A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Bram blinked. At his side he was aware of Old Mother watching him, her arms still folded across her chest. An anger that surprised him made him say, “You didn’t have to do that to Mauger. He’s a good man.”

  “So you’d have him go unwarned?” asked Old Mother placidly, not rising to his anger.

  She had answered him with his own argument, but Bram was unwilling to let go of his anger. He didn’t want to think why. “Why did you have to come to us? Why not stay with Skinner at Gnash?”

  “You know the answer to that, lad,” she replied, unperturbed. Something in her voice made Bram turn to look at her. Her face was bland and old-womanly, but her eyes were the purest Dhoone blue he had ever seen, with the violet ring around the irises that revealed a high concentration of Thistle Blood. Only direct descendants of kings had those eyes.

  “I’ve never known Robbie not to win,” she said.

  NINETEEN

  City on the Edge of an Abyss

  Raif awoke to the sensation of cold water dripping upon his face. He opened his eyes, and it took a moment for him to understand that a man was standing above him, slowly wringing drops of water from a damp and twisted rag. The man smiled pleasantly, displaying little demon teeth in a brown and fleshy face. Yustaffa.

  “Morning, Archer Boy,” he said gaily, wringing more drops from the rag. “You failed the test, you know. If you were a prince good and true you’d wake after the first drop.” With an elaborate sigh, he twisted the rag with all his might, sending a torrent of freezing water over Raif’s face. “Let’s hope you do better with the second test of the day.”

  Raif sat up, furiously shaking his head. The cliff cave was dark and freezing, and the portion that opened to the sky showed a world still black as night. “It’s not dawn yet. Go away.”

  Yustaffa shuddered theatrically. “Orders! And from a master archer, no less. I quake in fear, I really do.”

  “I’m a bowman, not an archer.” Raif didn’t know why he said this, but the fat man was beginning to annoy him. Raif’s shirt was soaking, and he was cold and tired, and his bandaged finger was throbbing. The missing tip and knuckle still felt as if they were there, and the sight of the digit’s shortness, the vacant air where flesh and bone should be, made him feel like he might be sick. With an effort he forced his mind elsewhere. Stretching his legs, he began working the stiffness from his limbs.

  “Well, bowman,” Yustaffa said pointedly, looking for somewhere to sit. “Perhaps you’d like to tell me something about yourself, since we find ourselves with a few minutes alone.” Unable to find anywhere that was not naked rock, the fat man settled on shrugging off his beaver-fur collar, rolling it into a ball and sitting cross-legged upon it. A tiny sniff of discomfort let Raif know what he thought of his surroundings.

  Raif wondered why he had come. Recalling his exchanges with Stillborn, he said, “I’ll trade you for information.”

  Yustaffa raised an eyebrow. “My, you learn fast, for a clansman. And here was I thinking you’d be willing to trade for food.” The fat man pulled a soft package from his black beaver coat and laid it on the floor by his feet. With exaggerated delicacy he unfolded it with his fingertips, revealing squares of fresh-baked bannock, oatcakes wrapped in bacon, a wedge of crumbly white cheese, three heads of butter-braised leeks, and a tiny stoppered pot known in the clanholds as a tonicker because it held just enough malt to revive a man’s spirits without rendering him drunk.

  “Clan food. Coarse, but strangely appealing.” Yustaffa bit the head off a leek. “Now, where were we? Yes, information. How about we start with your name and clan?”

  Raif tried not to look at the food. He wouldn’t allow Yustaffa the satisfaction of knowing how much he wanted it. “You know my clan. And my name’s no secret—it’s Raif.”

  Yustaffa nodded as he poured a measure of malt into the hollow stopper. “Orrlsman, yes. Yet you haven’t that look about you.” He downed the malt and then looked Raif directly in the eye. “As long as you shoot like one I suppose it doesn’t really matter either way.”

  Raif forced himself to return the fat man’s gaze steadily. “I do.”

  Yustaffa bowed his head in acknowledgment of Raif’s confidence. He seemed pleased, and raised the remaining dram of malt in toast. “To Raif. May I share in the excitement of your life, but never the danger.” Again, the fat man did his trick of throwing the malt down his throat and then snapping his gaze back to Raif. “You know in my country the word raif means stranger?”

