by J. V. Jones
“You need to control a grange, Knife. And the only way to do so is to marry into one. Wed a grangelord’s daughter and you become one of them. Fight them from the inside. That way they’ll respect as well as fear you.”
The Knife’s nostrils flared as he breathed and thought. “So it’s about respect, is it, Surlord?”
“You know it is.”
“Then you must know that marrying a grangelord’s daughter will not make me a grangelord. Those bastards have their estates and titles bound up tighter than a bathhouse whipping boy. It would take an Act of Ascendancy to allow me to inherit the title of grangelord on my father-in-law’s death.”
“Then you shall have one.”
Marafice Eye turned to look at him at last. The hollow eye socket was full of shadow, a hole with nothing coming out. “I have your word on it?”
Iss nodded.
“Speak it.”
“You have my word on it.” Iss felt his anger rising, but tamped it. He wasn’t done here yet. Increasing his gelding’s pace to a trot, he said, “I’ve been giving mind to whom you might wed. Suitable candidates are few and far between, but I believe I’ve found one willing to have you. Katrina Mallion of the Needlewood Granges is in need of a husband. She’s an only child, heir to her father’s estates, and her first husband died without issue.”
Iss waited for the Knife’s response. Seconds passed. A flock of snow geese passed overhead. Marafice Eye made a gesture to Styven Dalway, ordering the sworn brother to flank the surlord as they entered the bustling expanse of Pengaron Square.
Just as Iss was ready to explode, Marafice Eye put a hand to his chin and said, “Needlewoods. Aren’t those the trees that grow in swamps?”
Iss was having trouble containing his anger. “They may be. I hardly see that it matters. The Needlewood Granges lie at the western foot of the mountain, near Loon Lake. A portion of the holding may lie in marshland. What of it? Katrina Mallion is young, noble, and willing. And her father has need of hard cash.”
“So you’ve approached him?”
“Tentatively. Yes.” It was more than that, but Iss knew better than to admit it. He’d been working for over a month toward this match. Edward Mallion was a drinker and gambler, a wastrel who’d run his inheritance into the ground. The Needlewood Granges produced reeds, fowl and turf. Only production had been dropping these past ten years and now the granges barely paid for themselves. Mallion had already accepted a hundred count of Almsgold from the surlord’s coffers. In return, he’d given his word that he’d seek no further suitors for his daughter. Iss judged the match a good one. The Needlewood Granges were a minor holding in decline: they would suit his purposes well.
Iss said, “Katrina Mallion attended the Winter Feast at the fortress. Even dressed in the black of mourning she turned many heads.”
Marafice Eye grunted. “You have given no promises?”
“No,” Iss lied.
“Good,” the Knife said, digging steel spurs into horsemeat. “As I’ve given my word elsewhere.”
Iss felt the world turn out of focus. The jewelers, silversmiths, redsmiths, blacksmiths, armorers and wiremakers whose market stalls filled Pengaron Square became a blur of light and movement. Iss could almost feel the knives at his back. This is what I will know at the moment of my death; this revelation of betrayal.
With an effort of will he forced his mind from that dark place. The sun had emerged from behind Mount Slain and was sliding its rays across the square. A table piled with pewter bowls and cook pots flashed like treasure as the sunlight touched it. Ahead, Iss saw the Knife in conversation with Axal Foss. The other six men in the sept had drawn close around their surlord, reacting to the slowing of his mount and the slight stiffening of his face.
Iss was aware of his heart as a living, moving weight in his chest. I have been duped. Tilting his chin upward he sent a sworn brother to purchase a jeweled cup from the nearest stall. He did not want it, would never even handle it, but he would not let the Knife know what his words had done. Let him think his surlord slowed to inspect silverware, nothing more.
He’d move at the first smell of blood.
Trotting his mount forward, Iss joined the Knife and they turned onto the great white-paved promenade that led south to Mask Fortress.
“So,” Iss said after a time. “Who is the lucky maid?”
“Liona Stornoway.”
