A Sword From Red Ice (22 page)

Raina shivered. Here was the whole truth, and it
was not comforting. Anwyn would stand by her as long as she approved
of her actions. Suddenly weary, Raina turned her back on Anwyn and
moved toward the cast-iron half-door that led to the widows' hearth.
Crouching low, she slipped inside. The room was hot and filled with
people. Hatty Hare put her foot on the loom break and turned to look
at the chief's wife. Merritt Ganlow and one of the Shank boys were
pushing a worktable against the wall. Two clan maids were kneeling on
the floor, rolling up a carpet, a third girl was rubbing linseed oil
into one of the stretching racks, and slender and lovely Moira Lull
was crouching on the thick black hearthstone, feeding woodchips to
the fire.

Raina moved aside to let Anwyn step into the room.
Merritt nodded briskly at both of them. "Be ready day after
tomorrow," she snapped.

It took Raina a moment to realize that Merritt was
heading off questions about the preparations to accommodate the tied
clansmen. The head widow had been dragging her heels for days, but
Raina knew better than to mention it. The work was being done now;
she would be grateful for that.

Anwyn put a hand on Raina's arm. "I best be
heading back to the kitchen. I've a second bake to do today. The war
party needs bread."

Raina followed her out of the room. When the
carved wooden doors closed behind them and they were alone at the top
of the stair, she said, "I will use Mace's absence to change
things in this house, but do not push me. I have respect for you,
Anwyn, and we've been friends for many years, but don't assume that
because you picked me for this I'm under your control. I will be my
own master."

Seconds passed. Raina could hear the vast stone
warren of the roundhouse grinding under its own weight. Anwyn's face
was hard to read. In the time it took her to slip through the
balcony's half-door she had tucked away her fox lore. Finally she
pushed her lips together and nodded. "You need help, I'm here."

Raina hid her relief. Strangely, she didn't feel
tired anymore. Mace would be leaving the roundhouse. Tomorrow. While
he was gone she would take command of the clanhold. It was her duty
as chief's wife. Once the hole in the east wall was sealed she would
ask Longhead to build a great big fortified barn, and when it was
done she'd quarter the Scarpes there. Get them out of her house.
"Thank you, Anwyn," she said.

Anwyn bustled. It was something she did with her
shoulders and bosom, and it restored the matronly mask. "Can't
stand around here gossiping all day. Busy times. Bad and busy."

She left Raina at the top of the stair. Raina felt
giddy, light enough to float away. That's another thing about power:
it goes to your head.

Suddenly the day seemed like something to enjoy,
not endure. She would go and speak with Longhead about the remains of
the stone—hint that something would be done soon. Then she had
to supervise the housing of Scarpes in her old quarters. Ventilation
was bad there and she needed to be sure that no one brought in cook
stoves. After that the day was her own. Maybe she'd saddle Mercy and
take a ride out to the Wedge. Pay her respects to the dead horses
that were being buried there. Later she would be needed by the sworn
clansmen.

A thousand warriors rode out tomorrow. Her
attendance was their due.

"Lady."

Raina jumped. Turning around, she saw Bev Shank
emerge from the widows' hearth. He'd been helping Merritt move the
heavy machinery into storage. Bev couldn't be over twenty, yet like
all the Shank boys he was losing his hair. He was a yearman, trained
to the hammer, and his lore was the white-tailed deer.

"May I speak with you?"

He was deferential, as was proper for a yearman
when faced with his chief's wife. Raina replied soberly. "Of
course."

Bev looked at his boots. The back of his neck was
burned and peeling. Shank skin never did well in the sun. "It's
about Drey . . ." He struggled for a moment and then spit it
out. "Me and Grim ride to Ganmiddich tomorrow and we don't know
what to tell him about Bitty."

The word had arrived from Black Hole five days
back: Raif Sevrance had killed a sworn clansman in the mine. Drey's
brother was a Maimed Man. Raina's stomach contracted softly. So much
loss. When would it end?

"You must tell Drey the truth. Speak it
plainly. You lost your brother that day. So did he."

This was a new thought for the young yearman, she
could tell. Raif Sevrance was gone from this clan more surely than
Bitty Shank. Bitty could be remembered, spoken of with respect and
affection by friends and kin. Drey would never be allowed to speak
his brother's name again. Raif Sevrance was a traitor to his clan.

