Ice Country (10 page)

I’ll pass, thanks. “Whatever,” I say,
secretly thankful for whatever’s coming. Whatever it is, it’ll be
better than losing the best—and only—job I’ve ever had.

Brock moves forward, his arms out like I
might bite him. “I gotta ’old you,” he explains. I don’t want
crazy-eyes holding me, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I? So
I relax and let him pull my arms behind my back, clamping them
tight so I can’t defend myself.

“Now wait just one minute,” Buff says,
struggling against Tower’s iron grip.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I earned this one.”

Abe saunters up, cracking his knuckles,
impressing me further at how well he took my best punch. He’s not a
big guy, but not small either, and clearly there’s a toughness in
him that’s beyond flesh and bone.

I lick my lips, waiting for the first blow to
come.

When it does it’s like a wooden plank to the
gut, taking every last bit of breath out of me. But that’s not the
end of it. Oh nay, not by a mile. While I wheeze and try to get my
breath back, Abe lays into me like an avalanche, pummeling my
stomach, chest, and finally my face. No stranger to a good beating,
I take every punch with dignity, never crying out, but wishing that
each shot will be the last. There’s blood running down my lips and
I can feel things swelling all over, but still he continues the
barrage.

The only strange thing about it all: Abe
seems to start taking a little bit off his punches near the end.
It’s not like him—at least not like I’d expect. I’d expect him to
beat on me full force from start to finish.

When he’s finally done, I’m hanging limp from
Brock’s hold, all fight sapped out of me. Through watery, puffy
eyes, I can see Buff’s red face, his taut muscles, the last
remnants of his fight to break free from Hightower to help me. In a
weird way, I’m glad he didn’t. I got what I deserved, and now I can
hold my head high again.

I spit out a clump of blood. This morning I
had black eyes; tomorrow I’ll have black eyes on black eyes on
swollen lips.

The price of a temper.

