A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (65 page)

Just as she was about to scold him back, Mace Blackhail entered the room. She stiffened, feeling her smile collapse despite her best efforts to maintain it. Mace had the ability to single her out in a crowd, and his wolf-yellow gaze swept toward her.
Wife
, he mouthed, and she couldn’t tell if it was a greeting or a threat. Her instinct was to run, but she forced herself to turn her back and go about the business of serving ale.

Mace had someone with him, a great beast of a Scarpeman with a hammer on his back. He followed at Mace’s heels like a trained dog. Some of the Hailsmen greeted him. Turby Flapp hugged him as if he were a long-lost son. Raina strained to catch his name, but between the roar of the fire and the lashing of the storm she could hear little.

It was late afternoon, and the storm was busy shortening the last remaining hour of daylight. Raina had been busy since dawn, moving livestock and clearing space for shelter. Storms brought hundreds of extra people to the roundhouse, and they all needed food and a place to sleep. The work involved was staggering, and the strain on food stores already run low preyed constantly on her mind. In the past she would have gone to Dagro and they would have discussed the best way to cope. Now she had no one to rely on but herself, and some days it seemed as if the entire responsibility for the running of the clanhold fell on her.

Mace cared only about Mace. He had let Blackhail become overrun with Scarpes, making their feuds his own. He had actually sent out crews to raid Orrl! Dagro Blackhail would no longer have recognized his clan.

So what are you going to do about it?
Raina halted for a moment by the fire, and let the tall flames heat her face. It had seemed so simple while Angus Lok was here: the clan must be rid of its chief. Mace had raped and murdered his way into the chiefship, and he was turning Blackhail into a den for Scarpes. Yet he had stolen Ganmiddich from under the Dog Lord’s nose, and taken a pledge of loyalty from its chief. And the latest rumor from the south had it that Bannen was set to turn. Dhoone was doing little to keep its war-sworn clans in line, and Mace was ever one to spot a weakness and use it. He had always been a wolf.

Raina sighed heavily. Truth was, Mace Blackhail won things for his clan.

Studying the ale jug in her hand, she decidedly quite suddenly to pour herself a drink. It was warm and good. Anwyn enriched it with egg and other odd things that Raina didn’t know about, and it was almost like drinking a meal.

She watched as her husband spoke with the returning clansmen. One of the provisions of the treaty struck between Blackhail and Ganmiddich gave Blackhail the right to garrison two hundred men in the Crabhouse for Ganmiddich’s protection. That meant crews of Hailsmen were constantly traveling to and from the Crabhold. It was a dangerous run that took them close to the Dhoone stronghold at Gnash, and within sight of Bludd-held Withy. Until recently Dhoone had been an ally in kind to Blackhail, but with the stealing of Dhoone-sworn Ganmiddich all had changed.

Hailsmen making the Ganmiddich run were regularly attacked by Skinner’s men. The Dhoonesmen were frustrated, Raina supposed, since their leader had yet to make a move to retake Dhoone. Hailsmen had been slain, and Raina could name every one of them. It fell to her to inform their kin.

As she listened, Ballic told Mace that a crew of Bluddsmen out of Withy had given them chase. Young Stiggie Perch had taken an ax blow to his spine and fallen from his horse. They had not gone back to collect the body.

For a long moment everyone in the Great Hearth was silent. Some men touched their measures of powdered guidestone. Mace Blackhail touched his sword. “Inigar will cut his bones from the guidestone,” he said.

Men nodded. It was Blackhail’s way.

Orwin Shank entered the room, and rushed to where his youngest living son sat propped against the roundwall. A broken-off arrow shaft jutted from the meat of Bev Shank’s upper arm. Laida Moon was tending him. The boy had been wearing ring mail when he was hit, and Raina could see where a portion of the metal had been driven into the wound. Laida was all business, sending Rory Cleet to the forge for wire cutters, and Anwyn Bird to the distillery for hard liquor.

Raina went over and put a hand on Orwin’s shoulder. The big, aging hammerman had tears in his eyes. He had lost two sons to the Clan Wars: he could not afford to lose more.

“Come away,” she said. “Let Laida do her job.”

The tiny, dark-skinned surgeon sent Raina a look of gratitude. Worried fathers only hindered her work.

Gently, Raina guided Orwin toward the fire. It was full dark now and the luntman was lighting the last of the torches. Outside, the storm was raging, and the wind wailed as it hit the roundhouse. To take Orwin’s mind off Bev she inquired about his other sons.

