A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (68 page)

Frowning, he headed west toward the pointy tower where his lord was being held. Rainwater sluicing from the fortress walls made the grease shine on the streets. Town Dog halted to drink from a puddle, and Crope paused until she was done. The streets grew quieter as they headed away from the gate. They passed a deserted courtyard ornamented with oversize statues of knights. Pigeons flocked under the knight’s stone skirts, sheltering from the rain. Town Dog was up for chasing them, but Crope called her to heel.

Something was happening to his chest. The closer he drew to the pointy tower, the harder his ribcage squeezed. He had come here every day since entering the city, trying to make contact with his lord.

The tower was pale, and so high that the upper storeys disappeared into the rainclouds. Its stonework smoked like frozen meat, as if it were high above the snowline on the mountain, not here at its base. Crope rubbed his palm on his buckskin pants before touching it. As his fingers neared the icy limestone he felt the tower’s pull, an attracting force like a magnet. The smoothly polished stone sucked the heat from his skin, and his instinct was to snatch back his hand, but he pressed harder instead, his fingertips slowly whitening. The cold he could live with, but not the silence.

Time passed, and the sun sank below the city walls and a gray dusk set in. Crope’s fingers grew numb, and he pushed harder and harder, trying to force his way in.

Nothing.

Then, just as he pulled his fingertips away, there was a faint stirring, a reaching-out.

. . .
Come to me
. . .

The words sounded within Crope’s bones, and they were no longer a command. They were a plea. His lord’s voice was powerless, nearly gone.
Chicken-headed fool. Are you going to let him die?
Crope slammed his fist into the tower. Limestone fractured with a puff of dust, and Town Dog hunkered down in fright.

Crope stepped back. There was blood on his knuckles and his fingers were beginning to swell. He needed to think.
Think.
Force would do no good here. He was strong but he could not bring down a tower. This was no way to save his lord. Then how? He was not Bitterbean with his clever tricks or Scurvy Pine with his way of making men do as he wished. He was giant man, good for breaking walls and mending pumps.

And severing chains.
You be ready when I give the word.
Crope blinked as something occurred to him. Perhaps there was someone in the city who could lend a hand. A plan forming in his head, Crope turned his back on the tower.

Soon
, he promised his lord silently.
Soon.

It was full dark by the time he left the wide roads and dressed stone of the Fortress Quarter. Night came quickly to Spire Vanis, bringing with it a shock of cold that caused the rain to thicken into sleet. Crope passed men and women huddled warmly in thick woolens and furs. Some had purchased roasted chestnuts or fat, grill-split sausages from the street vendors, but Crope tried not to think about that. Brazier men had set up their grill irons on every street corner, and the glow of hot coals and the aroma of sizzling fat drew circles of people around them. Business was being conducted. Crope saw silver coins flash from one man’s hand to another’s, and then smallgoods returned in exchange. On one busy street a troop of mummers had set up a makeshift stage, and were performing a masque that involved saying the word “bottom” a lot. Swalhabi was not amongst them. Swalhabi would never deign to perform in a street. Crope felt sympathy with the mummers dressed as girls. It was a cold night to be wearing so little.

He was putting it off, he knew, tarrying to watch the mummers, and he scolded himself for his cowardice. What was his fear, compared to the misery of his lord? Nothing, that was what it was, and he set his jaw forward and moved on.

Trouble was, Crope didn’t know exactly what he was looking for. Not just any alehouse or inn would do. He needed to find one that looked right, but he was hard pressed to say what that meant. Certainly not the place across from the mummers’ stage, for some of the people entering wore silky furs the color of honey and toast and he knew such things only came with wealth. No. He needed a lesser place, somewhere where the patrons didn’t stand outside supping clear ale from pewter tankards while young boys bearing torches warmed them.

He headed further north. Town Dog trotted off every so often, drawn by the irresistible scent of rat. Crope had been wandering the city for several days but he had never strayed far from the fortress until now, and this part of the city was unknown to him. The streets grew shabbier, and fewer people set lamps in their windows. The brazier men were still out selling sausages, but when they cut them with their big knives you could see they were nearly all fat. Men gambled beneath makeshift rawhide shelters, and women dressed as scantily as the mummers shivered in doorways and called out to passers-by.