Bev frowned, thought for a while, then slowly
began to nod. "Aye, lady. Aye."

Raina laid a hand on his arm. "Bitty taught
me how to tie lures, one morning when he came down to Sand Creek with
me and Effie. We didn't catch a single fish, but it didn't matter.
Bitty had us laughing. You know Effie: had to be dragged out of the
roundhouse screaming. But she loved Bitty, and I swear that by the
time Bitty waded knee-deep in the creek, ringing that special
fish-catching song of his, she'd completely forgotten she was
outside."

Bev smiled with a closed mouth, swallowing. "The
song didn't rhyme," he said after a moment. "Didn't really
have a tune either."

"No. And it didn't help catch any fish."

Both of them laughed. There were tears in Bev's
eyes. He was too young for this. So was she.

"Ride proud tomorrow, Bevin Shank," she
said, lifting her hand away. "We are Blackhail, and the Stone
Gods made us first. When we die they welcome us back."

Bev's hazel eyes looked into hers. He surprised
her by bowing at the waist. "You are good for us, lady. Good for
this clan."

She wished with all her heart that he was right.
Her doubts must be kept to herself, though. This boy had already lost
three brothers. Tomorrow he would leave to reinforce Drey Sevrance
and Crab Ganmiddich at the Crab Gate. She could not send him to war
without hope. "Clan will hold steady until you return."

It was a binding promise, she realized as soon as
she spoke it. A thousand men rode tomorrow: they had to have
something solid to return to. She, Raina Blackhail, would make sure
of that.

Bev accepted her words with a solemn nod. Taking
his leave, he headed down the drafty stairs, doubtless making his way
toward the greathearth and the sworn clansmen who were gathering
there.

Raina held herself steady until he was long out of
sight. She breathed and did not think, refilling. Time passed. Sounds
of men calling out, children laughing, dogs barking, axes splitting
wood, doors opening and closing, and footsteps, thousands of
footsteps, filtered up to the top of the house. Someone exited the
widows' wall, passing her right by. A gust of wind spiraling up the
stair brought the scent of fried onions and grilled lamb chops.

That made her move. Hungry, she descended the
stairs. As always when she reached the lower levels of the roundhouse
she had to cover her distaste. Once clean, echoing corridors had been
turned into filthy camps. Scarpemen and their women continued to burn
their foul oil lamps, let their mangy house dogs run wild, and squat
and shit in open view. A group of Scarpewives were feasting on lamb
chops, sopping up the gravy with Anwyn's fresh bread. Raina averted
her gaze as she passed them but not before she saw what they were
drinking: Gat Murdock's Dhooneshine. She would know that old goat's
bottles anywhere: he'd filched them from her ten years ago. Four
brown-and-tan glazed toppers that had once been filled with womanly
unctions. Dagro had bought them for her during a clanmeet in Ille
Glaive. She'd long been reconciled to the fact that Gat Murdock had
claimed them. Gat was Gat, and every clan had someone like him. This
was different. This was theft. Never in a million years would Gat let
strangers drink his brew. Generosity was a concept the aging
swordsman had never grasped. No. Someone had found, fancied and
stolen it.

A Scarpe. They were like termites, eating away at
Blackhail's house, undermining its foundations. Raina considered
turning back and wresting the Dhooneshine out of the Scarpewives'
bony hands. Five of them against one of her? Probably not the best
idea. Even if she won, dignity would be lost. News of the chief's
wife in a scrum with a bunch of Scarpers would provide the roundhouse
with enough delighted gossip to last a week.

She hurried on. When she reached the ground floor,
she found the fifteen-foot-high clan door drawn open and a crowd of
tied and sworn clansmen milling around the entrance hall. Black,
muddy snow carried in on boot soles had slickened the floor and
grown men were slipping. Stepping back up the stairs, Raina searched
for a friendly face. From the looks of things a messenger had
arrived. A slender young clansman wearing a marmot-fur hat and a coat
caked in road dirt appeared to be the center of attention. Spying the
misshaped head of Corbie Meese, Raina beckoned the hammerman over.

"What's happening?" she asked as Corbie
wended his way through the crowd.