Stornoway. Stornoway. One of the five Great Houses of Spire Vanis. Roland Stornoway could trace his ancestors back to the Bastard Lords. His family had birthed a dozen surlords and countless Masters of Purse, Chief Examiners, Protector Generals and warlords. The Stornoway holdings were vast. They owned lands so far east they bordered on Hound’s Mire, and their coffers were rumored to be brimming with Sull gold.
Iss kept a tight reign on his features. “A good match.”
Marafice Eye lifted the massive bulk of his shoulders in his version of a shrug. “I think so. The bitch is well seasoned and not quite right in the head, but I daresay she’ll suit me well enough. I’ll keep away from her and she’ll keep away from me, and once we’ve fucked to seal the match we’ll be done.”
“Such romance.”
Marafice Eye barked a laugh.
Iss wondered how he had done it. True, Stornoway and Hews were longtime rivals, and the Knife might have gained much by promising that Garric Hews would never make Surlord. But still. Stornoway was a proud house. How had they agreed to marry one of their own to a son of Hoargate? Then he remembered. “Liona, you say?”
“Aye. And if you’re thinking is she the one who got caught straddling the bookbinder’s son, then you’d be right.”
“Quite a scandal, as I recall.”
Marafice Eye executed another one of his shrugs. “Her scandal is my gain. Roland Stornoway has been wanting to be rid of her for months. No decent man would have her.” Stretching his lips into a savage smile, he added, “That’s where I come in.”
He was clever in low ways, the Knife; you could never forget that. This was a clever trick he’d pulled off, taking on the unwanted slattern of one of the city’s finest houses. Roland Stornoway must be pissing himself laughing. But then Roland Stornoway was a shortsighted fool. His death warrant had just been signed.
“Refresh my memory,” Iss said, his voice casual. “Liona is one of three daughters?”
“The eldest. And there’s a son. Also named Roland.”
“Sickly?”
“He will be.”
Iss nodded. So many fools here, and he himself was one of them. Not an hour earlier he’d given his word to pass an Act of Ascendancy, allowing the Knife to inherit his wife’s titles and holdings. Once father and son were out of the way the Knife would find himself Lord of the High Granges, Lord of the Highland Passes, and Lord of the Rape Seed Granges. Not a bad tally for a butcher’s son. Not bad at all, considering the current Surlord of Spire Vanis was heir solely to the Sundered Granges.
Something sour began to burn in Iss’s stomach. He said, “And when shall I expect the happy event?”
“Soon. Afore I ride north. John Rullion’s agreed to wed us. Said we can exchange bread and vows at the Shrine of the Sister ’neath the Quartercourts.”
The High Examiner knows of this? And has agreed to wed them? Iss could barely keep the surprise from his face. John Rullion was in alliance with the Knife? No. Surely not. More likely the great dour man of God was playing all sides. Hadn’t he burned the amber for Garric Hews’s Affirmation? And didn’t he teach Mallister Gryphon’s two young sons their Pieties? As a man of Holy Orders, John Rullion could never be Surlord, but that did not stop him from wielding power. His first priority was keeping the Forsworn out of the city: he would tolerate no rival for men’s souls.
Such thoughts calmed Iss. The Knife hadn’t been especially singled out by John Rullion. No. That wasn’t the issue here. The issue was that the Knife had suddenly grown crafty and devious enough to pose a real threat to his surlord’s power.
<
br /> Iss shot Marafice Eye a sideways glance. The Protector General of Spire Vanis was picking a deer tick from his stallion’s neck. His thumbnail was the size of an arrowhead, and he used it to lance the tick like a boil.
“I’ll have to think of a suitable gift.”
The Knife wiped his fingers on his sheepskin numnah. “There’s one you can give.”
“And that would be?”
“I would have you host the wedding feast at the fortress.”
So all the grangelords and men of influence in the city would be bound to attend. It was one thing to refuse an invitation from the Protector General, another thing entirely to refuse one from the Lord Commander of Spire Vanis. “It shall be done.”
“I thank you for it.”
For the first time Iss heard a hint of relief in the Knife’s voice. He hadn’t been so sure of me after all.
