A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2)

by J. V. Jones

  Besides, the harlequin eggs might hatch at any moment. The ducks were fat and glossy now—Effie supposed she wasn’t the only one to benefit from the stunned fish—and one of them attended the nest at all times. They’d grown quite accustomed to Effie, and only honked when she was especially close. She even talked to them sometimes, not that they listened, of course. It was more about hearing the sound of a human voice . . . even if it was just her own.

  Feeling the sensation returning to her fingers, Effie pulled her hands from her armpits and wondered what to do next. Firewood, she supposed. Not much fun but it has to be done, that was what Jebb Onnacre used to say about clearing the stables of horseshit. Effie grinned as she walked toward the bushes. Collecting firewood had to be better than that.

  The waterfall made it feel as if it were raining every day. It was pretty, she had to give it that, but rainy and noisy counted a lot more than looks, and she fervently believed the inlet would be much improved without it. Water droplets spattered her back as she yanked off ash and birch branches.

  Effie’s hands began to return to a more normal color as she worked, and it made her wonder what the rest of her must look like. Absently she ran her fingers through her hair. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be vain about it, but Raif, Drey, Da and Raina had all said they loved her hair. Even Letty Shank had once admitted it was pretty enough, if you liked things the color of tree bark. It was, Effie thought rather disdainfully, a stupid thing to say. Tree bark came in all sorts of different colors, depending on the type of tree. Letty Shank wouldn’t know that because Letty Shank couldn’t tell a turnip from a pinecone.

  Effie grimaced. Her hair felt like straw and there were things in it. Leaving the firewood where it was, she crossed to the fire and sat on the pallet of wagon canvas and heaped twigs she’d made to keep her bottom off the cold rocks when she ate. Using her fingers like the teeth of a comb, she worked on her hair, pulling out feathers and burrs and rubbing dried on mud until it disintegrated. It took a long time; Effie Sevrance had a lot of hair.

  When she noticed the fire was burning perilously low she took a rest and went to fetch some of the firewood. It was getting dark, and she hadn’t cooked her three fish yet. As she bent to pick up a heavy branch of white birch she heard a shout from the east. Stilling herself, she listened. After a few seconds the shout came again, only this time it sounded south of her. Carefully, Effie laid the branch on the ground, and then brought her hand to her lore. The little ear-shaped chunk of granite was vibrating but with little force.

  She held it, thinking. A shout to the east and then the south. Men were calling each other from across the river. The gold men! She stood. Perhaps the city traders who had been meant to take the gold from Druss and Clewis were finally making their crossing. Perhaps they’d arranged for a bargeman on this side of the river to bring them across.

  Effie paced, agitated, unsure what to do. What did she owe the gold men? Nothing. What had she to give them? Only the information about Druss’s and Clewis’s deaths. The manner in which they had died was worthy of telling, but would city men value the knowledge in the same way clansmen would? What was her responsibility here? She owed nothing to the gold men, but what did she owe to Druss Ganlow and Clewis Reed?

  Glancing at the bushes, she made her decision. She owed Druss and Clewis her life. The least she could do for them was go and take a look at the river and see who was crossing. Perhaps when she saw whoever it was she’d know what to do.

  Quickly, she grabbed her basket and cloak. Already her skin was breaking out in gooseflesh at the mere thought of entering the channel again. Uncle Angus had once told her that the men who lived beyond the Topaz Sea used water as a means of torture. Boiling? she’d asked him. No, he’d said. Cold. One drop at a time.

  Effie snorted. They must have very delicate constitutions beyond the Topaz Sea, for her body was about to take a whole lot of cold droplets—and without her even speaking a word.

  Not much fun but it has to be done. Gritting her teeth, she knelt by the bushes and entered the water. By keeping her head low and pushing forward with her toes she managed to avoid the overhanging branches. She could feel the icy water seizing her chest, but thoughts of the Topaz Sea men kept her going. Ragged stones along the channel bottom scraped her knees as she cleared the coppice.

  Effie could see nothing at first, just blackness where the river flowed. It was a dark night, the sky thick with clouds. Even when her eyes grew accustomed to the light level she still couldn’t make out much. The river glinted, a little bit, and she followed the glint east to see if she could determine the source of the first call.