Crope kept an eye on the alehouses, interpreting the signs above their doors. A hammer and block meant that farriers and blacksmiths drank there. Scissors and a spool of thread meant tailors. Crossed swords could mean two things; either weapon makers or mercenaries. He passed establishments for chandlers, mercers, goldsmiths, grocers, and surgeons—the finest sign yet, a man whose leg had been hacked off at the knee with an ax—when he came upon a sign he didn’t immediately understand. It was a magpie with a blindfold covering its eyes. The Sign of the Blind Crow.

Crope stopped to study it. He was in a street that was quiet and very dark. The few men that walked here kept their collars up and their heads down. No one lingered. A dead cat was floating in a pool of runoff, its paws and tail burned.

Birds were something Crope knew quite a bit about. He had spent hours watching them in the poorhouse courtyard as a boy, and much later his lord had lent him books filled with wondrous drawings of every living thing. He could name every bird he saw or heard; he knew their habits, their plumage, their calls . . . and he knew magpies loved to steal. They could not pass by anything shiny without thinking
This would look fine in my nest.

Crope frowned in concentration. A blindfolded man could not see. If the blindfolded magpie was really a thief, then he was a thief who could tell no tales.

Heaving a great sigh of relief that his brain had actually worked for a change, Crope scooped up Town Dog and headed for the inn door. This was exactly the kind of place he’d been looking for.

Inside it was dark and cool, and Crope felt his good humor slide away, to be replaced by the usual fear: How would these people react to him? He shrank himself, and tried not to think about what had happened the last time he’d set foot in a tavern.

The room was quiet, and lit by only two baleen lamps. A fire stood against the far wall, but a heavy iron guard suppressed the light. Half-walls divided the room into small sections, creating private nooks where men sat head-to-head and spoke in low voices. A few people turned their heads at Crope’s entrance, but after a brief assessment of him they returned to their business. Relief flooded through Crope as he realized they weren’t interested in him one bit. A counter consisting of varnished pine boards topped with hammered copper was set to the side of the fire, and Crope made his way toward it.

As he settled himself in place, Town Dog squirmed free of Crope’s tunic and landed with a thump on the floor. She’d got a whiff of another dog behind one of the half-walls and was off to pay her respects.

“Bitter night,” said the man standing beside the counter, by way of greeting. Stocky, with a big belly and a thick neck, he looked like a pit fighter gone to seed. Crope saw interest in his eyes, but no fear. “What’s your fare?”

Crope shook his head, anxious not to have a drink poured that he could not pay for.

The pit fighter accepted this with a mild shrug, refilling his own tankard of ale from a glazed jug on the counter. “What’s your business, then?”

The question was lightly asked, but there was an edge to it that meant
Do not waste my time.
Crope felt his heartbeat quicken. What if he had made a mistake? The pit fighter folded his arms over his chest, making muscles the size of possums spring to life.

Crope bent and slid a hand down the side of his diamond boot. There, in the place where the leather had separated from the lining, was the thing he needed. Straightening up, he placed the object on the counter and said, “Friend of Scurvy Pine.”

Tendons in the pit fighter’s neck twitched at the mention of Scurvy’s name. Watching Crope closely, he reached for the ring. It was made from the white metal that was rarer than silver, and was as fine and delicate as a lock of hair. Words circled the inner band, but Crope had never learned what they said. The pit fighter held it toward the baleen light to inspect it. His lips moved as he read the words.

Abruptly he put it down, and slid it back toward Crope. “Where did you get this? And don’t lie to me. I won’t take a lie.”

Crope was already desperately shaking his head. “No lie. Was given in the diamond mines. Scurvy gave it. Was told to keep it.
Keep it.
Use when I had need.”

The pit fighter raised a hand. “Calm down, calm down now, big man. No one’s calling you a liar. You’ve got the scars of a diamond miner, that’s for sure.” And then, to a man sitting in the shadows at one of the nooks, “Quill. Over here. You need to hear this.”

