Текст книги "Ice Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Eleven

Today’s the day. The special cargo delivery from fire country. Regardless of whether Nebo would answer our questions, we’ll find out soon enough what we’ll be collecting. As usual, it’ll be a night job, so Buff and I have got the whole day to kill.

Neither of us can take another day of knocking doors and getting them slammed in our faces, so we decide to go sliding for fun. It feels like forever since we’ve felt the freedom of the mountain without Abe and his gang surrounding us as part of a job.

We tackle the west slopes, where the pines thin out and leave a relatively unobstructed path of fresh powder. It’s not as cold as it was even yesterday, a clear sign that spring is here to stay. The snow might melt off in a few months, if it does at all, but today it’s as thick as Looza’s stew—perfect for sliding.

We trudge to the top of a steep hill, panting heavily by the time we reach the crest. Sitting next to each other, we grin like a couple of well-fed dogs as we strap our sliders to our feet. For a moment I feel like a child again, back when things were simpler, and my only responsibilities were having fun and getting in trouble. Although I still seem to have the trouble part down pat.

“Ready?” I say, as we push to our feet.

“Chill yah,” Buff says, still grinning.

“Go!” I yell, and we slip over the edge, letting gravity do all the work, practically sucking us down the mountainside.

“Woohooo!” we cry, giddy as schoolboys.

The cold wind whips against my face, bright and fresh and alive, and I’m glad I didn’t wear a slider’s mask. A small patch of pines runs toward us, like they’ve got feet and they’re the ones moving, not us. I cut hard to the right, carving a curving line in the snow, while Buff goes left.

We whip around the trees and then come together on the other side. I lean forward to gain speed, edging in front of Buff, and then angle across his path, switching sides. The game is on, cat and mouse we used to call it, and Buff passes me, swapping sides. Again and again we trade places, ripping a continuous zigzag down the slope.

The hill begins to flatten out, to a perfect landing area for this particular run, but I’m not ready to stop, not ready for the distraction from real life to end, so I lead Buff across a swatch of ice that gives us enough momentum to get to another slope, one that slices through the forest. It’s not intended for sliding, but I feel invincible, like I could slide right through a tree or boulder or anything else that tries to get in my way.

With a whoop, I lift the tip of my slide up and over the edge of the next hill. I’m forced to half-skid/half-turn hard to the right when a sharp gray boulder rises up directly in our path. Powdery snow sprays all around me as I hit a soft patch, cutting back to the left to avoid the edge of the trees on the right hand side.

The challenging natural course doesn’t get any easier from there. A couple of times I think I’m freezed when the slope narrows and trees and rocks close in on all sides and sometimes right in front of me, but I always barely manage to squeeze through even the tiniest gaps. I can still hear the scrape and whoomp of Buff’s slider behind me, so I know he’s managed to follow in my wake so far.

Invincible. That’s what we are. Indestructible.

Such are my thoughts as I cross a trail that leads away to the east, back toward the village. That’s when something grabs me from beneath the snow.

~~~

One second I’m invincible, a slider warrior, and the next I’m airborne, like some icin’ snowbird, except with a broken wing, unable to fly, flipping and spinning and going so fast that there’s only one thing to do.

Crash!

My right shoulder hits first and it feels like I’ve landed on sheer stone, except for the fact that it’s white and my bones crunch through it—and I know for a fact that my shoulder isn’t hard enough to break through rock. So it must be snow. Well, more like a mixture of snow and ice, hard packed and without much give to it.

Then I tumble end over end, arse over heels, shoulders to tailbone to knees to bones and parts I don’t even know the names of. It hurts like I’m getting a beat down from Abe all over again.

Eventually though, the friction of my coat and slider against the snow pinches in enough to bring me to a stop, leaving my head spinning and my heart pounding. I stare at the gray-covered sky, which seems to be moving a chilluva lot more than usual. Or maybe it’s me that’s moving. Or something else entirely.

Buff skids to a graceful stop beside me. “Whoa, man, you all right?” he says.

I go to nod, but my neck feels stiffer than a wood plank. “Urrr,” I say, which obviously means yah.

“What happened?” he asks

Even if I knew, I wouldn’t be able to tell him. “Hurts,” I manage. And then, “Urrr.”

“Anything broken?”

More like everything broken. But I’m just being a baby. The wind’s knocked outta me and I got a few bruises—nothing major. I’ve had worse. “Need…a second,” I say, whistling in breaths between puckered lips.

“What the chill?” Buff says, but this time he’s not speaking to me. He’s looking back up the hill, back toward where I fell, where something—I swear to the Mountain Heart I’m not making this up—grabbed me. It was like it reached up from beneath the snow and clamped down on the front of my slider.

“Urrr, what?” I say, trying to twist my sore neck to see where he’s looking.

“I think…” Buff trails off. I think what? I want to ask but it seems I’ve spent all my words. He unclasps his slider and starts walking away, back up the hill. I groan, meaning “wait”.

But he’s already off. Whatever’s up there, I want to see it too, want to know what caused my fall. Burning holes in the clouds with my eyes, I lean forward and rip off my slider, feeling sharp pain hitting me everywhere, in places I didn’t even know I had. I laugh because it hurts so badly and I wonder if I’m becoming like Abe, laughing at pain.

“Holy shiverbones,” I hear Buff say as I crawl on hands and knees to where he’s standing, looking at something stumpy and dark, like a section of tree trunk, blotched against the snow. I could swear it wasn’t there a minute ago.

“What is it?” I rasp as I approach him one hand and knee at a time.

“Not what,” he says, not making any sense.

The thing comes into view and I gasp.

“Who,” Buff says.

It’s Nebo. Frozen harder than a snowman and deader than a fallen tree.

