CHAPTER
36
Schemes
THEY TOOK HOARGATE
into the city of Spire Vanis. Mallin said the gate itself had been
carved from the largest tree in the world. “A bloodwood from the
southern Storm Margin. It took them ten days to chop
it.”
The gate was twenty
feet wide, twenty-five feet tall and four feet thick. It was formed
from a single piece of wood that had been relief-carved with the
likeness of a giant bird of prey. Bram had never seen anything like
it in his life. He wondered about the machinery that was so
powerful it could raise it.
“It’s never raised
higher than ten feet,” Mallin told him, his gaze as always less
than a second behind Bram’s. “Remember this is a city. Much of it
exists for show.”
Bram tried not to
stare too much as they passed beneath the gate and entered Spire
Vanis, a city built from pale gleaming limestone. The scale of it
was hard to comprehend. A hundred Dhoonehouses could fit between
its walls.
“Shall we take the
tour?”
Bram nodded. Mallin
seemed almost jaunty. Some of it was probably relief. The ranger
had given Bram detailed instructions on what to say if either of
them were stopped at the gate by red cloaks. They had not been
stopped. Even so Bram had noticed that Mallin had been pretty happy
ever since they’d left the Weasel camp at Blackhail. Sometimes the
ranger let his prejudices show.
“Hoargate market,”
Mallin said as they passed into a large open square filled with
wood-and-canvas stalls. “If it’s live they’ll kill it for you and
if it’s dead they’ll try and raise it.”
Bram smelled the
mouthwatering fragrances of charred meat, grilled onions, yeasty
bread and toasted spices. He saw girls. Many wore substantially
less than clan maids. They looked at him boldly; Bram wondered if
it was because of his horse. Gabbie was slightly crazy and inclined
to eat blankets but you could not deny he was a fine-looking
stallion.
Mallin stopped and
bought food—charred steak cut into slices and rolled inside
flatbread—and they ate in their saddles as they rode south through
the city. Bram felt like a king.
The journey here had
been hard but uneventful. Bram guessed that Mallin had chosen a
route to steer clear of events unfolding at Ganmiddich and Bannen,
and they had spent a lot of time in the dense evergreen forest
south of Blackhail. They had not stopped at any clan, though Mallin
had slipped into Duff’s stovehouse for an hour one evening. Nights
were spent camped in the open air, with only bedrolls and longfires
for comfort. Bram fell into deep sleep every night beneath skies
filled with spring stars.
It was hard to deny
that he had found the events at Weasel camp thrilling. Not at
first, not while they were happening, but later when he thought
about them. The seamlessness. The cool hand of Hew Mallin. The
small but vital part that he, Bram Cormac, had played.
They never spoke of
it later. Or before for that matter. It was something created out
of nearly nothing. Bram had simply been reacting to Hew Mallin,
watching the ranger closely, following cues. If it was a test Bram
hoped very much he had passed.
They had poisoned the
well.
In the Scarpe chief’s
tent, before Yelma Scarpe had entered, Mallin had slipped him a
small package wrapped with squirrel skin. Bram had been alert after
that, though at the time he had not realized that Mallin had
sprinkled something on the brazier that would make him cough. A
current in the tent had sent the smoke from the doctored brazier
straight toward him. Mallin noticed everything, used what he could.
He had been waiting for either the Scarpe chief or her nephew to
lose patience with the coughing boy. All the ranger had to do when
Uriah Scarpe sent Bram from the tent was to add, “Get yourself some
water from the well.”
It had been enough
for Bram to understand Mallin’s purpose.
What Yelma Scarpe
would never normally allow—strangers access to her well—had been
achieved in a series of flawless moves.
It was child’s play
after that. Bram had accepted a dipper of water from a Scarpe girl,
dropped it so that it spilled on her dress, and then slipped the
contents of Mallin’s package into the wellshaft while she and her
friends were distracted with drying off the dress and cleaning the
dipper.
Bram didn’t know what
was in the package but if he were to guess he would say it was
something to make people sick, not kill them. Softening, it was
called on the battlefield. Mallin, and therefore the Phage, had
softened Scarpe for Raina Blackhail.
The night Bram had
spent above the stables at Blackhail had been enough for him to
know how things stood between the chief’s wife and Scarpe. “Chief’s
should make a strike,” one of the groomsmen had murmured. “Clan
would be behind her if she did.”
Bram would have liked
to know what happened. Had Raina Blackhail struck the camp? And if
she had, would she even realize that the Scarpe defense was not as
vigorous as it should have been?
Probably not. Clan
warriors did not post signs informing people they were
sick.