  A drop of cold water slid down Raif’s spine. He willed himself not to react, but Yustaffa was quick and saw something in Raif’s face that made him smile.

  Cheek fat pushed against Yustaffa’s eyes. “I see you haven’t heard of the legend of Azziah riin Raif, the Stranger from the South who spent his life searching for heaven only to find the Gates to Hell instead? A sad tale with a sad end, but then most tales from my country are like that. We’re a strange race, we Mangali—we’d rather weep than laugh.”

  Raif dropped his gaze to the food; he found he could look at it now without desire. For seventeen years he had owned his name, and somewhere in the back of his mind he had always known it wasn’t clan: no one but himself was called it. Still . . . Stranger from the South. It made no sense, and Raif cautioned himself to be wary of what the fat man said. Maimed Men did not make good friends.

  Abruptly, he said, “How about repaying the debt, Yustaffa? A question for a question.”

  The glint in Yustaffa’s eyes was knowing. “In my country it is considered the height of good manners to shift the topic of conversation from oneself to one’s guest.” He waved a fleshy arm with surprising grace. “So, please. Go ahead.”

  “Why come all the way from the Far South to join the Maimed Men when you are whole?”

  Yustaffa’s laughter was high and tinkling. “Me? Whole? Dear boy, you flatter me.” With a quick little hop the fat man was on his feet, bunching the hem of his beaver coat and tunic in his fists. Unceremoniously, he raised both garments to the waist and bared his loins. His cock was intact, but there was a thick white scar where his scrotum had once been.

  Raif tried not to shudder as he looked away.

  Letting the coat and silk tunic drop, Yustaffa said, “My Song Master cut me when I was a boy. It was my very bad luck to have a voice like a nightingale’s, and my unforgivable weakness to be proud of it. I’d still be whole today if only I’d learned enough modesty to step back and lower my voice. Fool that I was, I thought only of the praise and rewards . . . nothing of the price. Oh, they drugged me, of course, and I woke four days later with a splitting headache in my groin, and an unbearable lightness where my balls had once been.” Something cold and angry flash-hardened muscles in Yustaffa’s face, but just as quickly it was gone. “I never sang again. As far as revenge goes it was a petty one, but it was all I could think of at the time—I was only eleven, after all. Later I thought of more.”

  Raif followed Yustaffa’s gaze down to his gear belt where the sword breaker and a curved scimitar were sheathed and hung.

  “They called me the Dancer later. Do you know why?” Raif shook his head. “Because when they found the bodies of the Song Master and his surgeon a man’s footsteps were stamped in the surrounding gore. To all who saw the footsteps it looked as if the killer had danced in their blood. He had. And I did. And my only regret is that I didn’t dance longer and kill more.”

  It was a warning, then, this tale Yustaffa told. Raif felt better for knowing the reason behind it: one man warning another that he was not to be fooled with was something he understood.

  “All of us here are missing something,” Yustaffa said, squatting to collect the leftover food in the cloth. “We may not look it but we are. Traggis Mole had his nose ripped from him by a Vorlander armed with a plate-piercing spike, but that’s not what makes him a Maimed Man. His scars run deeper than that. You’d do well to remember that, Azziah riin Raif. And perhaps next time when a man owes you a debt you won’t w
aste it on foolish questions.”

  Raif nodded, accepting the reprimand. In truth, he didn’t consider his question wasted, but he wasn’t about to argue. Yustaffa was too clever for that.

  Outside, the patch of sky above the cliff cave was lightening from black to charcoal and the stars were fading from it. The air in the cave was switching and unsettled, and Raif detected the subtle freshness of dawn. Restless, he stood and walked to the cave entrance. The same frost-eaten swordsman who had brought him here last night stood at the head of the tunnel, barring the way out. When he saw Raif he motioned toward the sky, “Best get ready. Traggis’ll be expecting you good and soon.”

  Raif almost smiled. Ready? He had no weapon or armor to prepare. All he had to do was put on his cloak and piss.

  “I’ll be wishing you well, then,” Yustaffa said, straightening up. “I enjoyed our little talk so much I think I’ll give you some free advice. Tanjo Ten Arrow loves a bet. Wager for something you want and if the gods are willing you’ll get it.”

