A Sword from Red Ice

The chair occupied by the Scarpe chief was high-backed and solid, made from a single block of oak. The armrests were carved in the shape of weasels and Yelma Scarpe rested her rubied and sapphired hands upon their heads. "You stand in my clanhold without my leave. This does not please me."

Marafice was unsure whether or not this statement required a reply. He had remembered one piece of advice given to him by Iss and he held on to it like a talisman. Listen twice before you speak.

Yelma Scarpe drummed the weasel heads. "My nephew tells me you need to cross the river. I command the last crossing between here and the Storm Margin. That means you must make term's with me. It is possible that you would be able to force a path west through my clanhold, but that would cost us both men, and leave you farther away from Spire Vanis, searching for a crossing that does not exist. Five rivers drain into the Wolf beyond this point, three of them from the north. What this means to you and your army is that even staying on course along the Wolf will be diffcult, and you may be forced into the northern woods."

She paused, favoring Marafice with something so hard and joyless he doubted if it could be named a smile.

"My scouts tell me you have injured. Three cartloads."

Marafice said nothing. Sunlight reflecting off one of the Scarpemen's swords was bounefng into his good eye. A black rage was simmering within him and he imagined kicking the Scarpe chief in the head and crushing her against the chair. Finally the pressure became too much. "What if we just steal your fucking boats? You can't match us for numbers-half of your men are at Blackhail."

"You'll be stealing burned wood if you try it," she said back to him, relaxed now that he had stepped into the hole she had dug for him. "The barges have been primed with lamp oil. One word from me and they're up in flames."

Marafice felt like a fool. All of it could be bluff and he would never know it. The five rivers, the last crossing, the barges wet with oil. Iss would have never walked into a meeting ignorant of such things. Knowledge was power. And lack of knowledge meant that you could be backed into a corner and made to pay to get out.

"Shall I name my terms?"

He did not know how he managed not to choke on the words: "Go ahead."

The Scarpe chief made a small satisfied sniff. "I want the war machines, the battering ram. Two hundred horses and their saddles, two hundred suits of armor including leg pieces, and the clansmen you hold as hostage."

Her scouts were good, he had to give her that. She waited for an answer, her purple tongue flicking out once to wet her lips, her jeweled fingers stroking the weasel heads. How had it got so hot in this damn glade? Marafice glanced at the overhead sun and then wished he hadn't. Circles of light burned his eye. That moron with the sword was flashing him on purpose as well. He needed to think but all he could see in his mind's eyes were weasels and blistering light.

With a biting motion of his teeth, Marafice forced himself to weigh the chiefs demands. The war machines? She could have them. They only hit their target one time out of five, as he recalled. And the battering ram would be a pleasure to leave; its wheels got stuck more often than the carts'. Steffan Grimes might kick up a fuss—it was his company's ram, after all—but in Marafice s experience professional mercenaries were usually inured to the vagaries of war. People died, possessions were lost, others were gained: such were the norms for professional soldiers.

The horses, though. They were different. Two hundred was a greedy little demand and she knew it. If he met her on this it would cost his army dear. Brothers-in-the-watch would be deprived of their mounts, for Marafice could not see a way to take horses solely from the mercenaries. The cost would have to be borne fairly, else mutiny was risked. As for the armor—well, she could have his riding plate, for a start. Thing chafed like all the hells when you tried to move in it The other hundred and ninety-nine suits shouldn't be much of a problem either, though the pieces would not necessarily match.

He said, "A hundred horses and I'm keeping the clansmen."

"A hundred and fifty and I keep the clansmen."

She was nothing if not fast. Marafice looked into her small black eyes and told her, "The clansmen are not negotiable." He barely knew why he did it, for up until that point the clansmen had been negotiable—they were captives, their purpose was to be pumped for information and then sold. It even made sense that she, as a clan chief, would want to buy back members of her liege clan, Blackhail. Yet he dd not think her purpose here was a moral one. Anything this woman gave you would end up costing more than its worth.