“Mull’s at Ganmiddich, and Grim’s waiting to head out. Bitty—” Orwin shook his head. “He’s been sent north to protect the mine. Maimed Men were spotted at the shanty.”

As Raina nodded, Bev Shank screamed in pain. Laida Moon had taken possession of the wire cutters, and was now trimming the ring mail around the wound. Raina grabbed Orwin’s arm. It was time to take the axman for a walk.

They made it as far as the great double doors before Mace caught up with them. “Wife,” he said, halting her. “I don’t believe you’ve met the latest addition to our clan. Mansal Stygo. He’s given us his oath for a year.”

The massive, black-haired Scarpeman stepped forward and bowed at the waist. The hammer cradled at his back was the size of a child. His gaze traced the curve of Raina’s hips and breasts as he straightened his spine. “Lady.”

Raina was aware that Mace was watching her closely, and she forced her features to calmness. This man standing before her had murdered a chief, and now he was to become one of the clan? Barely managing to stop herself shuddering, she inclined her head. “You’ve been here before,” she told him, “and trained with Naznarri Drac.”

“I’m flattered my lady has heard of me.”

The slyness in his voice made Raina bristle. She took a breath, meaning to tell him she knew a lot more than that when she felt Orwin’s fingers press hard against her arm. Sobered, she smiled stiffly and said nothing.

“Orwin,” Mace said. “I believe you two know each other.”

“Aye,” Orwin said levelly. “You trained at the same time as my eldest.”

Mansal Stygo nodded at the aging red-faced clansman, his eyes cold. The two men stared at each other for longer than was proper; Mansal was the first to look away.

Before anything else could be said, Raina stepped in and informed Mace that she had to take Orwin for a walk—surgeon’s orders.

He let her go, but she could feel him watching her as she and Orwin passed through the doorway.

The roundhouse was warm and muggy, crowded with tied clansmen who had taken up places on the stairs. One Scarpeman had ripped a torch from the wall and was using it to brown a chunk of meat. It was a wonder he hadn’t set the entire roundhouse alight. Raina thought of reprimanding him, then decided against it. Let Mace deal with his own.

As soon as they were out of earshot of the Great Hearth, Orwin said to her, “You nearly made a grave mistake.”

Raina absorbed this for a moment, slowly coming to understand its implications. She glanced at Orwin. He had first made himself a fierce warrior, and then a wealthy man. Dagro had relied upon many clansmen for advice, but none more so than Orwin Shank. Yet Orwin had supported Mace’s bid for chiefdom . . . and that made Raina cautious.

As they reached the entrance hall she said to him, “What do you know of Mansal Stygo?”

Orwin stopped to rest for a moment. His hands were swollen with arthritis—the bane of all men who trained with hammer and ax from an early age—and he massaged his enlarged knuckles as he spoke. “I’m not a man for intrigue, Raina, and I have turned my back on many dread things. I tell myself I am old and have no business interfering with the ways of clan. I should look to my sons and my land and be content with my lot. Yet I find myself waking in the middle of the night, stirred by the need for change.”

Tiny hairs along the back of Raina’s neck lifted.
Easy
, she cautioned herself.
You cannot afford to make a mistake.

Quickly she glanced around. Entire families were camped in the entrance hall, and dogs and chickens were running lose. One woman was milking a goat. A couple of children had pilfered a head of cabbage and were playing a game of throw. It was too crowded—everywhere was teeming this night. She needed a place that would be quiet, yet she could not take him to her chamber or any other women’s place. It would arouse too much suspicion.
Little mice with weasels’ tails.

The only place from which tied clansmen and Scarpes were firmly barred was Anwyn’s kitchen. It would have to do. Pitching her voice to carry a fraction farther than normal, Raina said, “Orwin. You must eat. Let me warm you a bowl of sotted oats.”

He nodded once. “Lead on.”

Raina forced a path through the crowd. Her heart was beating hard, and she felt reckless and powerfully excited. If Mace were to spot her now, just one look at her face and he would know all.

The kitchen was an island of calm. Clanwives had just finished laying out tomorrow’s bake, and every flat surface in the chamber was covered with trays of rising bread dough. The beer-keg stench of yeast was overpowering. A bank of vast stone ovens shaped like bells ran long the exterior wall, and a stoker with a long-handed shovel was busy raising the heat. At the sight of Orwin Shank, a fully sworn clansman, no less, clanwives dressed in baker’s white rushed to clear a space at the nearest table. Whenever a Blackhail warrior was hungry he was fed.

