A Sword from Red Ice

Crope had been sold to the tin mines. Eight years later when the seam had run dry, he'd been traded along with his chain brothers to the diamond pipe north of Drowned Lake. Rumor had it that mining diamonds was easier than mining tin, but Crope soon learned those rumors were false. Eighteen hours a day you broke rock. An hour to eat and piss, and five to sleep. After nearly a decade of living underground, working in the open pit of the diamond pipe had first seemed a blessing. Then autumn's cool sunshine fled and half a year of winter began. Ice storms, blizzards, northern winds and freezing fog: rock had to be broken through it all. Crope had watched men's hands turn bright pink and then white, and known that within a week they would rot and have to be amputated with the pipe surgeon's bone saw. Bitterbean called it the miner's farewell, for even one who went under that green-toothed saw died.

In the eight years he mined the pipe, Crope had seen all the ways a man could die. He knew he was lucky to be here, lucky to have a hide so thick it defied freezing, lucky to have a back so strong that after eighteen hours of breaking rock, it would straighten like a bivouacked birch. He'd been lucky to have Scurvy Pine, the King of Thieves, as his protector, and lucky to know that one day he would escape and find his lord.

That knowledge had sustained him better than warm blankets and lamb stew. When Scurvy Pine had come up with the escape plan, Crope had agreed to everything he'd asked. His job-had been to break the leg irons that bound the slaves Into a line, "Dont you go forgetting, giant man. You be ready when I give the word." When the word came Crope had been ready. He and Scurvy had escaped, and while the King of Thieves fled north, Crope had headed west.

Come to me, his lord had commanded. Now Crope was here and his lord was free, and things were still wet and low. Stupidly, he had imagined that once he and his lord were reunited their problems would disappear.

Crope looked at his boots—yet another thing he owed to Quillan Moxley. The thief had deemed his original diamond boots "lacking in mediocrity" and had purchased a superior, more forgettable pair.

"Lord has nothing. Crope has nothing," Crope said, feeling deeply wretched. "Can break rocks and fix things" He struggled for more. "Once acted in a mummers' show as a bear."

Quill appeared genuinely puzzled at this and paused for a moment to consider it. With a shake of his head he continued. "His lordship must have friends in high places. Stashes? Influences? Favors waiting to be cashed? You don't end up with a surlord as your personal jailer unless you're valuable, or dangerous. Or both." A thoughtful look charged Quill's features. "You're going to have to leave this house tonight, my friend An not your protector. I'm a thief, and I don't want to hang."

Suddenly things had become deadly serious. It was almost dark in the room now. Oil lanterns burning in the street lit the ceiling with a flickering orange glow. The north face of Mount Slain was breathing, moving banks of mist across the city. Crope felt their chill, and his instinct was to light the little brass stove in the corner. That had just become an impossibility though. You couldn't fault Quill for looking out for himself. If it wasn't for his lord, Crope imagined he would have done the same. Still, it was hard to know what to do. Why was there never enough thinking room in his head?

Quill let the silence be, his long thief's fingers twitching.

Suddenly the sound of horse hoofs rang out in the street below. The Rive Watch. Few in the Rat's Nest owned horses—nags to pull barrows, donkeys for hauling soft goods and drunks. It had to be the red cloaks.

Crope's gaze jumped from the blacked-out window to Quill. A delicate adjustment of neck muscle was all it took for the thief to send his face into shadow.

Here it was then. Quill had called in his marker, and Crope had no means to pay. Nodding softly, Crope said, "Go now. Take lord out back" Who knew where they would go? Not north, that was the only thing he was sure of. No good had ever come to anyone from heading north.

Quill bowed his head gravely. "May your nights always be long and moonless."

Crope tried to respond with matching dignity, but the panic was building. His lord was too sick to travel. What would they do? Leave the city? Stay? Quill said everyone in Spire Vanis was searching for them. How could they even walk to the nearest gate without being seen? Crope tried, but he imagined the plea "Help me!" was writ clear upon his face.

If it was the thief didn't acknowledge it. With a swift movement Quill crossed to the door. The bolts were pulled with expert skill. Even the one that needed oiling made no sound. Light from the hall poured into the room. 'Til send the dog up," Quill said in parting. "Best be quick."

Just as the thief's shadow slid across the threshold a word sounded.

"Wait"