A Sword from Red Ice

She'd been observing the way he and his father traveled for the past few days. They were sneaks. They knew the back ways and the side ways, the ways through the reeds and the ways under the deeply shaded canopies of weeping willow. They knew exactly where they would stop each evening. Campgrounds and hideaways, stock ponds for fishing, mussel beds for musseling, duck-nesting banks for fresh eggs: they knew them all. And did not want to share them. Leave a burned-out fire or any other trace of habitation and their secret places might be lost. They inhabited a world right under the noses of a dozen clans yet floated by undetected. It was a type of power, Effie recognized, to possess such stealth.

For a wonder the sun came out as she raked over the fire coals with a willow switch. It even felt a bit warm if you squinted. The wind had started chopping up the water and Effie reckoned they'd be in for an unpleasant day afloat. Normally they got a much earlier start, but the business of the tower had thrown everyone off. Plucking at the lore suspended around her throat, Effie checked on Drey. Still nothing.

"Girl, in the boat."

Effie released her lore, but not before she saw Waker's sharp gaze skim over it.

Boarding the boat was still somewhat of a problem. She'd never been the most graceful girl—even when she'd had the full use of both legs—and she just couldn't seem to manage the combination of water, boat and leg irons in a single flowing movement. Her dress always got soaked and then she'd have to sit on it all day. It got wet now, despite the fact that she hiked it up to knee height in knee-deep water. She couldn't quite work that one out. With an awkward little move she'd named "the storker" she lifted her right leg as high as the leg irons would permit and then took a one-legged hopping jump into the craft. Positioning was everything. Land low and in the center and you were all right. High and off-center and the boat started rocking like a rabid raccoon in a storm.

Luckily today she got it just right. Chedd was already sitting on his seat, one down from the stern, and he turned around and aced her with the double thumbs. Grinning, she thumbed him back. He really wasn't bad. For a boy.

Waker's father stepped in next and she was pleased to see he had a paddle, not a pole. That meant he wouldn't be standing, and that made for a more stable day in the boat. Waker pushed the boat into motion and then vaulted onto his seat. They were off.

Father and son worked well together, paddling in perfect time on opposing sides. Waker's strokes were deep and efficient and you could feel the power of his shoulders pulling the boat. He was not big and bulky like a hammerman but he had an efficient and enduring type of strength. He could paddle upstream all day. His hair was black and flat and he pulled it back at the nape of his neck with a fine moonstone clasp that was not clan-made. It was his only jewel. His thigh-length moose-hide boots were thickly waxed and shed water, and his pants and coat were cut from dense, velvety otter hides. The only way to discern his clan was through subtleties in his gear and person. He did not carry a sword— that in itself was telling—rather a long spike-like knife that he kept in a sheath made from the green and scaleless skin of the salamander. Riding next to the spike-knife on his gear belt was a second, shorter knife this one sheathed in leather covered with frogskin. Frog and salamander: the twin knives of Clan Gray.

Once Effie had sported them she noticed other indicators of his clan. His powdered guidestone was kept dry in a swim bladder that he wore on a thong around his neck. The brass buckle of his gear belt had been stamped with water marks, and the little fingernail on his right had been excised, exposing a pad of purple flesh. At the time of their first yearman's oath all Graymen had one fingernail removed. Effie didn't know whether Graymen were allowed to choose which of their nails would be taken. She did know that Waker's father had the exact same scar: little finger, right hand.

On impulse Effie spun around in her seat to look at Waker's father. He was staring straight back at her, as if he'd anticipated her turn. Anticipate this then, she thought, feeling slightly unbalanced. "What's your name?"

Both Chedd and Waker Stone turned at the sound of her voice. Generally there was no speaking in the boat: it was one of the rules. Waker's father continued paddling in smooth, uninterrupted strokes. His jaw was slack, but he looked at her as if he knew exactly what she was up to. Which was stooge as she wasn't even sure herself. Frowning, she turned around to face front.

"Girlie, girlie, girlie, girlie. Wonder whmt wasn't early?"

Hearing the croaky, gleeful voice coming from behind, Effie spun back, but she was too late. Waker's father's jaw had already fallen slack. His little beady eyes were triumphant.