For appearances Raina accepted a bowl of oats and a jug of ale along with Orwin. They ate in silence for a while, giving the kitchen helpers time to fall back into their routines. Pots needed to be scrubbed and sanded, sheep’s blood boiled down for puddings, and onions quartered to season everything from sausages to stew. Out of the corner of her eye Raina spotted pretty Lansa Tanna, her cheeks dusted with flour, fussily chopping carrots. Raina smiled a greeting, but Lansa merely pinched in her mouth. She’d given her loyalty to Mace.

Somehow the snub gave Raina strength. In a low voice she said to Orwin, “Mansal Stygo murdered the Orrl chief in cold blood.”

He nodded. “Every hatchetman in the clan knows it. It was one thing while he stayed at Scarpe, but now he’s given Mace his oath . . .” Orwin shook his head, letting the thought trail off. He was not at ease in the kitchen, and kept glancing from side to side. Raina wondered if she’d made a mistake.

“Raina! Orwin! I’ve been looking everywhere for you two.” Out of nowhere Anwyn Bird came striding towards them, her long gray braid whipping at her neck. “Raina. Have you forgotten you were to help me take stock in the game room? And you, Orwin Shank. You promised to take a look at the hung mutton—tell me whether its spoiled.”

Raina and Orwin exchanged a glance. Anwyn stood before them, hands on hips, her brown eyes challenging them to contradict her. They did what everyone in the clan did when faced with Anwyn Bird: they obeyed her.

The night was growing stranger by the moment, Raina thought, as they filed through the kitchen toward the warren of stockrooms, stillrooms, larders and game rooms that constituted Anwyn’s domain. The light level dropped and the heat of the kitchens fell away. No one spoke. They didn’t need to. They knew their purpose here.

The game room was kept under lock and key. It hadn’t always been that way, but since Scarpes had started inhabiting the roundhouse food had developed a habit of disappearing. Anwyn opened the door and bade them mind the steps. The room had been built belowground, hard against the northern wall. Even in high summer it was cold. Raina took the steps carefully, her breath whitening, and her nose pulling in the strong bloodless scent of aged meat.

The chamber was long and low. A thick woodwork lattice was suspended just below the ceiling, and the meat hung there from iron brain-hooks. Whole, gutted animal carcasses swayed in the ventilating breeze. Sides of beef, black as if they had been burned, lined an entire wall. Pheasants and ptarmigans had been hung from their feet like bats, and hams and flitches of bacon—dipped in honey to encourage mold—had been packed into curing cubbies like brood hens.

At first glance it seemed like a wealth of meat, but Raina could recall the time when the entire fifty-foot length of the room had been packed from floor to rafter with fresh kills. Now only the sides of beef reached back that far, and everything else occupied the first fifteen feet.

Anwyn led them past the carcasses to an old table she used for trussing. She lit a mica safe-lamp, and then went back to close the door. Raina sat on a little milk stool, leaving the only proper chair for Orwin. Anwyn didn’t need a seat; the clan matron rarely sat.

An awkward moment passed when no one spoke. Orwin clasped and unclasped his hands, working out the painful stiffness. Anwyn frowned at the table. Looking at them Raina suddenly realized they were waiting for
her
to begin.

She took a breath. “Mace Blackhail is no longer my chief. He ordered the murder of Shor Gormalin and Spynie Orrl. He fills this roundhouse with Scarpes, and turns a blind eye when our tied clansmen are dispossessed of their farms. He is waging war with our staunchest ally, Orrl. And I have come to believe that he had foreknowledge of the attack in the badlands where my husband and your two sons, Orwin, met their deaths.”

There. She had done it. She was shaking uncontrollably, but she met Orwin’s gaze and then Anwyn’s, and she was filled with a sense of her own power. To make things happen you just had to
do
them. Why had it taken her thirty-three years to figure that out?

Orwin looked at her hard and long. Signs of strain were showing in his face, and Raina reminded herself that his youngest son lay in the Great Hearth, badly wounded. “What makes you believe Mace had foreknowledge of the badlands attack?”

It was telling that he had not questioned her statement about Shor Gormalin. The subject of the badlands massacre had to be dealt with carefully. Not until this moment had she dared to speak her thoughts on it out loud. “Remember the day Raif and Drey Sevrance rode home, after everyone thought them dead?” Both Orwin and Anwyn nodded. “Well, I think back on that now and I see things we missed. Remember the first thing Raif Sevrance did? He named Mace a traitor.”