Horns sounded, first one and then a chorus, as sentries positioned high on the Mask Wall spied their surlord approaching. The northern edifice of Mask Fortress lay directly ahead; a walled city within a walled city, its four ill-matched towers spiking the sky. The winds from Mount Slain hadn’t started up yet, and the Killhound banners flying from the ramparts sagged listlessly against their poles.
As Iss neared the stable gate a company of sworn brothers rode out to escort him into the fortress. Marafice Eye fell in step with one of them, falling back from his position now that the surlord was safely delivered.
“Knife,” Iss commanded as he passed beneath the mud-coated iron teeth of the portcullis. “Attend me in the Horn.”
Not waiting on the Protector General’s response, he headed to the stables to dismount.
It was cold in the fortress, and mist still swirled in the quad. Great cracks in the paving stones had opened during the thaw and the odor of mountains escaped from them. Iss was approached by several supplicants as he headed toward the Horn. Every tenday the fortress was thrown open to those seeking boons or justice from the surlord, and dozens of tradesmen and lesser folk had been kept waiting in the quad while the surlord completed his progress. Iss waved them away. Later he would see that the jeweled cup he’d purchased in Pengaron Square went to one of the paupers who’d waited patiently in place whilst he passed. The rest would get naught.
The Horn, at two hundred feet, was the second-tallest of the four towers in the fortress. It was a strange construction, flat-sided where the other three towers were rounded, its stonework clad in an intricate grille of metalwork and sheeted lead. It had been built after the Cask but before the Bight, and it suited no purpose well. Theron Hews had intended the Horn to combine both defendability and beauty, but had sadly fallen short of both. Iss leased the lower storeys to ranking grangelords, for it was ever fashionable to claim apartments in the fortress, and the income helped cover repairs.
The upper two chambers and the walled roof enclosure he kept for himself. Climbing the worn, shallow stairs he headed for the roof. By the time he’d reached the halfway mark he could hear the kaawing of the rooks.
Passing through the hatchery and the game room, Iss emerged onto the stone landing of the roof. An area the size of a dance circle was carefully furnished with settling posts, wicker cages and walls of wooden cubbies. Everywhere along the ramparts the big crows known as rooks danced in mock battles and shows of bravado, bobbing their heads aggressively and spreading their dirty-black wings. The noise was deafening. The Master of the Rookery had just brought out a bucket of maggots, farmed from a decomposing deer corpse kept in the game room, and the rooks were starting to flock. A few rogue birds took to the air, and began swooping perilously close to the Master’s head. None swooped at Iss. They could smell the faint tinge of sorcery upon him—even now, after he’d not drawn power in many days.
Corwick Mools, Master of the Rookery, dug his hand deep into the bucket and brought out a fistful of squirming maggots. Flinging his arm out, he scattered the fat white larvae wide, and the rooks fell upon them like locusts on a cornfield. Contests were fought. Eyes were pecked out, and feet were bloodied as questing beaks speared maggots from between clawed toes.
Into this feeding frenzy walked the Knife.
Iss knew straightaway that Marafice Eye was nervous, for he hung back close to the door and would not join his surlord in the center of the circle. Iss let him stew. For sport, Corwick Mools threw a handful of maggots high into the air and the swiftest rooks caught them on the wing. The Knife ducked his head unhappily, cursing under his breath. When he could take it no longer he said, “You wanted me, Surlord?”
“You know the keeping of birds is sacred in Spire Vanis,” Iss said conversationally, ignoring the question. “Three of the four towers house hatcheries. I keep my hawks in the mews atop the Bight, and the Splinter was once home to a family of killhounds. They perched on the spire and laid their eggs in the roof vault. It must have been quite a sight to see them, gliding above the fortress. Their wingspans were as wide as thirty paces, did you know?”
Marafice Eye took a swipe at a crow that got too close. “I did not.”
Iss nodded. “Only surlords were allowed to eat their eggs.”
“Say what you would have of me, Surlord,” roared the Knife, goaded at last to anger and growing increasingly nervous of the crows’ razor beaks near his one remaining eye.
Iss exchanged a knowing glance with Corwick Mools. It was remarkable how easily birds could unman one. “It’s not what I’d have of you, Knife. Rather what you need from me.”
