A Sword from Red Ice

That meant he wasn't clan. Raif chucked snow into the Rift. None of them were clan. "I'll find him for myself."

Stillborn harumped. Straightening his back, he said, "Come here."

Raif crossed to his side and looked up. Above him the buckled and uneven layers of cliff rock, caves and ledges rose for over two hundred feet.

"See that small gray door, near the same color as the cliff?" Raif nodded. "That's where he lives. Only man in the Rift to have an actual, hinged, godforsaken door." Stillborn scowled at it "And a lock."

Raif broke away from him and went back to shoveling. Stillborn was disappointed that no plans had yet been made to seize control of the Maimed Men from Traggis Mole. He did not know what Raif knew. Raif wasn't even sure what he knew himself. The Robber Chief had been badly wounded by one of the Unmade, and for more reason than one Raif needed to find out what that meant.

He could feel it as he put his back into digging out the snow; the liquid tingle in his left shoulder where the Shatan Meier's claw had punctured him. Abruptly, he set the shovel against the cliff wall. "I'll be back later," he said.

Stillborn showed his teeth. "Be sure to knock." Snow had stopped falling from the clouds but it was still moving in the air around the Rift. Ice crystals sparkled on the updrafts and blew off ledges in plumes. Raif stayed close to the cliffwall and took short steps. Men and women where out shoveling snow, building fires, visiting one another and taking fresh air. A group of children on the rimrock were building a ghoul out of snow. People were in high spirits, glad that the storm had passed by quickly and the temperature was rising.

The rope ladders were slick and dangerous and Raif was glad of the rough pads on his boarskin gloves. Rock grit had been sprinkled over some of the more dangerous spots—narrow ledges, wooden gangplanks and landings around ladders-sand for the first time Raif realized that the Maimed Men were capable of working together. He even found he was less disliked: no one glared at him or threw stones. Despite what Traggis Mole had predicted, Addie and Stillborn had shared credit for the meat brought back from the overnight hunt, and all who ate that night knew that Raif Twelve Kill was owed part of their thanks. The snagcat pelt was different. Set apart. To bring down a cat was a feat demanding praise and Stillborn had claimed all laudings for himself.

Raif lost sight of the gray, unfinished wood door as he worked his way up through the city, but he had a sense of its general location and headed east on one of the long ledges. As he neared a rope hoist he slowed down and considered whether to take it. The hoist bypassed an inset ledge and headed up to the next broad plateau of rimrock.

"No need to go any further, my dear boy." Yustaffa stepped out from the shadows of a cave mouth. "As you can see I'm already here." He looked like a fat snow bear who had rolled in jewels. "You like?" he said, glancing down at his outfit. "Should I spin?" "No," Raif told him. The jewel things were dazzling. They seemed to be suspended in invisible netting over the white winter pelts he was wearing. The feather-light fur of ice hares formed a tunic that looked made of fluff.

"Twelve Kill Joy I should call you," he said, and then went ahead and spun anyway. "Yustaffa must haffa spin. Care to talk?" "No."

The expression on Yustaffa's smooth plump face hardened. "Wouldn't hurt the future king to play nice."

Raif stared at him, blinking and dazzled, as he spun again and walked away. Were there no secrets here?

The pleasure he had taken in the day gone, Raif stepped into the hoist basket and pulled on the thick rope. Snow had not affected the pulleys motion and he ascended quickly, placing fist over fist. The basket had been woven from tough wicker and it creaked and sawed but held firm.

Alighting on the rimrock, he looked for the gray door. Almost certain it was on the inset ledge just below him, he searched for a place to make the jump down. Once he'd found a suitable cut in the rimrock, he squatted to inspect it, then made the leap. On landing he felt a jolt of pain in his still-tender ankle and had to stand a moment to relieve it. As he pivoted his foot left and then right to test it, he became aware that someone was watching him. Turning his head he saw a young woman standing by a cave mouth holding a handful of snow.

She was wearing a moss green dress of felted wool with a black bodice laced snug against her waist. Her skin was deeply, almost greenly, golden and her dark hair, which was taught logsely in an amber band at her neck, fell in waves to the small of her back. Seeing Raif look at her she rotated her wrist and let the snow fall from her hand.

Raif looked away, put his weight on his throbbing ankle, and then looked back. She was still watching at him. He could not decipher her expression, nor could he think of anything to say. Here was the last place on earth he would have thought to find beauty.