“And this is Mask
Fortress,” Mallin said, interrupting Bram’s thoughts. “Sadly you do
not see it at its best. It lost its high tower last winter. Rotten
foundation apparently. Brought the whole thing down.”
Bram looked and saw a
gray-white fortress with high walls and three towers which looked
plenty tall to him. The north face of Mount Slain rose behind it;
ice still holding fast in its crevasses and at its peak. “That was
the tower that killed the Surlord?”
“He was in it when he
died. Let’s leave it at that.”
Judging from the
pointedness in Mallin’s voice, Bram guessed that the old surlord,
much like Yelma Scarpe, was someone Hew Mallin had not
liked.
It made it easier,
Bram had discovered, when you liked the people you advanced and
disliked those you undermined. It had been satisfying to put the
poison in the well. Yelma Scarpe was a conniving weasel who was
trespassing on Blackhail land. Raina Blackhail was beautiful and
strong: she had deserved the Phage’s
help.
Who are they to interfere in matters of clan? Bram
dismissed the small voice in his head. He was “They” now. Bram Cormac was Phage.
He held his head high
as he toured the city. He was part of a brotherhood that shaped the
world.
“I’m tired of viewing
the sights,” Mallin said abruptly after they had passed the
windowless ivory facade of the Bone Temple. “Let’s find some rooms
and rest.”
Bram was just fine
with that. He noticed the ranger headed back in the general
direction of Hoargate. Bram made a note of the route. He liked to
keep track of his location. The streets were busy and dirty. Men
wheeled barrows heaped with bloody lamb carcasses, draymen drove
carts stacked high with wooden cages containing live chickens and
piglets, and children and dogs ran everywhere, chancing for
scraps.
“This should do,”
Mallin said as they approached a shabby, three-storied inn not far
from the western wall.
The inn did not have
a legible sign for Bram to read, but he did notice that the
stableman who came out to greet them as they dismounted appeared to
be acquainted with Hew Mallin. There was something knowing in the
old man’s nod.
“Day, sirs,” the man
said, pulling two carrots from a pack strung at his waist and
feeding one to each horse. “Will we be having the pleasure
tonight?”
Mallin told him they
would. Addressing Bram, the ranger said, “Go ahead. Take a room,
order some supper. I’ll be with you soon.”
It was a dismissal.
Bram unfastened his saddlebags, hefted them over his shoulder, and
headed inside. Fearing it might be impolite to enter the inn by the
side door, he took the more public-looking front door
instead.
It led directly into
a dim, cave-like room where men and women were drinking with solemn
focus. Everyone halted what they doing to look at him. All dicing,
supping and talking was suspended as the patrons appraised the
stranger. Bram swallowed. He tried to appear harmless. The patrons
looked mean. Two were wearing blood-soaked aprons.
“You got the wrong
place, son.” A big man with blond hair and a full beard stepped
forward. “We only cater to locals here.”
Bram’s instinct was
to leave, but he fought it. “If I might have a word?” He had
planned on adding “sir” to the end of his request but dropped it at
the last moment. Mallin never called anyone sir.
The big man claimed
the space directly in front of Bram. He was wearing an apron too,
but it wasn’t blood-soaked.
“I’m with Hew
Mallin,” Bram said quietly so no one else could hear. “We need a
room and something to eat.”
“That so?” The big
man did not give an inch. “What’s the color of his
eyes.”
“Green.” Bram
hesitated. “No, yellow.”
The big man nodded
once. “It’ll do. Follow me.”
It occurred to Bram
that this rundown smoky inn had better security than the city
itself.
The inn was a warren
of small rooms, tunnels, nooks and screened-off alcoves. One tunnel
led belowground. Bram heard the low laughter of men rising from it.
In a small sitting area near the back, four young women, all
wearing little black aprons and caps, were sharing a platter of
tripe. Bram tried not to color as he passed them. One of the women
whispered, not too quietly, “That’s a fine-looking
boy.”
Bram didn’t know what
to make of that. At Dhoone he had been told he was too small, and
had the look of the wild clans.
When he was seated he
ordered whatever food was hottest and best, and a couple of drams
of malt. “Dreggs or Dhooneshine?” the big man asked. Bram went with
Dreggs. He downed his own dram quickly when it arrived and
seriously thought about Mallin’s. This was an odd, hostile place
and he wondered what he was doing here.
Mallin didn’t join
him for the better part of two hours.
Sliding along the
bench, the ranger ignored the congealing sweet-meats in gravy and
the basket of hardening bread and looked carefully at Bram. “Why
don’t you take out the blue cloak and put it on?”
Bram
blinked.
Mallin didn’t. “It’s
cold in here,” he said, “and we may be in for a long
wait.”
