by J. V. Jones
Luckily today she got it just right. Chedd was already sitting on his seat, one down from the stern, and he turned around and aced her with the double thumbs. Grinning, she thumbed him back. He really wasn’t bad. For a boy.
Waker’s father stepped in next and she was pleased to see he had a paddle, not a pole. That meant he wouldn’t be standing, and that made for a more stable day in the boat. Waker pushed the boat into motion and then vaulted onto his seat. They were off.
Father and son worked well together, paddling in perfect time on opposing sides. Waker’s strokes were deep and efficient and you could feel the power of his shoulders pulling the boat. He was not big and bulky like a hammerman but he had an efficient and enduring type of strength. He could paddle upstream all day. His hair was black and flat and he pulled it back at the nape of his neck with a fine moonstone clasp that was not clan-made. It was his only jewel. His thigh-length moosehide boots were thickly waxed and shed water, and his pants and coat were cut from dense, velvety otter hides. The only way to discern his clan was through subtleties in his gear and person. He did not carry a sword—that in itself was telling—rather a long spike-like knife that he kept in a sheath made from the green and scaleless skin of the salamander. Riding next to the spike-knife on his gear belt was a second, shorter knife, this one sheathed in leather covered with frogskin. Frog and salamander: the twin knives of Clan Gray.
Once Effie had spotted them she noticed other indicators of his clan. His powdered guidestone was kept dry in a swim bladder that he wore on a thong around his neck. The brass buckle of his gear belt had been stamped with water marks, and the little fingernail on his right had been excised, exposing a pad of purple flesh. At the time of their first yearman’s oath all Graymen had one fingernail removed. Effie didn’t know whether Graymen were allowed to choose which of their nails would be taken. She did know that Waker’s father had the exact same scar: little finger, right hand.
On impulse Effie spun around in her seat to look at Waker’s father. He was staring straight back at her, as if he’d anticipated her turn. Anticipate this then, she thought, feeling slightly unbalanced. “What’s your name?”
Both Chedd and Waker Stone turned at the sound of her voice. Generally there was no speaking in the boat: it was one of the rules. Waker’s father continued paddling in smooth, uninterrupted strokes. His jaw was slack, but he looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was up to. Which was strange as she wasn’t even sure herself. Frowning, she turned around to face front.
“Girlie, girlie, girlie, girlie. Wonder why it wasn’t early?”
Hearing the croaky, gleeful voice coming from behind, Effie spun back, but she was too late. Waker’s father’s jaw had already fallen slack. His little beady eyes were triumphant.
Gods, he’s weird. Disgruntled, Effie turned her back on him and fixed her attention on the river.
The boat had found its channel and was moving upstream. They were about thirty paces from the north shore, which still consisted of mud banks glazed with ice. You couldn’t see the southern shore because of the densely wooded island midstream. Effie spotted a ruin amidst the fire pines, and wondered what clan, if any, claimed it. Chedd had sworn blind there were river pirates living on the islands, but Effie didn’t believe him. How would pirates make a living? Waker’s boat was the only craft in sight.
As the morning wore on the going became more difficult. The wind fought the boat and they were forced midstream by tree debris and rocks. Waker and his father muscled the boat forward, their paddles cutting parallel troughs through the water. Gradually the mud banks and reeds gave way to woods. Trees grew right up to the river’s edge. Some were actually standing in the water. Effie wondered how long it would be before the river level dropped and they got some relief. When she spied a fisher eagle diving in water just off the shore, she couldn’t help but speak again. “Chedd,” she hissed. “Over there. It’s got a fish.”
Chedd had been engaging in fake paddling for the better part of an hour and was glad of the distraction. “She’s a beaut,” he whispered with appreciation. “Look. On the island. You can see her nest.”
Effie glanced at Waker’s back, checking that this hushed conversation didn’t offend him. He had to be able to hear it—they were only separated by a distance of seven feet—but perhaps because they were keeping their voices extra low he’d decided to tolerate it. The back of his head, decorated with the palely beautiful moonstone clasp, held steady and did not move.
