch, watched as the Whitehog unclenched his fist and added his bird bone to the tally. When the hundred lords had cast their ballots, the Speaker descended the steps and came to stand before the accused.

  Maskill Boice’s head was high, but there was fear in his pale blue eyes. The rubies set into his doublet glittered in time to the pumping of his heart. Fergus Hurd was old and white-haired, yet he still had power in him . . . and he would not look Maskill Boice in the eye.

  As the Speaker shook the silk pouch the city stilled. The mob ceased chanting and the dogs stopped barking. Even the wind died down. Fergus Hurd spoke into the silence, his voice sharp and bitter as he repeated the old words. “The grangelords are servants of the surlord, and the surlord is servant of the city. We speak in the voice of our forebears and we mete justice on behalf of Spire-Vanis.” With that he pulled the pouch open and cast its contents at the prisoner’s feet. Bones rattled and jumped. The crowd pushed forward to see. “Look you, Maskill Boice,” directed the Speaker. “Count the bones that speak your fate.”

  Red, all red. Iss let out a heavy sigh of relief. Strange, he had not realized he had been holding his breath. He had known all along the grangelords would not dare defy him before an angry and indignant mob. But still. You could not be Surlord in Spire Vanis without knowing uncertainty. It was a quicksilver city, and its loyalties ran with the wind.

  Sword! Sword Sword! shrieked the crowd.

  Iss shivered. The triumph had gone out of him, and all that was left was the need to see this thing through. “Examiner!” he commanded. “Bring forth the mask.”

  Hearing the command, Maskill Boice began to scream. Awkwardly, with movements hampered by his leg-irons, he kicked at the bones at his feet. “Cowards!” he screamed at the grangelords. “Spineless fools! You’ll be next!”

  Iss barely heard him. His gaze had been caught by one of the bones that Maskill had sent flying toward the surlord’s platform. White, not red; it must have been buried beneath the rest. Immediately, Iss looked up—to see Garric Hews watching him. The man who had named himself the Whitehog was dark and compact, with hair cropped to a soldier’s shortness, and the unjeweled fingers of a man who expected to use his sword at short notice. Almost the name did not fit him . . . until you saw the craving in his small black eyes. With an elegant gesture, he bowed low to the surlord, acknowledging the white bone to be his.

  So he has declared himself against me. Iss returned the man’s gaze coolly, not bothering to return the bow. Danger upon danger. First Marafice Eye, now the young princeling: both thought they could take his place. Was this how it had been for Borhis Horgo, that year before he was slain on the icy steps of the Horn? Enemies closing ranks around him. The thought chilled Iss. Fourteen years ago he had stood on those same steps, and had looked at the aging surlord with the same keen ambition. Anything was possible in this city of spires and Bastard Lords, and a surlord had to remember that and give his rivals
reason to fear.

  John Rullion approached the platform, bearing the hideously carved Killhound Mask beneath a sheet of plain white linen. The High Examiner retained all the instincts of a priest and he knew how to awe a crowd. He held the mask high, letting all see it, before pulling back the cloth. A collective breath was drawn as the mask’s blackened metals caught the light. It was the likeness of no living bird, warped and fanged and scaled like a dragon: the Killhound of Spire Vanis.

  It weighed as much as a child. Even though Iss had handled the mask many times before, he was shocked anew by its heft and coldness. The last killhound had fled Spire Vanis fifty years ago, and no one but madmen had seen one since. The great predators’ likenesses were carved on gate arches and corbels around the city, and the surlord’s seal was a killhound rampant. It was said the great bird of prey could kill an elk with its foot-long claws and bear it aloft to its mountain aerie. Iss thought of the creature’s power as he fitted the mask over his face and felt the cold-forged iron encase his cheeks. Wearing it, Iss knew what it would be like to be sealed inside a tomb.

  It filled him with the desire to live. Raising his masked face to the crowd, Iss pronounced sentence on the condemned man. “Maskill Boice, Lord of the Hunted Granges and Master of the River Crossing at Stye, you have been found guilty of high treason, and I hereby sentence you to death by the sword. May the One True God forgive you.”

  The crowd cheered. Priests in the viewers’ gallery made the sign of redemption. A woman watching from one of the Quarter Court’s many balconies fainted; by her dress and appearance, Iss guessed her to be Boice’s wife. Boice himself stood silent and unmoving, finding his dignity at last. Quite unexpectedly, Iss remembered that the man had two young sons. Too bad their father had a liking for loose talk.

  Boice had talked for years of assassinating the surlord, always when drunk and in his cups. It had been easy to conspire against him, to create an offense from his drunken boasting. Caydis Zerbina had seen to the details. Black Dan, the Ille Glaive crossbow, the meeting at the Dog’s Head: all fiction. God only knew whose corpse swung from the gibbet. The only thing real had been the whore. And Caydis would slip poison into her milk ale tonight. A pity, really, as she had put on such an excellent show.