  “And if they’re not?”

  Yustaffa tutted as he walked through the tunnel and away from Raif. “And here I was hoping to leave on a high note. Dear boy, if you lose the contest you die. You don’t really think Traggis would allow an outsider to lie to him in public and live? Traggis Mole is as good as a king in the Rift, and a king’s pride is a terrible thing. You’ve told him you’re a white-winter hunter—so hunt. I’ll be watching from the toeline, and I’m sure it’ll ease your mind to know I’m rooting for you.” Yustaffa turned at the cave entrance and bowed low to Raif. “Until later.”

  Raif made no reply except to run a hand across his face. Oh gods. What had possessed him to tell Traggis Mole all those lies? Last night it had seemed a simple choice: appear strong or die. Now he knew better. The Robber Chief had been leading him all the way. Traggis would gain much by today’s spectacle. He’d unite the Maimed Men in hatred of an outsider, and prove to Stillborn once and for all who was chief.

  Resting his weight against the cave wall, Raif exhaled deeply. It was difficult to fight off the idea that coming here had been a mistake.

  Ash. Why did you have to leave me?

  When the swordsman with the frost-eaten nose and cheeks came for him a few minutes later he was ready. His Orrlsman’s cloak was fastened at his throat and his hair had been freshly smoothed and braided. Water had been left for him in a cattle trough, and he’d used it to drink his fill and wet his face. Birds were calling now, crowing and chittering at the increase in light. The sky was the color of deep water, and rays from the rising sun picked out ice crystals suspended in the air and made them sparkle like tiny fish.

  As soon as Raif straightened his spine after leaving the tunnel, he read the wind. The head wind blew south, steady and persistent, at a speed to raise the braid off his back. Nothing unusual there. It was updrafts rising from the Rift that worried him. They’d give an arrow lift, but he lacked the experience to judge them. He could feel them now, pushing at the hem of his cloak as the swordsman led him across a barren, rocky ledge. Spreading the fingers on his undamaged right hand, he let the air pass through them. The updrafts were a few degrees warmer than the surrounding air, and they buffeted wildly, blowing and then dropping to nothing in the blink of an eye. As he watched, a kittiwake rose on them, only to flap its wings furiously to maintain height when the thermal fell away.

  Raif grimaced. Ballic the Red had names for winds like that and all of them were curses. Land where warm air and cold air met was no place for a bowman to shoot from.

  “Up here,” came the gruff voice of the frost-eaten swordsman, indicating a rope-and-cane ladder that dropped from the ledge above. The man thought himself nobody’s fool, and waited for Raif to start the climb before putting foot to the ladder himself. Raif dimly recalled making the descent last night on his way to the cliff cave, but it had been pitch black and calm, and he hadn’t realized quite how close he’d been to the Rift.

  The great black chasm in the earth lay below him as he climbed, and though he did not look at it his mind kept playing tricks on his eyes. He could see the sheer face of it, the way it ran deep and shadowed to a place where living earth ended and molten core began. Pockets of mist hung like vertical pools in the pitted clefts of its faces. Somewhere deep and profoundly quiet, in the oldest and most inaccessible cracks, steam was venting. The sulfur-and-ash smell of it rose to Raif’s nose, where it pushed through blood and membranes to enter his brain. Raif’s grip loosened on the cane rung. Azziah riin Raif . . . spent his life searching for heaven only to find the Gates to Hell instead.

  Blinking as if he’d woken from a dream, Raif forced his clenched hand to hold steady on the rung. Two-thirds of the climb was done, but he found he had no memory of the ascent. A stitch on his halved finger had split and clear fluid leaked through the yellow bandage down to the web of skin that joined his fingers. He ignored the pain of it as he finished the climb.

  As he levered himself up onto the ledge, he saw the smoking remains of last night’s bonfire ahead of him. The circle of ground surrounding the burn was black with tar, and small children darted in and out of the still-hot timbers, playing a game of dare. One child, a brown-eyed girl with a halo of wiry hair, found a charred joint of meat amongst the embers, and with the kind of furtive side glances that were a child’s idea of stealth, she slipped it beneath her tunic and ran away.