~~~

“Nebo’s dead,” I say to Abe that night.

“What?” he says, brows curled. He looks surprised. There’s something else in his expression too, but I can’t place it, or maybe he’s just hiding it too well.

“We found him in the woods. Looked like he was bludgeoned to death, his head all mashed up.”

Buff’s staring at his hands. We didn’t know what to do, so we pulled him into the woods, dug a hole in the snow, and stuck him in it. Neither of us really liked the idea, but if we’d brought him in, the lawkeepers would’ve had questions—questions we might not be able to answer. Like why we were in the Blue District knocking on Nebo’s door not a day earlier, just before he showed up dead.

“Mountain Heart,” Abe says. There’s a twinge of something in his voice—something not normal for how you should sound just after hearing about someone you know having died. He’s shocked, yah, but not as much as I’d expect him to be.

“Do you know something about this?” I say sharply, stepping toward him.

Brock and Hightower move forward at the same time, penning me in.

He looks at me absently, like he’s not seeing me. “Heart, I never thought they’d…” He trails off.

“Never thought who would what?” I ask, bumping Brock.

Abe’s murky expression clears and the fire returns to his dark eyes. Whatever surprise or confusion is gone. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “You’re asking too many questions, which as you well know, is against the rules. But we’ll let it slide this one time, just like the last time you did something stupid by hitting me. This is it. Your last chance.”

“And Nebo?” I say, glancing at Brock’s fingers, which are twitching wildly, like he’s hoping I go for Abe again so he can go for me.

“He was out of chances,” Abe says, his words cold, but his tone not. Something doesn’t make sense. Abe’s saying all the things he’s supposed to, but there’s nothing behind them.

He knows something.

The cold soup I ate for dinner roils in my gut. Nebo’s frozen, bashed-in face flashes through my mind. Everything in me is saying “Fight! Attack! Punch! Hit!” but for once in my life, I ignore my temper. These guys are serious. Either they killed a man or they knew someone might kill a man. At least one that we know of. Probably more. All in the service of the king. Bad man, Nebo had said. I think he was referring to the king, but his words seem to apply to everyone standing in front of me.

“What’s the medicine for?” I say, breaking another rule. A challenge.

“They’re just tea leaves,” Abe says, his face blank, not reacting to my guess as to the nature of the herbs.

“It’s medicine,” I say, pushing my luck.

“Don’t do this,” Abe says.

I grin at him, filling my smile with as much hate as I can muster. I raise a fist, flash it toward him and he flinches back. When Brock and Tower inch forward, I laugh. “A bit jumpy, aren’t you?” I say.

I lean down and strap on my slider, ignoring the glares Abe’s firing in my direction. As much as I’d love to take on all three of them, it’d be suicide, for Buff too; plus, even though the two months are up and our debts are paid off, I need to keep this job so I can find out what in Heart’s name is going on.

I’ll bide my time.