They were sitting in
a small, screened-off alcove at the very back of the inn. There
were no windows. A single lamp hung from a brass hook on the wall.
Its flame guard was shaped like a rib cage. Bram watched the banded
light it created jitter against the table. He recalled the moment
when he had looked down the well shaft at Weasel camp. Ledges had
extended from the well wall, probably so that the original digger
could climb from top to bottom when he was done. It struck Bram now
that being in the Phage was like climbing into that well. You were
going down, but there were stages, places to rest during the
descent. Bram had descended part of the way but had not reached the
bottom. Mallin’s request meant another drop.
Bram glanced at the
ranger. He was sitting with both hands resting on the table,
looking back.
The cloak was at the
very bottom of the second saddlebag. Even though it had been rolled
tightly into a cylinder for many days, the creases fell away as
Bram unfurled it; the wool was that fine. It had been dyed the rich
heather-blue of Dhoone and its edges were bound with fisher fur.
Bram had not worn it since his time at Castlemilk. He did not want
to wear it now. Robbie had given it to him after the reclaiming of
Dhoone, and Bram had so many strong feelings about it they could
have mounted a fair-sized battle in his head.
He pulled it across
his shoulders and fastened the copper thistle clasp, and resolutely
did not think of his brother.
Mallin ordered fresh
food and tankards of beer, and they did not speak as they ate and
drank. Afterwards, Mallin slipped away for a while and returned
looking brushed down and refreshed. He spoke casually with the big
blond man, who Bram learned was the innkeeper Janus Shoulder. His
inn was named the Butcher’s Rest. Bram supposed that explained the
bloody aprons.
He decided it must be
close to midnight, yet the inn was still doing fair business.
People came and left. Someone picked out a tune on a stringboard.
Janus Shoulder sent a boy to replace the wick in the lamp. Mallin
stretched into the corner and nodded off. Bram couldn’t imagine
resting. The cloak alone prevented sleep.
Another hour or so
passed and the inn grew quieter. Bram could no longer hear the
party of black-aproned girls. He would have liked some water but
didn’t want to ask. Mallin was snoring lightly, but instantly came
awake when the hard rap of booted footsteps sounded in the corridor
outside. Pulling himself upright, he winked at Bram.
“Here we
go.”
A man with a drawn
sword, wearing a cloak of glazed red leather entered the alcove.
“Weapons on the table,” he said evenly.
Mallin detached his
scabbard and knife holster, so Bram did the same. The red cloak
collected the weapons, then did a little motion with his finger,
indicating that Bram should pull back his cloak for inspection.
Bram obliged. The red cloak was the kind of seasoned veteran that
clansmen could understand.
“What’s your name,
boy?”
“Bram
Cormac.”
It meant nothing to
the red cloak. “Wait here.”
He left. Bram heard
footsteps, about three pairs of them, and voices. Someone grunted
and then a single pair of footsteps pounded toward the
alcove.
Marafice Eye, the
Surlord of Spire Vanis and Master of its Four Gates, stepped from
behind the screen. Bram knew him straightaway. His size was
legendary, as was the dead, exposed socket of his left eye. Bram
couldn’t help himself, he began to stand. This was the man who had
broken the Crab Gate. In the clanholds he was known as the Spire
King.
Marafice Eye swiped a
fist as big as a dog toward him. “Dammit don’t rise, boy. I swear
I’m sick of the drafts.” Easing himself onto the bench next to
Bram, he said with some feeling, “Mallin.”
The ranger replied
“Eye.” Neither man was smiling.
Janus Shoulder
entered the alcove and deposited a bowl of food and a tin spoon
before the Surlord. Immediately Marafice Eye began to eat, wolfing
down what appeared to Bram to be ham and beans. He was the biggest
man Bram had ever seen, seven feet tall and built like a block. He
was dressed in something fancy beneath a plain black wool cloak. A
large gold ring carved with the image of a Killhound rampant
glittered on his middle finger, left hand. The Seal of Spire
Vanis.
The innkeeper brought
beer, three mugs of it, checked on his surlord’s progress with the
beans and then withdrew. Bram recalled that Marafice Eye was a
butcher’s son. That would explain his ease here.
“I hear they’re
setting for the mother of all dog fights in the clans.” The surlord
spoke between mouthfuls of food. “Mad bastards are all going to
kill themselves.”
Mallin said, “I
wouldn’t bet on it.”
Marafice Eye looked
up at that. “Is that right, eh? Has the Phage picked who it would
like to win?”
The ranger held up
his hands. “In God’s, not mine.”
Eye chuckled. He
pushed away his bowl. “Clan?” he asked.