“How do you know it’s a she?” she whispered, gaze following the line of Chedd’s pudgy finger to the eagle’s nest.
Chedd shrugged. “Just do.”
Effie shrugged back. The eagle had what looked to be a green pickerel in its hooked talons. The fish wriggled wildly as the eagle flew toward her nest. Once she was overland, she released her grip and let the fish plummet toward the beach.
Chedd turned his neck to look at Effie and they both executed a collected shoulder-scrunching wince at the moment the pickerel hit the rocks. “Eew,” Chedd sighed with feeling.
“Double eew,” Effie agreed, watching as the eagle swooped down to retrieve the smashed fish.
“Uh-oh. Trouble coming.”
“Ssh,” Effie hissed. In his excitement Chedd had forgotten to lower his voice. Waker had to have heard that, but a quick glance at the back of the Grayman’s head told Effie nothing.
Color crept up Chedd’s neck. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I forgot.”
Finally Effie understood what Chedd had meant by trouble coming. As she looked on, a pair of ravens broke through the trees and swept in toward the kill. The eagle saw them coming straight for her, plucked out a piece of the pickerel’s belly, gobbled it down and sprang into flight. She was nearly twice the size of the ravens, but Effie guessed she was a smart bird who knew when she was outnumbered. The ravens, night-black creatures with oily wings, fell upon the fish carcass and started cawing and squawking and battling each other for the best pieces.
“What happened to females first?” Effie whispered, fascinated.
Chedd corrected her in a voice so low it took her a moment to understand him. “They’re both female too.”
“How do you know that?” she demanded.
Again Chedd shrugged. “Dunno. Just do.”
Effie fell silent, thinking. She looked at the back of Chedd’s chubby neck and then out toward the island and the ravens. Out of habit she reached for her lore. The stone was wind-cooled and heavy. It told her nothing. Waker’s father steered the boat toward the shore, taking advantage of the deepening channel. The shoreline was still heavily wooded, but the land was beginning to rise and rocky draws and undercuts lined the bank.
“Chedd,” Effie said after a while, leaning forward so she could whisper in his ear. “How did you know about the ravens before they broke the trees?”
“Didn’t know,” he replied, defensive.
He was a bad liar and Effie wasn’t about to let him get away with it. “You did know, because you said trouble was coming when there was nothing there.”
Chedd shrugged expressively, his shoulders moving upward in three separate stages.
“Has anyone ever said anything bad about you?” Effie persisted. “Like you might be . . . ” She lowered her voice to its absolute minimum. “Chanted.”
Chedd nearly jumped off his seat. He shook his head so vigorously he rocked the boat. “No. No. No. I’m training for the hammer,” he said, as if this automatically disqualified him from suspicion. He thought for a moment and then added, “My da’s a hammerman too.”
Effie frowned. She could tell by the set of his shoulders that Chedd had entered what Mog Willey called “the clamdown.” Once someone had entered the clamdown the only thing to do was leave them alone. They would open up only in their own good time.
Light goldened as the sun moved to the west. The wind died and the chop left the water. Effie couldn’t see anything but water and trees. Pines and hardwoods warred for space al
ong the shore. Over time her legs had grown stiff and she raised them a little bit to get the blood pumping. The chains were wet and dripping; there was always an inch of water in the boat. As she watched the chains swing between her feet she thought of Chedd and Waker and Waker’s father. Something was lying at the far edge of her memory and she was trying to make it roll toward her. Of course as soon as she tried it rolled the other way. Memories were tricky little animals to catch.
