A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (73 page)

After the dimness of the entrance Bram had to hood his eyes to stop the light from dazzling them. A large seven-sided chamber lay in front of him, and torches spaced at foot-long intervals ringed the walls. There had to be at least two hundred, Bram figured, yet even combined with the fires buming against three of the seven walls they didn’t create sufficient light or heat to drive away the atmosphere of decay.

Skinner Dhoone sat on a big ugly chair carved with thistle barbs for armrests.
He has aged
, Bram realized. His braids were lank and graying, and his face had the florid puffed-up look of someone who drank too hard on a weak liver. His eyes were pure Dhoone, and all the arrogance of chiefs and kings lived there. Looking Bram up and down, he said, “I know you. You’re Mabb Cormac’s boy—you’ve even less claim to the Thistleblood than your brother Rab.”

Bram nodded; he had not been charged to argue with Skinner Dhoone. All around, Dhoonesmen stood in silence and watched him. The chamber was full of them, all armed, many armored. Bram recognized the brothers Mauger and Berold Loy. Mauger acknowledged him with a grim nod.

Skinner had been expecting Bram to be provoked by his statement, and Bram’s agreement confounded him. Curling his fingers around the carved wooden barbs, he said, “So you do not deny your brother has no claim on king or chiefship?”

Behind him, Bram heard Guy Morloch hiss something in response.

“What say you?” demanded Skinner, seizing upon this. “Step forward,
Milk
man, and speak your mind.”

Guy Morloch laid a hand on Bram’s shoulder to push past him, but Bram jerked his head around sharply and said, “Guy. You speak out of turn.
I
was charged to treat with the chief-in-exile. No one else.”

For a wonder, Guy Morloch fell back. Or perhaps Diddie Daw or Mangus Eel grabbed and held him. Bram would never know. He had turned to face Skinner Dhoone once more, his heart racing. This had to be done right.

“Answer the question, rabbit boy.”

Bram stilled himself. His mother had trapped many creatures: coaties, and ringtails, and foxes. She had not trapped rabbits alone, though even she would have admitted they were her favorites.
A rabbit is good eating
and
skinning
, she would say.
Try putting a weasel in a pot.

Feeling calmer, Bram said, “Robbie Dhoone relinquishes the chiefship to you.”

Gasps circled the chamber. Dhoonesmen stirred. Mauger Loy crossed to the thistle chair and whispered two words in Skinner’s ear. Bram’s good eyes saw Mauger’s lips move and read them.
Be cautious.

Skinner Dhoone roused himself from the chair, and stood. His boots were deerskin and very fine, but the mud of the Old Round still clung to them. Approaching Bram, he said, “And what has brought about this change in Rab Cormac nee Dhoone?”

Bram concentrated on looking at the drink-puffed skin on Skinner’s nose; the Dhoone blue eyes were too much for him. “It is not a change as Robbie sees it. He has been constant in his wish to see Dhoone united.”

Behind him, Diddie Daw, Mangus Eel and the rest grunted their agreement. Even a few of Skinner’s own men nodded their heads. They had heard the messages Robbie had sent through Mauger Loy.

Skinner Dhoone rocked back onto the heels of his boots and snorted. “So Robbie’s been constant, has he?” Lunging forward suddenly, he locked gazes with Jordie Sarson. “And what would you say to that, Jordie Treason?”

Jordie swallowed.
He’s not much older than I am
, Bram realized. Tilting his chin up a fraction, Jordie said, “I’d say Robbie is an honorable man, who loves Dhoone more than his own life.”

Bram made his face a mask. Jordie
believed
what he said, that was evident, and there was something about Jordie Sarson—the fairness of his skin and hair, his youth and fine looks and clear blue eyes—that spoke to Dhoonesmen. Any man here would be proud of such a son.

Robbie had calculated well. It had been a risk sending Jordie with the company, and another risk not to let him in on the plan. But both risks had paid off. Jordie’s conviction was beyond price.

Skinner’s lost a beat of concentration. His blue eyes weren’t as clear as Bram had thought; there was water in them. “Am I to hear Rab Cormac’s plan?” he challenged.

Bram stepped forward to draw attention away from Jordie and back to himself. “Robbie has a deal to propose.”