I won’t forget what they did to Nebo. And I surely won’t forgive it.

~~~

The Heaters are waiting for us when we reach the bottom, at a place on the border we’ve never been before. The prisoners aren’t there to meet us this time. It’s a big man, alone, wearing more clothes than the other Heaters I’ve seen, full length pants and a loose-fitting, V-necked shirt.

“King Goff sends his regards,” Abe says.

“And pass along mine to him,” the Heater says.

“Where’s the cargo, Roan?” Abe’s looking all around, like it might be scampering across fire country. Roan! So this is the Heater leader—they call him the Head Greynote.

“We’ve had a slight problem,” Roan says, his eyes darker than the night.

Abe’s eyes narrow. “What sort of problem?”

“You have to understand, we’re under attack from all sides. The Killers are attacking again. The Glassies seem to want us wiped off the face of fire country. The Wildes steal more and more of our women every year.”

“But you still have your alliance with the Marked?” Abe says. I’m trying to keep up with the conversation, but most of it’s going in one ear and out the other. Killers? Wildes? Marked? At least I understand the Glassies, but why would they want to wipe out the Heaters?

“I’d hardly call it an alliance,” Roan says. “More like an understanding. But yes, we trade wood and food for their services.”

“So what’s the problem?” Abe persists.

“We couldn’t get any cargo this season,” Roan says. I want to scream out “What is the freezin’ cargo?” but I know if I do I might end up in a snowy grave next to Nebo.

Abe shakes his head, a look of wonder crossing his face. “You couldn’t, or you wouldn’t?”

Roan’s jaw goes tight and I see his hands curl into fists. His face turns a darker shade of brown. I know those signs. This is a man with a temper. A bad one, maybe worse than mine, which would be saying something. And his dark expression isn’t saying punch and wrestle and fight…it’s saying kill.

“Couldn’t,” he says through gritted teeth. “We’ll have cargo for you at the end of spring.”

“Ha!” Abe laughs. “You expect to get your precious herbs for a full season based on the promise of cargo in three months’ time? Is that really what you want me to tell the king?”

Roan steps forward, his face speckled with starlight and mottled with anger. “You will do what I tell you to do, and let Goff make the decisions. You’re nothing but a filthy messenger.”

I almost laugh, but manage to hold it in, passing it off as a cough. The tension is so tight that no one even looks my way. Abe’s trying to hold it together, to keep a brave face, but I can see he’s intimidated by Roan, his lip quivering, his cheeks sagging. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll tell the king what you said. But no promises.”

“Good,” Roan says. “When he agrees to the new terms, which I’m confident he will, bring the Cure here in three days’ time.”

As we turn and walk away, one word thumps through my head: Cure.

Chapter Twelve

“Cure for what?” I say, already knowing the answer.

“There’s only one thing that needs a cure,” Buff says.

“The Cold,” I say.

“They call it the Fire,” Buff says.

“The Fire…” I murmur, as if it’s something sacred, like the Heart of the Mountain. “But Goff can’t have a cure for the Cold—the Fire. People are dying of it more than ever. Almost every day.” I know the answer to that too, but I want Buff to confirm it.

“He’s keeping it from us,” Buff says.

“And giving it to the Heaters.” Ice him! Freeze him! How can he have a cure and not share it with his own people? But wait…

“But the Heaters are still dying of the Fire. I hear them talking about it all the time when we go to the border,” I say, frowning. It clicks and this time I don’t wait for Buff to say it first. “Roan’s keeping it from his people too, because he’s only getting enough for himself and maybe the other leaders.”

“Icin’ straight,” Buff says.

It’s all coming together. The secrecy. Why the king had to have Nebo killed off. Not because he knew, but because he might talk about it. If we were able to draw a bit of information out of him, then maybe someone else could get the whole story. And the king couldn’t have that. There would be mutiny, rebellion. The Icers would string him up from a tree branch.

We killed Nebo.

The realization hits me like a winter wind, chilling me to my bones. If we hadn’t questioned him, hadn’t got him riled up enough to tell us about the medicine, he might still be alive. But how would the king have known what Nebo told us? One of his men must’ve been spying. “Ice it!” I say.

“What do we do?” Buff says.

“Nothing,” I say. “There’s more to this story, and we need to know everything before we make a move.” Starting with what the special cargo is that Roan failed to deliver. Unfortunately, that means we’ll have to wait until the end of spring to find out.

~~~

We play the game, show up for work every few days, deliver blah blah blah to the border, collect some other blah blah blah and lug it back to the castle. Evidently King Goff buckled to Roan’s new terms, because every few weeks we deliver bags of the Cure. Keeping the Heater leader alive and free of the Fire, while Icers and Heaters continue to die from the Cold.

Something about that just doesn’t seem fair.

Summer arrives and the snow starts to melt, but not completely, because it’s unusually cold for this time of year. The special cargo still hasn’t arrived and Abe’s getting grumpier by the day, probably because Goff’s getting even grumpier from behind his palace walls. He’s paying for the cargo with the Cure, but he’s not getting anything in return. That’d make even the most happy-go-lucky king grumpy. And I have a feeling Goff isn’t the happy-go-lucky kind.

Finally, however, one night when we show up for a delivery, Abe’s usual angriness has melted away to a muted melancholy. “We’ve got special cargo tonight,” he says.

