"Jones, J V - Sword Of Shadows 02 - A Fortress Of Gray Ice V2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jones J. V)

“Anwyn says you’re wearing yourself out.”
“Anwyn should look to herself.”
That got a smile from Merritt. No one worked harder or longer than Anwyn Bird. When the grand matron of the roundhouse wasn’t cooking or butchering, she was down in the armory, tilling bows.
Merritt pushed a flagon of sheep’s-milk ale Raina’s way. “So, what brings you here this early?”
Raina drank from the jug, savoring the milky coolness and the bite of malt liquor buried deep beneath the cream. As she wiped the froth from her lips, she wondered how best to approach this. Guile failed her, so she came straight to the point. “You have kin at the Orrlhouse?” Merritt’s nod was guarded. “And your son travels back and forth, trading skins and winter meat?”
“Only Orrlsmen can bring home fresh meat from a deep-winter hunt.”
“Aye.” There wasn’t a Hailsman in the roundhouse who wasn’t in awe of Orrl’s white-winter hunters. No one could track game across snow and ice like the men of Orrl. “So your son must have knowledge of what’s happening at the Orrlhouse?”
This time Merritt’s nod was slow in coming. Her clever hands tied off a length of thread. “What’s it to you what my son knows, Raina Blackhail? Don’t you learn enough of Orrl’s business abed with your husband at night?”
Careful, Raina cautioned herself. Think what Dagro would have done here. “I learn only what Mace chooses to tell me.”
Merritt sucked air between her teeth. “So you come here seeking what he will not?”
“I come here seeking the truth.” Raina met and held Merritt’s gaze. “We go back a long time, you and I. You and Meth danced swords at my first wedding, and when Dagro went hunting that last time it was Meth who shared his tent. I might be married to Mace Blackhail but my loyalty lies with this clan. You might think I gained much upon marrying him, but you cannot know all I have lost. What I’m asking for is information when you have it. I know the steadfastness of this hearth. None here will go running to my husband with tales of his wife’s deeds.”
“He watches you.” Ancient turkey-necked Bessie Flapp did not look up from her carding as she spoke. Skeletal fingers combed and stretched, combed and stretched, as a chill crept upon Raina. “Eyes everywhere. Little mice and little telltales. Meetings by the dog cotes and the stoke holes. Squeak, squeak, squeak. Who goes where? Who does what? Little mice with weasels’ tails.”
Raina took a breath. She had not known it was as bad as this.
“Biddie. Fetch Raina some of the griddle cakes from the hearth. And bring honey to sweeten the ale.” There was mothering in Merritt’s voice and Raina wondered what was showing on her face to change the woolwife so.
Biddie Byce’s long blond braids whipped the air as she went about Merritt’s bidding. She was too young to be a widow, barely nineteen winters old. Cull had wed her the spring before he was slain on Bannen Field. Now Cull’s twin, Arlec, had begun to pay her court in small and unassuming ways. After the taking of Ganmiddich he had returned home with a necklace strung with green marble beads. Shyly, he had pressed it into Raina’s hands. “See Biddie gets it. She need not know it’s from me.”
Raina smiled as Biddie returned with cake and honey. She didn’t want the girl to see the envy stabbing softly in her chest. It was only a few months past when Shor Gormalin had presented such a token to her. He had given her the broken tip from his first sword, polished by his own hand, set with an uncut garnet, and mounted as a brooch. Thinking of it, Raina tried to hold her smile but failed. “Wed me, Raina,” he had said. “And I’ll cherish you and keep you safe.”
Shor. Such a strong and thoughtful man. He should have been her second husband and Blackhail’s chief.
Not Mace. Not the man who had raped her. “Here. Pull this round you. Your skin’s as blue as Dhoone.” Merritt arranged a fine wool shawl across Raina’s shoulders, pulling it here and there until it covered all bare skin. “Hatty. Bring one of the pieces you and your sisters are working on—Raina needs to see it.”
Silent and big-boned Hatty Hare snapped a thread with her teeth. Slowly she rose from her embroiderer’s stool to place a fist-sized panel in Raina’s hand.
The Hail Wolf, worked in silver against a black ground. The Blackhail badge—only no clansman since Ayan Blackhail had worn it.
“All the needlewomen have been set to work on them, under order of the chief himself.” Merritt poured honey into the milk ale. “We were warned to sew in silence and let none but the silversmiths know it, as they’re needed to stretch the wire.”
Raina’s fingers traced the line of the wolf’s jaw, expertly worked in silver wire so fine it moved as if it were thread. Almost she knew Merritt’s next words before she spoke them, for it took a fool not to see what this meant.
