Sword of Shadows #02 - A Fortress of Grey Ice by J. V. Jones

Author:J. V. Jones [Jones, J. V.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Epic, Fiction, General, Fantasy Fiction
ISBN: 9780765345493
Google: gQ_nCxuh-fwC
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2000-01-01T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER

A Surlord’s Progress

“We can reach the clanholds in twenty-four days, weather permitting. A good scout can halve that.”

“Not at this time of year, with the floods.” Penthero Iss halted in his progress of Spire Vanis’ northern wall to look Marafice Eye in the face. The Protector General of Spire Vanis was clothed in the red leather cloak of his office, with the great lead killhound brooch at his throat, and his black iron birdhelm crooked in his left arm. His one small eye was squinting against the whiteness of the morning mist and the strange disembodied rays of sunlight that shot through it like enemy fire. Marafice Eye ill liked being contradicted, but they were alone here, upon the limestone, and the Knife was learning to school his responses. Any man who sought to be surlord had to choose his battles carefully.

Iss watched him drop his shoulders with an effort. “The dark-cloaks I sent out at Atonement should be back any day now. I’ll have better intelligence then.”

The word “I” sounded a warning to Iss. It was a tug on the reins of power. Marafice Eye was demonstrating his influence, now grown diverse enough to command companies of notoriously volatile darkcloaks, and gather intelligence from sources far beyond the city. But not far enough. With the minutest stretching of his lips, Iss turned smartly on his heels and continued his progress, leaving the Knife no choice but to follow him.Later he will see just how much farther a surlord must reach.

The Almsgate progress had begun before dawn. From high atop Spire Vanis’ northern wall it was possible to look out upon the vast tent city erected to accommodate Spire Vanis’ ever-growing army. A ragged patchwork of hide and canvas tents spread wide and unlovely across the Vale of Spires below, turning furrowed fields to lakes of mud and crushing the first new grasses of spring. The stench of horse manure, unwashed bodies and woodsmoke rose like marsh gas from the encampment, and there was at least one grangelord in the progress who held a scented pomander to his nose to void the stink. The progress had been requested by Marafice Eye so he might show his surlord the full breadth of the army he was massing. It had been intended as a small affair—ranking generals, masters-of-arms, and a select few grangelords who were not wholly unsympathetic to the Knife—but word had spread, as word was wont to do, and half the grangelords in the city had turned up.

Marafice Eye was furious. And he’d made the mistake of showing it. Iss was an old hand at these things; he knew all about the delicate egos that vied for influence in the city, and knew to expect greater numbers. Any attempt to exclude powerful grangelords from a public procession was doomed to fail from the start. The Knife would have been better served inviting them all along from the beginning—the progress would never have taken on its air of secrecy and exclusivity and hardly anyone would have bothered to turn up—but then the Knife had much to learn.

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