  Nothing. But then, farther in the distance than she’d imagined, she saw the pale red glow of a turned-down lamp. A thrill of fear made hairs rise on Effie’s neck—even the wet ones. She’d been right; someone was making a crossing. Two ferry-men were pulling one of the large flat barges used for transporting cattle and horses. The barge was rigged to thick guide-ropes that traversed the river, and both men were working cranks mounted to either side of the vessel. After a time the noise of the cranks drifted downriver and Effie could hear the swift whir of well-oiled wheels.

  A crossing at night. Instinct made Effie keep very still. The gold men were likely to make a crossing at night, true, but surely a few city traders wouldn’t need so big a barge?

  Her gaze tracked the barge as it labored across the river. As it neared the south bank she spied a movement on the shore. Yet it didn’t make any sense; it was kind of rippling, like a wheat-field in a wind . . . or thousands of ants moving on a hill.

  Effie felt a blade of cold fear enter her heart as she realized what she was seeing. Not gold men, not smugglers. An entire army waiting to gain passage to the clanholds.

  It would take them from now until dawn to cross the river.

  The barge beached with a violent jolt and one of the ferry-men rushed to anchor it while the other removed the lamp from its post. Effie felt the world tilt on its axis as the lamp passed close to the man’s face.

  She knew him.

  It was one of the Scarpemen who had been in the forge the night Old Scratch went to the fire. What was his name? Uriah Scarpe. The Scarpes’ chief’s son.

  Even before she could let out a breath of disbelief, Effie felt a cold hand clamp across her nose and mouth. A powerful arm yanked her back and down. She smelled horses and a sharp green fragrance she couldn’t place. Her hands flew out to find a hold beneath the water, but the owner of the arm jerked her violently back.

  “Keep your silence, girl,” came a low, shrewd voice. “I’ve come to take you to your future. This war’s not for you.”

  As he dragged her back through the bushes she wondered why her lore had failed her.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Fixing Things

  Town Dog wasn’t happy at all. She was squirming in her little cloth pouch beneath Crope’s new wool cloak. The pouch was slung crosswise over Crope’s shoulder, and Town Dog was housed just below his left armpit. He squeezed down gently with his arm, hoping he was calming, not smothering her.

  Truth was, he didn’t feel too good himself, but Quill’s words circled in his thoughts, black as vultures. Unease kills thieves. So he had to pretend that he was calm, like the mummers pretended they were ladies when they were actually boys.

  His new clothes helped. Quill had chosen the fabric and style himself. Crope had always nursed a liking for the color orange, but Quill said no, that wouldn’t do. “You need to be forgettable, overlookable, and harmless.” He’d glanced critically at Crope. “We’re going to need a lot of help.”

  The tailor Quill brought in was tiny and fierce. If you so much as looked at him while he was measuring you up, he stuck you with his pins. He and Quill had consulted at some length. Drab-looking fabrics were held up to the light, a calendar was reviewed. Coin changed hands. A different fabric was held to the light, still drab, but odd-looking. More coin changed hands, and the tailor left, satisfied. Five days
later a cloak, a pair of leggings, a tunic and an undershirt arrived at the Sign of the Blind Crow. There had been no time for boots. According to the tailor, no cobbler in the city had lasts the size of Crope’s feet. Special ones would have to be carved, and “special” meant money and time.

  Crope had taken a bath before he donned his new clothes; his second in under five days. Baths felt unbelievably good to him, warm and floaty, and he stayed there until the water cooled and the soap scummed-up around the rim. Quill thought it funny when he caught Crope scrubbing out the bath when he was done. The thief said that was what servants were for, and Crope agreed and carried on scrubbing.

  His new clothes fitted very well, and they were only a bit scratchy around his neck. Quill brought a glass for Crope to look at himself, but Crope declined. He did not like to see himself. Besides, if Quill said he looked ’ceptable that was good enough for him.