Feeling the boat pull strongly toward the right, she glanced over her shoulder at Waker’s father. His face told her nothing, but she could see from his strokes that he was guiding the boat ashore. Wondering why they were stopping so early Effie scanned ahead. Smoke lines, three of them, rose above the tree canopy in the distance. Effie wondered what roundhouse or settlement they came from. A handful of tiny ancient clanholds lay along the river between Ganmiddich and Croser. The country was wild here, thickly forested and overrun with vines. It was known as “tree country” and Inigar Stoop always said it was nothing more than a hatchery for flies and a feeding ground for bears. Effie took it to mean he disapproved of the wild clans that lived here.
When she saw Waker set down his paddle and draw out the pole from its place in the hull of the boat, Effie realized they weren’t going ashore after all. They were going to pole up a creek.
Even though she looked really hard she couldn’t spot the tributary until they were right on top of it. She could feel its waters, pushing against the stern of the boat, even perceive the cross eddies swirling where the two channels met, yet could see nothing but choked-up willow and sumac ahead. Anyone looking on would have thought Waker and his father were about to pole right onto the shore. But no, at the last instant Effie spied a telling shadow beneath the trees. Crouching low and tucking their heads against their chests to avoid being hit by branches, Waker and his father steered the boat through the canopy and into the creek.
A pretty nifty move, Effie thought, slapping at a willow twig that was aiming right for her eye.
The creek was narrow and winding, a line of brown water leading through the trees. Waker’s breath came harder as he poled against the quick-moving current. Effie kept herself still. The boat was rolling from side to side and she didn’t like it one bit.
Girlie, girlie, girlie, girlie. Wonder why it wasn’t early? For some reason Waker’s father’s stupid rhyme kept playing in her head.
They headed upstream until the light failed, and then Waker’s father guided the boat to a narrow pebble beach surrounded by black oak and hemlock. It was nearly dark by the time Effie stepped into the water. Her legs were a bit numb so she didn’t feel the cold much. The memory was back again, playing hide-and-seek in her head.
“Girl, gather sticks for the fire.” Waker held the boat for his father to alight and then began to unpack the load.
Effie’s feet were still in the water. The bottom of her dress was wet. She was shivering and all she wanted to do was wrap herself up in a blanket and sleep. “I have a name, you know,” she said to Waker. “It’s Effie Sevrance. And that over there is Chedd Limehouse.”
Chedd, hearing his name mentioned, looked up from his task of laying bedrolls, saw Effie facing off against Waker Stone and decided to make himself disappear. “Off for a piss,” he said to no one in particular, darting into the trees.
Waker had been in the process of unloading the waxed sack containing the food. Gaze staying on Effie he walked to the shore and deposited the sack on the beach. It landed with a crunch. “Your name won’t mean nothing where you’re going. So drop your proud little fancies and build the fire.”
Effie felt heat rise to her cheeks. Waker’s father passed her in the water, his malignant ferret face twitching. Effie waited for him to walk up the beach before addressing his son. “Are you selling us to the mine lords of Trance Vor?” There. She’d spit it out.
Waker Stone’s eyes bulged a fraction farther from his skull. His head went back and a high braying noise exploded from his lips.
Effie stepped back. The noise continued and she realized quite suddenly that he was laughing. Behind her, Waker’s father sniggered once in solidarity and then went quiet.
After a moment Waker calmed himself and looked her straight in the eye. “Girl, I promise you you’re not going to no mine.”
She waited but he said no more, simply picked up the sack and went about his business on the beach. As Effie watched him the memory she’d been grasping for all day rolled into place. Automatically, her hand reached for out for her lore.
Girlie, girlie, girlie, girlie. Wonder why it wasn’t early?
Of course! Her lore hadn’t warned her the night of the kidnapping. Her lore always alerted her to danger. Always. But not then. So why?
It was a question she tried to answer as she gathered sticks for the fire.
THIRTEEN
Stormglass
Raif dreamed he was awake and could not sleep. When he woke he lay on his bed, eyes closed, and rested. Today he would leave the Want. Or try to.