Corbie was wearing the fine gray wool cloak his
wife Sarolyn had made for him. Designed to be worn over battle armor
and a full complement of weapons, it had taken three bolts of cloth
to finish. When he moved it looked like his shadow. "Jamsie's
come from Duff's. The Dhoonehouse has been taken by Robbie Dun
Dhoone. Pengo Bludd's seized control of Withy, and is marching an
army south to meet the city men."

Raina blinked. This was news. In the days since
the Sundering Blackhail had grown inward, an animal licking its
wounds. Yet the world didn't stop when a guidestone shattered. Here
was proof. Struggling to make sense of what she'd just heard she
said, "I thought Withy was already controlled by Bludd."

"It was. Hanro, the Dog Lord's fourth son,
has held it for the past three months. Seven days back Skinner Dhoone
launched an assault—probably fancied Withy as a base to retake
Dhoone. Looked like he might claim it, then along comes Pengo with
his big army and crushes Skinner against the walls of the Withyhold.
Jamsie says it was a bloodbath. Eight hundred Dhoonesmen dead. No
word yet on Skinner. Some whisper he fled the field."

Raina went to touch the powdered guidestone at her
waist and had to stop herself. The guidestone was dead: there was no
comfort for her there. "Why didn't Robbie send men to reinforce
his uncle?"

Corbie made a hard sound in his throat. "Robbie
Dun Dhoone's a cold one. Rumor is that he planned it that way. While
Skinner was busy attacking the Withyhold, Robbie was free to steal a
march on Dhoone."

"No." Raina couldn't quite believe it.
No clansman would knowingly send fellow clansmen to their deaths. It
was evil, and the Stone Gods would not pardon it.

Corbie nodded solemnly, following her thoughts.
"Pray he never becomes our ally."

Raina would.

"Pengo's seized control of the Withyhold,"
the hammerman continued. "He's older than Hanro and higher in
the pecking order. Jamsie says he hasn't let the grass grow. Couple
of days to rest his crew and he headed out for Ganmiddich."

"Dear Gods. That was fast."

"When the win's upon a man, Raina, it does
something to him. Makes him fierce and resolute." Corbie glanced
toward the greatdoor as a new group of warriors arrived. "And
remember, Pengo will know by now that the Dog Lord's been routed. The
Dhoonehold's lost. There's no going back."

"What will happen? Will we still ride to
defend Ganmiddich?"

"What choice do we have? The Crab Chief swore
an oath to Blackhail. Ganmiddich is under our protection. Hailsmen
walk the Crab Gate this very hour."

Raina took a breath. This was turning into a
dangerous swamp. Only seven months ago the clanholds were at peace.
Old rivalries brewed, borders were in dispute, water rights were
claimed and defended. There were skirmishes and cattle raids, but no
open warfare. A year ago Dagro had stood in the chief's chamber
beneath this very hall and told her that once the feuding between
Orrl and Scarpe was over he'd count his chiefdom a success. "The
clanholds rest easy now. Our boys are fostered as far as Haddo and
Wellhouse, we have traded gifts with Frees, the Dog Lord is growing
old and tame. Soon there'll be naught for me to do but stay abed with
my pretty young wife."

He could not have been more wrong.

"We'll need to send more men," she said.

"Aye," Corbie agreed. "At least
another thousand. Maybe more." His mind was no longer quite with
her, she realized. He was thinking of Drey Sevrance, Bullhammer, Tom
Lawless, Lowdraw, Rory Cleet and the two hundred other Hailsmen who
were garrisoned at Ganmiddich. He was waiting for his chief, anxious
to have the matter settled and be on his way to defend them.

It shamed her, for she could not stop herself from
thinking, Please do not let this delay Mace's departure. It would be
so easy for him to decide to send the first thousand south and travel
with the second contingent. She might be damned, but she didn't
think she could stand another day of him. Just to rest, to lay her
head on a pillow and not have to worry about what the next moment
might bring. Ever since the day in the Oldwood she had known no peace
of mind. Always, it was: What will Mace do next? Does he know what
I'm thinking? Can he tell how much I despise him?

Raina straightened her shoulders and willed her
mind away from the dark place. If she stayed there too long he won.

"Where is my husband?" she asked Corbie.

The hammerman flexed the huge saddles of muscle on
his upper arms. "As soon as he spied that big wagon out on the
graze he took off. He's escorting it in right now."