  Raif glanced around the honeycombed city as he waited for his handler to top the ledge. Effie would have loved this. The entire cliff face was mined with caves. Some of the chambers were closed off by stretched oilskins or cane screens, but most were left open to the wind. The lower dwellings looked hard used, their ledges piled with refuse and stained black by countless fires. Many of the higher caves were sealed off by giant boulders, and many more still had collapsed. Raif wondered how long it had taken to create such a place. It must have required some kind of inspired madness to build a city on the edge of an abyss.

  The frost-eaten swordsman followed Raif’s gaze. “No one lives up high since the east face collapsed,” he said, nodding toward the buckled and contorted terraces in the far east of the city. “We lost two hundred that day.”

  Raif nodded slowly. He would have liked to ask about their numbers now, for it was impossible to gauge how many Maimed Men lived here, but he judged his chances of getting an answer as low. Stillborn had warned him you never got anything from a Maimed Man unless you gave him something first.

  In silence they crossed the main terrace of the city, heading for a stone stair that led to the level above. Raif was aware of many gazes upon him as he walked. Old men watched him from the shade. Hardened warriors stepped out of their caves to stare him down, and groups of tired-looking women paused by their cook fires as he passed. By the time he’d reached the stair he’d gathered quite a following. Children mostly, a band of sullen-faced youths who bounced stones in their fists, and a handful of young girls who thought it amusing to dart forward and poke him and then run away.

  With a sizable crew at his back, the swordsman judged it safe to take the lead up the winding steps. Raif followed him. As the stair spiraled through the cliff face he got a spectacular view across the Rift. Birds swooped in flight two hundred feet below him. The purple mounds of the Copper Hills shimmered on the horizon against a sky blushed pink with dawn. The clanholds. Strange that he could be so close to them yet feel farther away than he had in the land of the Ice Trappers. The Rift was probably seven hundred paces across at its widest point, yet it might as well have been a thousand leagues, so absolutely did the crack in the continent separate the clanholds from the badlands in this place.

  The Lost Clan lay directly to the south, what was left of it. The clanhold itself had been claimed by Dhoone, then contested by Bludd and Wellhouse in the War of the Three Clans. Raif wasn’t sure how the borders sat now, but Tem had once told him that no clan who claimed the territory of extinct Clan Morrow got any joy from it. The lands and forests surrounding
the razed roundhouse would yield neither crops nor game.

  Raif raised his hand to his throat and touched his lore. No clansman could name Clan Morrow—even in his thoughts—without showing due respect.

  “Take your hand from your lore.”

  Raif looked up at the sound of the voice to see Stillborn awaiting him at the top of the stair. The Maimed Man looked well rested, and had changed from his travel clothes into dressed skins edged with rat fur and a rat-and-coon-fur kilt. The Forsworn sword hung from his waist, and if the gleam of its cross-hilt was anything to be judged by the weapon had been expertly ground and polished. Even the grip had been remounted, and the piece of rough sealskin Raif had wrapped around the hilt had been replaced by oiled and crosshatched leather. Seeing the hiltwork so splendidly finished, Raif thought he’d like to have the sword back. Right about now any weapon would have been a relief.

  Maimed Men had gathered in numbers to watch the contest. The High Mantle was a massive ledge of pale green rimrock, stretching from the west of the city to the caved-in terraces in the east, and extending thirty feet out over the cliff face. The crowd was double what it had been last night, and still growing, as men lowered themselves on ropes and hoists and crossed swaying bridges to join it. The central lane of the ledge was clear of people, and a series of man-high wooden beehives had been placed along the lane at various lengths. Targets. Raif forced his gaze to move away from them without showing any reaction. A little beyond the targets and closer to the cliff face, a second, smaller group of people had gathered around a stacked cook fire. A whole hog—snout, trotters and all—was spitted above the flames.

  It was to be a festival, then. With him as the mummers’ show.

  “I said take your hand off your lore. They won’t love you for reminding them that you’re clan and they’re not.”

  Raif obeyed Stillborn’s hissed order, but not before a few sharp eyes in the crowd had seen the blackened piece of bird ivory that was his raven lore.