“And that would be?”
Iss signaled to Corwick Mools to bring the bird that had homed this morning from the clanholds. “Intelligence.”
Corwick Mools cut the bundle from the bird’s leg in full view of his surlord. The message had been rolled in a lamb’s bladder to protect it against water and sealed with a pinprick of red wax. Iss’s hands were well practiced in the handling of such things and were quick to unravel the thin strip of pigskin that bore the message. He read it, nodded once, then fed it to a big male crow.
Banishing Corwick Mools with the words “Leave us,” he turned to face the Knife.
Now you will see just how far a true surlord must reach.
“You must ready the army to leave within the tenday. The Wolf is cresting early this year. By the time you reach it the flooding will have passed and you’ll be guaranteed easy crossing into the clanholds. A flat barge awaits to give you crossing at Mare’s Rock.”
All the Knife could do was nod.
TWENTY-FIVE
Spilling Sand
“No. No. No. No. Don’t bother with all that pretty stuff. Hack the wee lassie to pieces.”
Raif wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sword hand and bent his legs at the knee, waiting to see which way Stillborn would swing the quintain. Even though he was prepared for it, the dummy came hurtling toward him with force. It was an odd construction, torso-shaped and filled with wet sand, armored in consecutive layers of felted wool, boiled leather and ring mail, and armed with spikes like a porcupine. Heavy as hell, it hung from a thick chain anchored to the rock ceiling. Stillborn controlled its movement from a ledge just above Raif’s head. The Maimed Man could send it in lazy circles around Raif or he could shove it toward him with enough force to knock him off his feet.
Raif rolled to the side to avoid being smashed, but as he spun back to strike he felt the tell-tale sting of the quintain’s body-spikes rake his arm.
“You’re dead, archer boy.” Stillborn smiled with satisfaction as he reeled in the guide rope, causing the quintain to rise toward him. “It’s a sad state of affairs when a dummy—and a female one at that—can beat the crap out a living, breathing man.”
Raif thought of many things to say, but his arm was stinging and he was out of breath. Briefly he wondered what manner of irritant had been applied to the spikes. Salt, lye, ground glass—something to bring tears to his eyes. Resting the flat of his borrowed sword against his thigh, he nodded toward the quintain. “That’
s female?”
Stillborn chuckled. He was dressed in his rat-and-coon-fur kilt, rawbuck pants and a tunic made from two whole sheepskins. A leather belt with a square-shaped pewter buckle was the only thing upon him that didn’t look as if it had been dragged straight off a carcass. “Can you not see her dugs? Stuffed them myself, I did.” Wrapping his thick fingers around the quintain’s waist, he kissed the stump where its neck ended. “She’s a feisty lass. I think I’ll call her Yelma.”
“After anyone you know?”
Stillborn raised an eyebrow. “Maybe.”
“The Scarpe chief is named Yelma.”
“Is she now?” Stillborn’s clear hazel eyes glittered in the darkness of the cave. With a lightning-quick movement he thrust the quintain at Raif.
Raif was ready for it this time, and slashed the torso with a sideways cut as he cleared its path. The sword contact slowed the quintain’s backswing, and Raif risked diving forward to thrust at its belly on the return. He knew it was a mistake the moment he struck. The quintain was moving in the same direction as his sword, robbing momentum from the blow, and his sword tip entered with an awkward jab, catching in the dummy’s ring mail. It took a twisting wrench to free it, and Raif didn’t even need to look at the blade to know how badly he’d damaged it. Shor Gormalin would have skinned his knuckles for less.
“It’ll have to go to Bledso for a firing,” Stillborn said amicably, nodding toward the sword. “No harm done. It was a piece of whore’s steel to begin with.” He stilled the quintain with the guide rope and vaulted down from the ledge. Drawing the Forsworn sword, he waved Raif out of the fight circle.
“You have to learn to spill the sand, boy. Go for the guts. You’re so busy weaving and ducking and remembering whatever pretty steps your sword master taught you that you forget the whole point of the game. Kill ugly and kill fast.”