  Quill had made him wear the clothes every day since then, “To work up some creases and a shade of dirt.” Crope was mortified at the thought of soiling such riches and wasn’t properly happy about it even when Quill had explained. “Anything too old or too new draws the eye. If your aim is to be forgettable your clothes must fall between the two.”

  It was a lot to think about. And there was something to remember, too. The cloak was the special kind that you could wear turned inside out. Double-faced, the tailor called it. Quill was most insistent that Crope remember this. “Gray for day,” he had recited. “Brown for sundown.”

  Crope mouthed the words now as he waited in line at the fortress gate. A queue of close to two hundred men and women had formed, and Crope was about midway in line. It was early morning, crisp and bright, with a breeze snapping the red-and-silver pennants standing out from the fortress wall.

  Quill had wanted him to carry a knife concealed in his boot, but Crope had shaken his head with quiet determination. No blades. His staff would do. Strangely enough, Quill had accepted this. “A man’s weapon is a particular thing,” he had said. “By the time he’s developed a preference it’s usually too late to change it.” Quill’s own preference was a knuckle knife: a band that fitted around your knuckles with a long spike protruding between the second and third fingers. Crope knew this because he’d seen Quill wield it in the back of the Blind Crow. No blood had been shed, but coin had changed hands. Crope knew how such things worked from his time in the mine. Bitterbean used to do it for extra food.

  Thinking about the diamond mine made Crope sad. He missed Mannie Dun and Will. If Will were here he’d probably be taking a nap; he was the only man Crope had ever met who could sleep standing up.

  Crope thought of some of Mannie’s songs for a while and was soothed. Even Town Dog settled down a bit, and when the portcullis finally clunked and shivered into motion both of them were a little surprised.

  “All here for the Surlord’s Justice say ‘Aye’!” shouted a big, gruff red cloak, coming to stand in the center of the gate, placing one booted foot to either side of the gate trench.

  A loud chorus of “Aye!” sounded as nearly everyone at the gate replied.

  Just as Quill had told him, Crope nodded but didn’t speak.

  The red cloak’s gaze passed over the crowd, not much interested. A second man came out, this one wearing a fancy long mantle with glittery bands around the edges. The glittery man said something to the red cloak and the red cloak nodded, and then the glittery man walked away.

  “Right!” shouted the red cloak, addressing the crowd. “The surlord will see a hundred count today.”

  A murmur of dissatisfaction stirred the crowd. One man behind Crope told the guard exactly what he thought of the surlord, and two red cloaks came and escorted him away. The crowd was quiet after that. Crope tried to keep calm as the head red cloak walked the line, choosing the hundred he would allow through the gate.

  “Surlord’s Justice, it’s called,” Quill had explained. “Every tenday the fortress is opened to any man or woman in the city with a grievance. It’s a tradition from way back, when Spire Vanis was little more than a fort and you could count all the people in it on thirty hands. Surlords were different then. Less high and mighty. They didn’t just pass laws, they enforced them. Land, coin, titles: they dealt it all. Now they just pass out a few coins and listen to fishwives complain about their rivals, and bakers accuse millers of gritting the chaff. Still. It’s custom and they’re bound to do it. They may take a scalding hot bath afterwards but they know better than to shun it. The Spire’s a vicious city, and no surlord fancies a vicious end.”

  Crope had been quietly amazed at these facts. Not disbelieving, for he trusted Quill completely, but taken aback by the thought that a powerful man might make himself so vulnerable. He’d said as much to Quill.

  “Red cloaks search anyone entering the fortress,” Quill had replied. “And they watch ’em like hawks once they’re in.”

  “You. Go ahead,” the red cloak said to an old woman ten paces ahead of Crope. “Report to the brother by the watch station. Do as he says.” The woman nodded and then made a dash for the gate, not giving the red cloak any time to change his mind.

  Crope slipped the coin from his gear belt. “Silver,” Quill had decided. “Gold will just make you memorable.” Crope hoped very much not to be memorable as the red cloak approached him. The urge to shrink himself was great and he had to fight the desire to bend his knees and curve his spine. Unease kills thieves, he told himself. Unease kills thieves.