What does that even mean? I want to say, but as usual, I hold my question inside. I’m getting pretty good at it considering how many unanswerable questions I’ve got.

Buff and I just nod as if we understand.

Brock and Hightower show up a few minutes later and Abe says the same thing to them, and they don similarly gloomy expressions. Why do they look so miserable? Isn’t the special cargo what we’ve all been waiting for? On a night like this, I’d expect them to be smiling wolfishly, grinning like banshees, all excitement and energy. Not so…somber.

The five of us take the usual route to the borderlands, except we have to dismount our sliders earlier than usual, on account of the less than usual snow as we approach the bottom. It may be a cold summer, but down the mountain it’s much warmer this time of year. We trudge the rest of the way through the forest, which is teeming with fresh, green life, thicker than Yo’s beard.

There’s a commotion when we reach fire country. I stand stock still for a moment, taking it all in, wondering what and where and when and huh? Then I think, What the freezin’ son of a goat herder? There’s no cargo, just five adult Heaters, standing tall and brown around a cluster of children. Heater children. None of them look older than—

–I can barely even think it but—

–older than my sister. In fact, all of them are much younger.

The thought sits in my brain like a dull ache. “What’s going on?” I say aloud, finally letting one of my questions slip out and away.

“Just stay cool,” Abe says, warning me off with his eyes. “There’s no going back from this point, so I’ll answer your questions after it’s over.”

I want to grab him by the shirt, lift him up, shake him till he spills it, tells me everything he knows. But, as usual, I don’t. Can’t. It’s not the right time—not the right way. I have to be patient.

We approach the Heaters.

One of them steps forward. These men are dressed like Roan was, more covered, less wild-looking. They are clearly Roan’s fellow leaders. The Greynotes. “Will seven units cover us through the summer?” the Heater asks.

Abe walks around the children, who cower in the middle, lashed together, just a splash of brown with arms and legs sticking out every which way. He eyes them up, from head to toe, as if inspecting a prize sled dog. “They strong?” he asks.

“Always are,” the Heater replies.

Abe nods. “That should do it. You’ll get the herbs till autumn, then we’ll have to talk to Roan again, agree on new terms.”

What the chill? I think, tired of thinking that same question over and over, as if I can’t even formulate a more intelligent thought.

“They’re all yours,” the Heater says, waving his hand in a circle. In a pack, the Heaters stride off, back into fire country, the desert moon beating a shimmering path across the sand.

The children look at us with scared, unblinking eyes.

“Round ’em up,” Abe says.

Right away, Brock and Tower step toward the Heater children, cracking their knuckles and almost daring them to run. Without thinking, I step in front of them, blocking their path. Buff does the same, shoulder to shoulder.

“Git outta our way,” Brock says. Tower grunts his own complaint.

“Not till you tell us what this is all about,” I say. “These are kids—not cargo.”

Abe sighs, as if he’s been through this conversation too many times before. I wonder just how many times—for how many kids. “I told you I’ll tell you and I will,” he says, “but not until we get ’em back to the palace.”

“Nay,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Abe’s voice is incredulous. He’s not used to being denied. “Are you forgetting rule number one?”

“You can take rule number one and shove it up your—”

“Dazz!” Buff says sharply. He’s thinking with his brain, and I’m thinking with my heart. If we start a fight here, we’ll lose. We’ve been in plenny of scraps, and we know how to fight, especially together, but these guys are no less experienced, and they’ve got Hightower, which is like having three guys in one body.

I take a deep breath. “Look,” I say. “I didn’t sign up for kidnapping.” Kidnapping. That’s what it is. Taking kids from their homes. Just like…

I don’t need to finish the thought. I don’t want to finish the thought.

Because I already know.

If there’s a King who’ll take kids from another country, then he’ll take kids from his own country too.

“It’s just business,” Abe says, but there’s no conviction in his voice. “They give us kids, we give them the Cure. It’s not our job to think.” I might not know Abe that well, but I know enough to realize he’s more than just hired muscle. He’s got a brain. So why does he refuse to use it?

Brock moves to step around me, but I shift to block him. “What does the king do with them?” I ask, my sister’s face dancing around the question. I don’t want to know, but I have to know. If Jolie’s behind those palace walls, I need to know if she’s in any immediate danger.

Abe says, “Not my busin—”

“Tell me!” I explode, feeling veins popping out all over my forehead. Jolie. Jolie. Where are you?

Abe steps away, taken aback by my outburst. The kids huddle together even tighter.