“This is how he keeps them loyal, this man whom it pleases you to call husband. He gives our clansmen back their pride. Five hundred years ago in the Tomb of the Dhoone Princes, all the chiefs in the clanholds met to strip Blackhail of its badge. Ayan Blackhail slew a king, they said. A coward’s shot to the throat. No Hail chief has challenged that judgment since; not Ornfel, or Mordrag, or Uthan . . . not even Dagro himself. Yet along comes a Scarpe-born fosterling, winning wars and gaining territory, daring to wear the Hail Wolf at his breast. And that’s not all. He wants every warrior in the clan to wear it; a whole army of Hailsmen bearing their badges with pride.”
“He’s a subtle man, Mace Blackhail, I’ll give him that. And he knows the value of small things. For five hundred years our warriors have ridden into battle without badge or banner. We are women, and we cannot know the shame they endured.”
Raina hung her head. She felt Mace’s cunning as a weight upon her. Was there nothing he could not arrange? A chiefship. Loyalty.
Marriage.
Do not think of it, a hard voice inside her warned. Put the day in the Oldwood behind you. Hate is all it will bring, and hate is like acid; it only burns the vessel that holds it. Raina raised her head. She would not be burned.
“I’ll be on my way now, but I thank you for your straight words. I’d like to visit you from time to time, to talk and exchange news.” She waited for Merritt to nod before standing. “It’s good to find a hearth free of my husband’s sway.”
“Squeak, squeak, squeak,” croaked Bessie Flapp. “Little mice with weasels’ tails.”
Merritt frowned at the old battle-ax. “Come,” she beckoned Raina, “I’ll walk with you to the stair.” When they were out of earshot, she said, “What is it you sought to know about Orrl?”
“Who is chief now? How are they coping with our hostilities?”
“Stallis stood Chief Watch ten days since. By all accounts he’s a sharp one, Spynie’s sixth grandson, the white-winter warrior with the most kills.”
“Does he hold Blackhail in favor?”
Merritt made an odd sound, almost a laugh. “Come now, Raina. Do you honestly think Stallis will forgive Mace for ordering his grandfather’s slaying?”
“But—”
“But what? No one can say for certain who sent the hammer into Spynie Orrl’s brain? ‘Tis said in the Orrlhouse that the Scarpe hammerman Mansal Stygo did the killing, and that the marks of Mansal’s hammer were stamped on Spynie’s skull.” Raina went to speak, but Merritt forestalled her again. “And it is also said that a burned-out campfire was found east of where the bodies lay, and amidst the campfire’s ashes lay tokens of Blackhail and Scarpe.”
“Stone Gods.” Raina touched the horn of powdered guidestone at her waist. She wanted to deny it, but it sounded like the truth. Orrlsmen were not given to wild stories and swift conclusions. They were stoic men, preferring to save their energies for hunting, not loose talk. “None of this looks good, Raina. Orrl against Blackhail. War on more war.” Merritt Ganlow’s ice-green eyes studied her. “Best be gone now. Keep the shawl about you. It’s cold in this roundhouse . . . and days darker than night lie ahead.”
Tiny hairs on Raina’s arms rose. Merritt’s words were old and she did not know where they came from, but they stirred something within her. Unnerved, she turned to go.
Merritt caught her wrist. “You are welcome in this hearth, Raina Blackhail. Remember that when you return to your world of husbands and wives.”
Raina nodded. She could not speak to thank her. The journey down through the roundhouse was long and tiring, and she found herself making stops along the way. She saw the casual glances from charwomen and alewives differently now. Were they watching her for him?
Lost in thought, she almost missed the broad and misshapen form of Corbie Meese, crossing the entrance hall with enough firewood strapped to his back to build or burn a house.
“Corbie.”
The soft word made the hammerman turn. A frown had started upon his face, but upon seeing Raina he grinned. “Are ye mad woman? To halt a man whilst he’s toting a ton of logs?” Bending his back as he spoke, he resettled the load upon him. Leather straps whitened with the strain.
Raina grinned back at him. “That old load? Why there’s more air in there than wood.”
Corbie laughed. “By the Stones, woman! You’d drive a man hard if ye could.”
Now he had Raina laughing along with him, and it felt good. Good. It was suddenly difficult to talk of other things. “Corbie. Can I ask something of you?”
“Aye. If I can ask something of you.”
“You can.”
Serious now, the hammerman put a hand against the stairwall to brace the weight of his load. The great dint in his head where a training hammer had clipped him as a boy showed up starkly in the torchlight. “It’s Sarolyn. She’s near her time now . . . and . . .” His gaze dropped to his feet.
Raina nodded quickly, knowing full well what he meant to say and knowing also that mannish reticence kept him from it. “I’ll watch her day and night, Corbie. And both me and Anwyn will be there during her confinement.”