“Does he, now?” Skinner said quietly, unsurprised. “Go on.”

“Robbie has men who are sworn to him, and he will not force them to break their oaths to return to you.”

Skinner let out a gasp of foul air. “The arrogance of the bastard! He stole those men in the first place and now refuses to give them back!” The chief-in-exile shook his head, but Bram didn’t think it was in genuine amazement, more the show of it for his men. “And what else does Rab propose?”

Bram took a breath to steady himself before speaking. “Robbie is willing to cede Dhoone to you. As long as you agree not to interfere with his taking of Withy, he will not interfere with your reclaiming of Dhoone.”

It took a moment for this statement to sink in. Skinner’s eyes blanked for a moment, and then focused sharply as all the implications occurred to him. “
Withy?
” he repeated and this time his amazement was unfeigned. “You are telling me Rab Cormac intends to take the Withyhouse?”

Bram nodded. Only one final piece to say; relief gave him confidence. “We have made plans. Robbie believes it can be taken. It’s vulnerable, and the Dog Lord’s sons fail in their vigilance. Robbie
will
have a clanhold.” He looked Skinner Dhoone straight in the eye. “And he’s judged Dhoone impossible to retake.”

Skinner shook his head, clearly agitated by Bram’s words. His lips moved, muttering something, and though he turned before Bram could catch it all, Bram recognized part of the Withy boast.

We are the clan who makes kings.

When Skinner turned back his face was changed, and some of the water had left his eyes. “If I agree to these terms, when will Rab take Withy?”

“Within the month. I can say no more than that.”

Skinner nodded, as if he had been expecting just such an answer. Drawing himself up to his full height, he said, “Go now. I must think on this. I will send Rab Cormac my word within the tenday.”

They were dismissed, and as Bram made his way from the chamber he was struck by the fact that when cunning showed on the face of a Dhoone they all looked much the same.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Raid on the Shanty

T
hey halted when they saw smoke in the distance. Two bald hills separated them from the shanty; a distance of perhaps five leagues. Raif had led the party this last day, and it was he who called the halt. They were in Blackhail territory now, and he knew how easy it was to spot any sort of movement on the balds. They would make a dry camp until sunset, and then move under cover of dark.

Raif could hardly believe it was happening. Seventeen days west and he was here, where he had never thought to return. Ride five days southwest at a fair pace and he’d be back at the roundhouse, back with Effie and Drey and Corbie and Anwyn, and Bitty and all of the Shanks.

Home
, he mouthed, feeling nothing.

He knew these hills, knew how the wind scoured anything that dared grow higher than a stalk of heather, knew where to look to find springs and old mine shafts, and the best place to flush out rabbits. He had taken down his first major kill not far from here: a big lone moose that had strayed south. Abruptly, he turned his mind to the arrangement of the camp. Some instinct involved with preserving his sanity warned him to
do
, not
think
.

They were not far from Dhoone here, but already the Copper Hills had deflated into the humps and bluffs of the balds. Five days earlier they had made the crossing from the badlands into the clanholds. The weather had been with them, and in a way so had the clanwars. They had met no hunters on the road. The stout ponies favored by the Maimed Men were not bred for speed, and once they were past the worst of canyon country the journey had been almost restful. The lengthening days of spring and the clear weather meant they’d easily made up for days lost during the storm. The moon had shrunk a bit every night and now there was nothing of it left.

Tonight would be completely dark.

Raif bandaged his pony’s hocks. The poor creature had just missed going over the cliff in the landslide, and its legs had been cut up by rocks. It threw a kick, and Raif dodged it. At least he still
had
a mount. Stillborn’s gentle black mare had been lost, along with the three packhorses and the gear they’d been hauling. Now they were eleven men and ten mounts. Few were happy about this, especially Addie and the outlander, Thomas Argola. Having been judged the lightest members of the group, they had been forced to share Yustaffa’s powerful garon. Yustaffa in turn had set his sizable rump upon the outlander’s mount, and Stillborn had taken Addie’s pony. So far no more horses had died—but many tempers had been lost. Raif had made a point of walking part of each day so he could offer Addie use of his mount. Mostly Addie just walked right alongside him, glad to be in full command of his hill legs.