It took Bram a moment
to realize the surlord was addressing him. He nodded.
“And why the pretty
cloak?”
Bram opened his mouth
to speak, but Mallin didn’t allow him the chance.
“He’s brother to
Robbie Dun Dhoone.”
The surlord swiveled
on the bench to get a better look. “Is that right?”
Bram drew air through
his teeth. He threw a glance at Mallin. The ranger calmly met his
eye.
Marafice Eye didn’t
miss any of this. He spent a moment looking carefully at Bram, and
then turned to his beer.
Pushing both palms
against his beer mug, Bram tried to anchor himself. He was
spinning. Stupidly he had imagined that Mallin had recruited him
into the Phage because he knew how to handle himself in tricky
situations, like with the Dog Lord and Skinner Dhoone. Now he was
beginning to see things differently. There were plenty of boys in
the clanholds who were smarter than he was, but none of them were
brothers to the Dhoone King. What if Marafice Eye were right? What
if the Phage had picked a winner at Ganmiddich and that winner was
Dhoone? How useful would it be to have the winner’s brother in your
pocket?
Bram took a drink of
beer, studying Mallin through the foam. The ranger had just used
Bram’s kinship to his advantage, hauling it onto the table to give
himself and this meeting more weight.
Bram thought about
the well.
Two ledges down, not
one.
Marafice Eye pushed
his empty beer mug the way of the bowl. “So,” he said to Mallin.
“What do you want?”
“I want the four
hostages you took at Ganmiddich.”
The surlord did not
bother to cover his surprise. The eyebrow above the dead eye went
up. “The clansmen?”
“Yes. Two Hailsmen,
two Crabmen.”
Marafice Eye puffed
air through his lips as he thought about this. “You’re not the
first to want them.”
“Oh?”
“Yelma Scarpe tried
to take them off my hands.” Something unpleasant happened to the
surlord’s face as he thought about the Weasel chief. “I didn’t let
her have them.”
“I’m not Yelma
Scarpe.”
The surlord did not
appear convinced of that. “What do you want with
them?”
Mallin shrugged. “A
little bargaining power. Grease for the wheels. They’ll be returned
to the clanholds in the end.”
“All of
them?
This seemed to Bram
an especially penetrating question. He would be willing to bet on
Mallin’s answer being a lie.
“All. If Blackhail
and its allies triumph at Ganmiddich they’ll be used to sweeten
relations.”
“And if Blackhail and
Ganmiddich lose?”
“They won’t be sold
to Dhoone.”
Marafice Eye leaned
back on the bench. Bram sensed that he was withdrawing his
curiosity, that to probe any further would not serve the surlord if
he wanted to strike a deal. You could almost tell what he was
thinking. Two parties had negotiated for these men: what were they
worth?
Despite everything,
Bram felt his excitement rising. This was where he wanted to be, in
places like this at times like this, where decisions were made and
deals were struck that altered the world. The Phage might use him
but look what they paid in return. Who else was sitting next to a
surlord to night? Who else was party to such a
meeting?
The inn was very
quiet. A timber ticked in the ceiling. Marafice Eye drew air deep
into his chest and held it there like a thought.
Meeting gazes with
Hew Mallin he exhaled slowly and said, “Kill Roland Stornoway for
me.”
Mallin did not
hesitate. “Done.”
For a moment the
surlord looked abashed, like a dog that had been wrestling for
something only to have its opponent release it unexpectedly. He
said, “It must not appear to come from me.”
“Of
course.”
“And it must be soon.
That man has tried to kill me twice.”
“Within ten days,”
Mallin promised.
Blood began to pump
at force through Bram’s head as he realized the implication of this
statement.
The surlord stood.
The table legs scraped across the floor. “Come see me when it’s
done.”
The ranger rested his
cool gaze on the surlord. “We will.”
The surlord grunted
and left. Several pairs of footsteps pounded along the corridor and
then the inn lapsed into silence.
Bram stared at the
table. He was aware that Mallin was waiting for him to look up, to
confirm his readiness for the latest task, but he needed a moment
to think.
We will.
We.
This wasn’t two
ledges down. This was cold-blooded assassination: it was a plunge
to the bottom of the well.
Bram thought about
his brother, thought about what Robbie would do if he were in
Bram’s place. Robbie stopped at nothing to get what he wanted: the
end justified all means.
Bram Cormac met Hew
Mallin’s gaze across the table at the Butcher’s Rest. He was Phage.
The decision made itself.
Bram unclasped the
Dhoone cloak and let the heavy fabric fall to the
floor.
The next day he began
his training. Mallin said there was currently a shortage of trained
assassins in the North.