“For the love of the Mountain, kid. Can you get a grip on yer temper?” Abe says. “Honestly, I don’t have a freezin’ clue what he does with ’em, and I don’t ask. He’d kil…” He leaves the thought hanging, unfinished. Instead says, “He pays me too well for that. And he’d kill me if I ever asked. Do you really not understand who yer dealin’ with? It’s the Heart-icin’ King for Heart’s sake! He’s got a whole freezin’ army of men just waitin’ to crush anyone who gets in his way. Do you think we’re the ones who killed Nebo? Do you really think we’re so heartless to not feel bad about what happened to him, too? He was strange, yah, but we liked him. I even shed a few tears for the stumpy little man. Ice, kid! Are you really so clueless? He’s got spies watchin’ us all, just waitin’ for us to make a wrong move, to cross him in any way. After all yer icin’ questions, I had to stick my neck out for you so he wouldn’t kill you, too!”

I raise a hand to my aching head, massage my temples. Abe stood up for me? The king’s watching us? The king trades the Cure for little kids—little kids just like my sister? Everything’s so tangled, like the forest, all knotted and growing and twisting together, vine-covered and spiky and windblown. I turn to look at the kids, who are hanging onto each other, whispering something that sounds like a prayer, to the Heart of the Mountain, or whoever it is that they pray to.

Turning back, I say, “They’re watching us right now?”

“Yah,” Abe says. “You try anything stupid and you’ll be bird-feathered with arrows before you get more than two steps.”

“Where?” I say, looking around.

“For Heart’s sake, kid, don’t look around. Ice!”

I bring my gaze back to Abe, repeat the question. He says, “They’re good at hiding. Even when you know they’re there, you rarely ever see ’em. They’re in the trees and in the brambles and under the leaves. They just watch…and wait.”

“Ice it!” I say. “We don’t have a choice here, do we?”

“No,” Abe says, his single word filled with regret.

~~~

Every step up the mountain is like an arrow in my heart.

Before we leave, we wrap the kids in heavy, full-length coats that Abe has in his pack, so at least they’ll be warm.

But everything else is awful. The brown children whimper and cast fearful glances around them as if everything in the forest is new to them, scary. Maybe it is. Do they have trees in fire country? Probably not, as they send their prisoners to ice country to chop wood.

Even though the kids are clearly scared, they’re like little soldiers, never complaining or crying. They just march on, taking sips of water when we offer them, clinging to the rope that tethers them together like it’s the only thing holding them up.

How can I be doing this? I ask myself at least a dozen times, swishing around a taste so bitter it’s worse than yellow snow. For Jolie, I keep saying in my mind. Getting myself killed now will ensure everything I know is lost, and then she’ll have no chance at all. My only option is to continue to play along, wait for the right moment. Be smart. I feel bad about the kids I’m taking from their families, but I can’t help that either, can only hope that later I’ll be able to help them, along with Jolie.

When we reach the start of the snow-covered slopes, which are shimmering under the pale moonlight, the kids’ eyes light up, and I see the first indication that there’s still some measure of childlike joy in them. They even reach down and pick some up, giggling and dropping it when they feel the cold. Abe gives them a look and I get the feeling that if I wasn’t around, he would scold them and tell them to get a move on.

After a few more hours of trudging through the snow, the kids start to falter, tripping under their own weight, slipping on patches of ice. They’re exhausted. Who knows how far they had to walk across fire country before we met them.

Just before we reach the final stretch to the palace gates, Abe veers off to the right. “Where are you going?” I say, breaking the no-question rule and floating the very last sliver of my luck across the night sky.

“Gotta go the long way. Safer.” Safer for who? Not for the dead-on-their-feet kids. Not for anyone but the king, who’s worried about the general public finding out about his secrets. The Cure. His penchant for stealing children in the dark of the night.

“These kids have to rest soon,” I say.

Abe stops, glances at the kids, as if he’s forgotten they’re here, that they’re people, capable of weariness. Perhaps that’s the only way he can manage his guilt. Then, to my surprise, he shrugs. “I’ll probably catch it from the king, but I’m ready for bed too.”

He heads straight for the palace gate and we follow. Before the gate, he says, “I’ll take it from here.”

“I’ll help you get them to bed,” I say.

“Not a chance,” Abe says. “They won’t let anyone in but me. Take a hike.”

Going home is the last thing I want to do. Thoughts of charging through the gates, fighting off sword– and bow-wielding guards with my bare fists, barging my way into the king’s quarters, knocking him senseless, and taking my sister back cycle through my head.

Then I turn and walk away, Buff by my side.

Over my shoulder, Abe’s voice carries on the wind. “Remember, don’t tell anyone what you saw tonight. Yer bein’ watched. Always.”