Crope felt close to panic—speaking with strangers always did that to him. But this was getting worse. The man emerging from the shadows looked mean, there were no two ways about it. He had little eyes and a hooked-down mouth, and he commanded the biggest dog Crope had ever seen. The dog followed the man as he walked to the counter, and Town Dog followed the dog.

“Quill, this gentleman here’s a friend of Scurvy’s. Met him in the mines.”

Quill’s eyes narrowed to quarter-moons. He smelled of cellars and beeswax and dog. His hair was dark and greasy and his clothes weren’t much better than rags, but he wore a gold earpiece and several fine rings.

The pit fighter nodded at Crope. “Show him the ring.”

Crope slid the ring toward Quill, and as he inspected it the pit fighter told him what had been said. After an appraisal worthy of a master jeweler, Quill put down the ring and faced Crope.

“So are the rumors true?” he asked sharply. “Did Scurvy Pine escape?”

Crope nodded.

“When?”

This one was harder. To answer, Crope thought back to how the weather had been the day they broke free of the mine. “Midwinter.”

“You came straight here?” Crope nodded. “Is Scurvy with you?”

Crope shook his head.

That made Quill pause and think. After a moment his gaze strayed back toward the ring. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, barely waiting for Crope to shake his head. “It’s the ring Scurvy took from the finger of his dead child. Katherine, her name was. Used to call her Kat. And the man who raped and killed her never imagined he was signing the death sentence of his entire family and each and every one of his associates. It was the worst bloodbath the city of Trance Vor has ever known, and it was the reason they sent Scurvy to the mines.” Quill took up the ring again, and leaned over the counter toward Crope. “So what I’d like to know is: Why would he give it to you?”

Crope looked down at his feet. Shifting his staff between his hands, he said in a soft voice, “I broke the chains.”

“Scurvy’s chains?”

Crope nodded. “Shared chains for ten years.”

Quill and the pit fighter exchanged a glance. “So you’re telling me you were in the mines with Scurvy for ten years, and you’re the one responsible for his escape?”

“Helped.” Crope could not forget about Hadda the Crone. Hadda had sung the song that brought the darkness.

“Broadie,” Quill said to the pit fighter. “You’d better bring this man ’ere some food and ale. We’ll be sitting at my table for a while.”

“Aye, guv.” Broadie went swiftly about his business, apparently well satisfied that matters had been settled.

Quill held out his arm to Crope. “I’m Quillan Moxley, and my dog ’ere is Big Mox. Any friend of Scurvy’s is a friend of mine.”

Crope took the man’s arm and clasped it, careful not to grip too hard. Quill didn’t smile and he still looked mean, but the meanness was no longer directed toward Crope. And that suited Crope just fine.

Quill led the way back to his table, and they sat in silence as they waited for Broadie to bring the food. Town Dog and Big Mox, having sniffed each others’ rears at some length, trotted off to tour the room as Broadie returned with a tray bearing bread, cheese, cured sausage and a jug of ale. Crope tried hard not to stare, but something must have given him away for Quill said, “Go on. Eat your fill. We don’t wait on ceremony at the Sign of the Blind Crow.”

Crope ate. It was the best, most delicious meal he had ever had. He had forgotten the way cheese clung to your teeth when you bit into it, and the way the crust on fresh bread crunched into flakes. Quill sat back on his hard wooden chair, keeping his counsel until Crope was done. Occasionally the inn door would open and Quill would turn his head a fraction and assess whoever walked in.

When the last of the sausage disappeared down Crope’s throat, he said, “So. What can I do for you?”

Those were the very words Crope had hoped to hear when he’d remembered Scurvy’s ring, but now that he was face-to-face with a man who could help him he was unable to find the words. He could not speak of his lord.

Quill looked at him thoughtfully, the gold rings on his fingers glittering as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I can find you a place to sleep, probably set you up in a tavern or a coarsehouse, keeping order. You’d certainly put a damper on the fights. But I’ve got a feeling you want something else. Am I right?”

Miserable, Crope nodded. What he wanted was so fantastic that he might as well ask for a flying pig.

“Say it,” Quill insisted. “I’m a man of various means.”

Crope took a big breath.
Come to me
. . . In all the years Crope had known his lord he had never heard him beg until today. “Need to break into the fortress. Need to save my lord.”