Light angling through the clarified hide walls filtered into his mind’s eye. Silvery rings floated across his vision. It was peaceful just to watch them for a while. Soon he found it was one of those rare times when he could picture Drey, Effie and Ash without feeling the pain of losing them. No hurt, no longing, just memories of their faces. Effie grinned, showing him a great big hole where her front baby teeth used to be. Drey was still, offering himself for inspection, his large brown eyes vigilant and unblinking. Ash was still also, but unlike his brother and sister, Raif could not see her clearly. Wind was moving through her long silvery hair and she smiled gently as her image faded.
Raif rose and dressed, scrubbed his teeth with pumice, drank a full pitcher of water, combed and rebraided his hair, shaved. Forming a pile of his possessions in the middle of the tent, he carefully inspected his weapons, waterskin, gear belt, the Orrl cloak and half a dozen other lesser things. Those items requiring care he carried outside.
Diffused sunlight shone across the dunes. A net of high clouds drifted overhead, and at ground level the wind was mild and halting. A lamb brother just beyond the tent circle was skinning a large carcass, rolling back the hide with one hand as he pared the pink, fatty flesh. With a shock, Raif realized they had slain the dead brother’s mule.
He crossed to the fire. Three prayer mats were laid out side by side upwind of the smoke. Raif settled his possessions in the pumice and went to look at them. They were simply woven, made from dyed and polished wool. The background of the closest rug was the same deep brown as the lamb brothers’ robes, and only two other colors had been used to weave the design: warm amber and silvery yellow. Raif recognized the buffalo and lambs from Tallal’s story. The animals were lined up along the top border, as if ready to journey down the length of the rug. His gaze tracked the design. Exotic trees and animals he could not name formed small islands along the way. Suns picked out in the amber thread were shown rising between the cleft of two hills and setting on a flat desert plain. Resting atop the bottom border was a shining expanse of silver, worked to look like water. No, ice, Raif corrected himself, for some kind of bird stood atop it, pecking at the surface. The bird was worked in the same brown as the background and its features were hard to see. The only way to make them out was to study the over-weave created by thread being placed on top of thread. Hairs rose along Raif’s neck as he made out the shape of the bird’s bill.
Briefly, he scanned the other two rugs. The designs differed but the story remained the same: the lambs and buffaloes on a journey toward the ice. He saw no more ravens and was relieved.
Returning to his equipment he studied the sky. He knew it was futile to judge time from the sun’s position in the Want, but he could not break the habit of eighteen years. The air was like crystal today, revealing the landscape in sharp-cut lines and crisply focusing light. The dunes had shifted while he slept and things that had once been covered were now revealed. Rocks as round as eggs, petrified tree l
imbs and a rack of antlers had emerged from the pumice overnight. Raif wondered what had become of Farli’s body. Was there anything left for the dunes to cover? Did he want to go and find out?
No, he did not. Squatting by the fire, he picked up a birch pole and hooked the brass kettle that was resting on the edge of the coals. There were no cups, so he did not drink, just let his hands warm against the metal. When they were limber enough he set to work. The tension in his bow needed correcting, so he restrung it. Dry air had warped some of his arrows, so he whittled back the shafts. Last night’s extreme cold had cracked part of the finish on the Orrl cloak, and Raif wondered if it could be fixed. As he ran his fingers over the surface, little chips of pearlized varnish fell off. Deciding he would need to consult with someone who knew about such things, he set the cloak aside and began oiling his leather goods instead.
From time to time, out of the corner of his eye, he was aware of the lamb brothers moving around the camp. One went to consult with the man butchering the mule carcass, stayed for a while and then left. Raif thought it was probably Tallal. Later the same brother crossed to the corral and tended the ewe. It looked as if he were washing her mouth and teeth. No one approached the fire.
After a while Raif stopped and ate. Gluey rolls made of wheat and whey were warming in the cookpot. Curds of sheep’s cheese with chunks of dried apricot stuffed inside made them taste both salty and sweet. The kettle was cooler now so he lifted it above his head and poured the sharp, greenish tea into his mouth. The movement sent a spasm of pain through his left shoulder.