  As the red cloak’s gaze passed over him, Crope raised his hand away from his body, just as Quill had shown him; fingers open to reveal the coin. The red cloak didn’t appear to see the coin, and Crope felt the first stirrings of panic. Quill had said the red cloak would take the coin. Just as Crope was about to swing his arm wider, the red cloak passed him and Crope felt hard fingers delve into his palm. And—just like that—the coin was gone.

  “You,” the red cloak said to him. “Inside.”

  Crope was so relieved he forgot Quill’s instructions to stay calm and bolted for the gate just like the old woman before him. Heart thudding against Town Dog’s head like a hammer, he entered Mask Fortress.

  His master was here, he could feel it. The flagstones beneath his feet rang as if there were hollow spaces below. The men and women chosen to petition for Surlord’s Justice waited in a huddle by the watch station that contained the mechanism for the raising and lowering of the gate. Four red cloaks had them under guard. One of them approached Crope, his eyes narrowing. “Big bastard, eh?” he said, as he drew the point of his spear along Crope’s side and over his ribs, prodding every few seconds to test for the hardness of a concealed weapon. He prodded Town Dog, but the little white mutt kept her silence, and since she didn’t feel like steel or iron the red cloak passed over her. When he was done he looked critically at Crope’s staff. “I’m going to have to take that.”

  “Need it to walk,” Crope said.

  The red cloak’s gaze passed over the bulge in Crope’s cloak were Town Dog was concealed. “Deformity?” he asked.

  Crope nodded. This hadn’t been amongst the contingencies Quill had planned for, but Crope figured it was covered by the general rule: Don’t rile the red cloaks.

  The red cloak seemed satisfied with Crope’s nod and moved on to the next petitioner. Crope watched him, turning the word “deformity” around in his head. Yes, he was deformed.

  When the portcullis was lowered and the gate closed, the four red cloaks marched the petitioners along a high-walled alleyway and into an open space as long and wide as a tourney field. “Form a line by Traitor’s Doom,” one of the guard’s ordered. “And keep yourselves well ordered.”

  Crope moved along with everyone else, careful not to drift too far behind. It was colder here than outside, and the wind hardly moved. Quill had explained that Traitor’s Doom was a stone block where people lost their heads. Crope worried about that. Even before the line was fully formed people started to grumble. The old woman who’d been a
llowed in before Crope turned to him and complained. “We’ll be here for hours. ’Is lordship won’t be out afore noon.”

  Crope nodded solemnly; it was just as Quill had said.

  They waited. The sun rose, disappeared behind the mountain, and then rose again. Crope’s feet began to ache, and he wished he had some lasts. He wasn’t sure what they were, but he knew you needed them for new boots. Occasionally some grand-looking man or lady crossed the quad, and the crowd ogled them. At the far end, close to the pointy tower, some mounted red cloaks were playing a game of charge. Crope watched the stables. It was a large stone building covering almost an entire wing of the fortress, with big double doors flung open onto the quad. Grooms trotted out horses for exercise and grooming. When they were done they brought their mounts to a great lead-lined trough and pumped fresh water for the beasts to drink.

  After what Crope judged to be nearly three hours of waiting, liveried servants entered the quad, carrying rolled carpets and a big chair. More servants raised a canopy constructed of red silk and gilded poles. When the flurry of activity was finished the big chair sat atop plush patterned carpets, shielded from sun and rain by a silk roof.

  The petitioners pushed forward a little, their hopes high. Another hour passed. Everyone except the red cloaks stared at the empty chair. Crope was growing anxious, and he drew up the hood on his cloak. Surely Quill’s plan should have gone into action by now? He glanced at the stables. Nothing.

  Suddenly there was a blast of horns from the fat tower shaped like a beer barrel. The red cloaks stood to attention. Another surge forward amongst the petitioners forced Crope to push back gently. Mustn’t get too close to the chair. Must be forgettable.

  The pale-eyed man who’d taken Crope’s lord strode out from the fat tower, flanked by two big men, one fair, one dark. He was dressed more plainly than the other grand people they’d seen that day, but he was wearing a thick chain of office across his shoulders and he walked in the measured, unhurried way of a man certain of his power. Crope looked down. Unease kills thieves.