A Sword from Red Ice

Marafice grinned unpleasantly. "Anyone with objections, send 'em to me."

The rocks were the strange circle of free standing granite spires that gave both the Vale of Spires and Spire Vanis its name. Some superstition surrounded their nature, and various legends, both sacred and profane, claimed to explain their existence. Marafice didn't give two bird farts about that. The things that counted to him were the facts that the rocks were set on open ground well away from the roads, farms, towns and villages that crowded the region northeast of the city. And that the land they stood upon had long been claimed by Mask Fortress on behalf of the people of Spire Vanis. And did not fall within any grange. This was Whitehog territory they walked through now, land held and protected by House Hews. The granite spires not only were no-man's-land, but also marked the southern boundary of the vast Eastern and Long Grass Granges. Once Marafice and his army were there they'd be off Garric Hews' land for good. Well it was Lisereth Hews' land to be exact, but mother and son were much the same beast. The Lady of the Eastern Granges and her son the Whitehog were united in a single ambition: to place Garric Hews as the one hundred and forty-second Surlord of Spire Vanis.

And that put them in direct opposition to Marafice Eye.

It was a risk, albeit a small one, to march on the western border of their lands, using a Hews-patrolled road to head south into the city. An attack could be mounted, though judging from the latest intelligence Marafice had received from the darkcloaks this seemed unlikely.

Apparently the surlordship of Spire Vanis was still open to contention. Roland Stornoway, his own father-in-law, held Mask Fortress. This fact so amazed Marafice that when he'd first heard it six days back he had laughed in Greenslade's face. "Who have you been talking to? The blind drunk or the insane?"

Greenslade was a small foxlike man, outfitted to look like a trapper. He had the red and flaky skin of someone who was out in the woods all day skinning weasels and foxes, but his eyes were city-cold and sharp. "I pass along nothing that has not been confirmed by two sources. Three days after Iss went missing, whilst workers were still digging through the rubble for his remains, Roland Stornoway entered the fortress with a small force of hideclads and seized control of it."

"Are you sure it was not his son?" Roland Stornoway was an old dry stick of a man who walked with the aid of two canes. Marafice had marked his father-in-law as both shrewd and greedy. He had not marked him as a man capable of such a bold and surprising move.

"Roland Stornoway's son, also named Roland, stands within the fortress with him. But it was the father, not the son, who entered first"

Marafice thought a long while on this information, and could not for the life of him decide if it was good or bad. "Is my wife within the fortress?" he asked finally. The phrase "my wife" did not come easy from his lips; it made him spit.

Greenslade pretended not to notice. "She is with her father and brother, and has delivered a healthy boy."

Dear God of Mercy it just got stranger. Married under three months and the happy couple now had a baby. Tactfully, the darkcloak had avoided using the word son. Marafice reckoned he'd be hard-pressed to find a single soul in the north who believed the boy to be his. It had been a marriage of convenience. She was a rich slut who had bedded some starving scholar—a bookbinder's son if he wasn't mistaken—and he, Marafice Eye, was the man who had agreed to wed her once she'd reached the point where she could no longer conceal her pregnancy from prying eyes.

Liona, her name was. Marafice feared she wasn't right in the head. The one night they'd spent together as man and wife had been challenging to say the least. Legally he had to fuck her. So legally he did. The hair she'd ripped off his legs still hadn't grown back. Now she was standing by in Mask Fortress with her newborn son, who was lawfully and in the eyes of God an Eye. Marafice could not begin to comprehend what it meant.

He and Greenslade had been standing at the back of the supply tent, the usual place for such assignations. It was long after midnight and the darkcloak's breath smelled of cheap, overhopped beer. He had been in the alehouse of a village the army would pass tomorrow at noon; a lone trapper looking for company and some free warmth from the stove. Marafice could imagine what the man did, how cleverly he engaged local farmers and road-weary travelers in conversation. Armed with silver pieces from Marafice's own purse he could afford to grease throats and buy goodwill.