Addie had some knowledge of this part of the clanholds, and Raif didn’t doubt that he could have led the raid party to the mine without him. Already the cragsman had located a spring and a tender stretch of saxifrage for the horses.

Raif decided that was something else he didn’t want to think about: why Linden Moodie had given him the lead. Quickly, he trimmed the pony’s bandages and stood. The sun was hanging above a bank of streaky clouds, still an hour or so from setting. Some of the Rift Brothers were gnawing on ptarmigan bones to fill the time, others were talking in low voices, or seeing to their mounts. Stillborn was oiling his weapons.

The big Maimed Man had lost a considerable portion of his collection in the fall. An assortment of swords, longknives, katars and other more fantastically bladed weapons had gone over the cliff, never to be seen again. All Stillborn had managed to save had been the sword and longknife, the nail hammer he kept permanently hooked to his gear belt, and a number of items stashed in a stiffly tanned elkskin that had been slung across his back at the time of the slide.

Raif had a strange feeling about that. Two of Stillborn’s three packs had fallen into the canyon along with his horse, yet the arrow Divining Rod had not been lost. Stillborn had found it wrapped in a stained length of linen, safe and sound in the elkskin pack. When pressed he said he
did
remember placing it there—it being so light and all—but it was the only thing in his daypack that he could claim no practical use for.

Sometimes Raif wondered how many of the Maimed Men—wittingly or unwittingly—conspired to push him toward a certain point. Stillborn, Yustaffa, Addie, the outlander, even Traggis Mole himself seemed to be propelling him forward onto a course he barely understood himself.

Enough.
Glancing over at the smoke rising above the hills, Raif forced all unfinished matters from his mind, and went to speak with Stillborn.

“How will it happen?” he heard himself ask.

The Maimed Man was working linseed oil into the Forsworn sword with a bit of rag, and he slowed a fraction as he answered. “Smoothly, if all goes to plan. The cooled gold is kept in a locked room just below the mouth of the mine. It’s guarded by one sleepy miner or another, sometimes by the Lode Master. Any hot gold is set to cool near the furnace which is just upwind of the mine. We close in on the shanty after dark, wait until lights out, and then move in and seize the gold. If there’s scuffles we’ll keep them short and quiet.”

Raif nodded. “How do you know so much about the layout of the mine?”

“How d’you think? The Mole had it watched.”

“Why isn’t the watcher in the raid party?”

Stillborn set down his rag. For good measure he had worked linseed oil into his matched bullhorns too and they now shone black as sin. “Stop asking questions you already know the answer to, Raif. Save us both some time. Watcher’s dead, picked off by an arrow from the mine.”

Traggis Mole hadn’t mentioned that, but it fit in more with what Raif knew about tied miners. They were hard men, and they relied on their clan for little, including defense. If they had endured one attack by the Maimed Men and found another man snooping, then things were hardly going to run as smoothly as Stillborn claimed. Raif looked at Stillborn and Stillborn stared back, his warning still in effect.
No more questions you know the answer to.

There was nothing for Raif to do but make preparations for the raid.

Camp had been made in the leeward base of the hill. Some old sheep-run had once been dug into the soil and lined with rocks, like a streambed, and now water was trickling along it. Raif jumped down into the trench and scooped up a handful of muddy silt. Scouring it across his face and over the back of his hands, he shrouded himself for the night. The mud tingled as it dried, pulling his skin tight.

From across the camp, Linden Moodie watched him. Something in his deep-set eyes, a certainty that he knew exactly what kind of man Raif Twelve Kill was, gave Raif pause. Moodie had already dismissed what happened on the canyon cliff as a fluke.
I’ll be watching you this night
, he mouthed, clearly, precisely, for Raif’s eyes alone.

Raif let his expression harden along with the mud. In a voice pitched to carry, he called the Maimed Men to him, and then spent the next quarter digging out handfuls of mud from the old sheep-run and passing them up to each man. Anything that might catch a beam of torchlight was darkened, even the horses’ stars and socks. Yustaffa alone refused the mud, claiming that when the Scorpion God made his skin He cast the color just right. “He ran out of dye by the time He got to you lot,” Yustaffa explained airily. “And didn’t think you were worth the trouble of mixing up a new batch.”