“We’re even,” Abe says, not looking at me, as
if he might be trying to convince himself. He glances at the castle
guards, who are laughing and watching. “You’ll take a regular load
plus the extra cargo.”

~~~

With the moonlight guiding us, we make it
down the mountain in record time. Or at least most of us do. Nebo’s
five or six minutes back, trying not to kill himself on one of the
many dark, protruding boulders that we zigzag around.

Although Abe’s beating left me hurting every
place from the waist up, the exercise feels good, and the cold’s
left me numb. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but tonight I’m okay. Even
the hefty load I’m carrying didn’t bother me too much. I’ve got
three bear skins, four sizeable jugs of melted snow water that are
starting to freeze, and the “extra cargo”, which basically looks
like some big bags of some kind of herb. I want to ask about it,
but at this point a question might get me killed.

My muscles start locking up during the hike
to the border, but I bite back my grunts and soldier on, determined
to bear it like a man. I don’t know why, but I want Abe’s respect
now more than ever.

As the cloudbanks roll away overhead, the
brilliant night sky looms above, full of more stars than I even
knew existed. It’s like the whole sky is stars. And the moon is a
pale globe, bigger than I’ve ever seen it, fuller than full. An owl
hoots softly somewhere in the forest, as if asking us our
names.

We don’t offer them.

The sound of axes tearing into wood clucks
through the forest.
There are jackers working this late?
I
wonder to myself. And this far down the mountain—all the way at the
border? It doesn’t make sense. There are trees aplenny around the
Districts, and more are constantly being planted. We could never
harvest them all. Then who?

Abe sticks two fingers in his mouth and
whistles. The chopping stops and his whistle is returned. Clearly
someone’s expecting us.

We trod on, breaking out from the trees and
stepping onto the hard-packed dirt that runs right up to the trees.
Further on into the flatlands the landscape is powdery, what the
Heaters call sand. I wonder what it’d feel like to walk on it, but
I know now’s not the time to find out. We have a job to do.

Out of the tangle of the forest, we walk
faster, skirting the edge of our two countries. Ahead of us a group
of Heaters emerge from the shadows, lugging axes and picks and
shovels. The choppers. Not Icer lumberjacks after all, which makes
more sense. But are the Heaters allowed to harvest ice country
trees?

Abe doesn’t seem bothered at all, just
strides right up, dumps his cargo on the ground in front of them.
“It’s all here,” he says. “Extra cargo, too, this time.”

The rest of us catch up and unload everything
we’re carrying, save for our sliders. I straighten up, feeling
instant relief in my back and bones, hoping there’s no pick up
tonight. Hiking back up the mountain will be hard enough without
tugmeat strapped to our backs.

With coppery eyes and more black hair than a
Yag, a short, barrel-chested man steps forward, hand extended as if
ceremonially accepting the trade items. “Thank ye,” he says, his
voice scratchier than a gnarled thicket. “Load up, you tugs!” he
bellows.

The Heaters behind him move forward and grab
the packs and sling them over their backs, staggering under the
weight. These men don’t look like the two muscly border guards I
saw before. They’re tanned and lean, yah, but their leanness is
over the border to skinny. The rags they wear around their
midsections are tattered and dirty, like they’ve been wearing them
for weeks, maybe months. Scars crisscross their backs, arms, and
chests in a pattern that matches the leather, multi-tasseled whip
hanging from the bushy-bearded spokesman’s belt.

To me, they look like prisoners.

W
e transfer goods to
the fire country prisoners three more times that winter, always at
night, always to different locations. The day trips are pretty
stock standard, trading ice country goods for fire country goods,
but the night trips always include the strange bags of mystery
herbs.

“Do you think those herbs are some kind of
drug?” I ask Buff as we walk through the Blue District. We’ve given
up on the Red District. If someone took my sister there, she’s well
hidden, because we’ve scoped out every last shivhole in that shivvy
District.

“Can’t be,” Buff says. We’ve talked about the
herbs a dozen times, but always end up chasing ourselves in a
circle. “The only drug I’ve ever heard of is ice powder. If there
was some herb floating around, we’d know about it.”

“Maybe it’s the king’s secret stash,” I
say.

“It’s possible,” Buff says. “You mean, kind
of like a leader to leader exchange thing.”

“Yah, with the fire country guy—what’s his
name?—uh, Roan.” It’s the only explanation I can come up with.
Other than that, the herb is just an herb, and why would it require
all the night work, secrecy, and smuggling in by Heater
prisoners?

I know I shouldn’t care about the herbs, or
the trade with the Heaters, or anything other than getting Jolie
back, but my theories are the only thing keeping me sane. Every day
that passes without seeing Jolie is like a bruise on my soul, an
ache in places that are impossible to reach and that don’t heal,
not with time, not with talk, not with sleep.

The lawkeeper stopped the search weeks ago,
chalking it up to a mysterious disappearance, despite the fact that
Clint, Looza and I all saw someone take her. But I won’t stop
searching, not now, not ever.

Now with winter waning and the throes of a
frosty spring upon us, I know that if I don’t figure out what
happened to Jolie soon, it might be too late. It might already be
too late.
Shut up!
I tell myself. If I think like that, I
might as well curl up in a thick patch of snow and let the Cold
take me.

Speaking of the Cold, incidents of the
disease have been on the rise as of late. Some say it’s because the
winter was one of the coldest yet, and others believe the Heart of
the Mountain is angry with us for all of the evils that take place
in the Red District. Me, I don’t care either way. If the Cold will
come, it’ll come. Who am I to question the why or the how?

I pause in front of an arched doorway. The
Blue District isn’t nearly as well off as the White District, but
it beats the chill out of the Brown. The streets are clean and free
of beggars, the houses are solid and well-maintained, and the
people are smart enough to slam their doors in our faces as soon as
they realize we’re not from around these parts. I’m not saying I
like it, but there are plenny of bad folk who might try to take
advantage of them, so they’re right to be cautious.

Another door to knock, this one painted
bright green under its white archway. Recently touched up by the
look of it. Smooth and bright. I rap on the door with my knuckles
as Buff rubs his gloved hands together beside me, trying to
generate some heat.

Someone hollers from behind the door, but I
can’t make it out. Unusual for this District. Usually the people
are quiet and timid. The boisterousness of the cry reminds me of a
good old Brown District welcome.

The door opens.

Nebo stands before us, bald and short and
altogether the most unintimidating person you could ever meet. His
mouth forms an O and he sucks in a gasping “Uhhh!” and then tries
to slam the door.

I swing my foot out and wedge it between the
door and the jamb. The heavy wood crunches my toes, but I’m already
moving forward, lowering my shoulder, barging my way inside. Nebo’s
thrown backwards and into the house as the door rebounds off the
wall with a solid thud.

He tries to scramble away from us on his
arse, but runs right into a table leg, his eyes full of terror.

“Whoa there, Neebs. We’re not going to hurt
you,” I say, feeling somewhat bad about the jittery man’s response
to our forced arrival.

“Like—like—chill you’re not,” he says. What
is this man so afraid of?

“Nay, really, Neebs. We didn’t even know you
lived here. We were knocking on every door on this street,” Buff
says.

Neebs is shaking his head, his eyes closed.
“Go—go away.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” I
say. Although I’m pretty sure the nervous little man can’t help us
with Jolie, clearly he’s scared of something and I want to know
what. Plus, he’s been working for Abe/King Goff much longer than
us, so he might know more about the mystery herb.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebs drones
on.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Buff adds.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay.”

Ten “nays” and we haven’t even asked a
question yet. Nebo’s as still as a statue, still on the floor, back
against the table leg. He looks sort of like a child throwing a
tantrum, his eyes all squinted shut, his mouth crunched in an
overdone scowl.

I kneel in front of him and he twitches, like
he can sense how close I am. “First question,” I say, as soothingly
as I can. To my ears my voice sounds like grated rocks.

“No questions,” Neebs says.

I ignore him, say, “Why don’t you want to
work for the king anymore?”

“Rule one: no questions,” Neebs says.

“We’re not on the job,” I say, “and you’re
not Abe, so I’ll ask you any freezin’ thing I want to.” It comes
out a little harsher than I’d planned, but I’m getting frustrated.
I repeat the question.

“Bad man,” Neebs says.

“Abe’s a bad man?” Buff asks, sliding in
beside me.

“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebo hisses. His
eyes are still closed and his mannerisms are so jerky I wonder if
he’s got more wrong with him than just silver problems. “The king.”
He clamps a hand over his mouth as if he just swore at his
mother.

“The king is bad?”

“Not saying any more,” he says, pouting out a
lip like a child.

“What are those herbs?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Drugs?”

He shakes his head but I don’t think it’s an
answer.

“Tea leaves?”

Another shake of the head.

“Spices?”

His eyes flash open and I’m surprised to find
them clear and blue. “Not spices,” he says.

It’s like my mind is trying to climb a sheer
rock face, and its fingers are scrabbling for something to grab on
to, but they keep coming up empty, keep sliding down it, getting
torn by the stone, slipping farther and farther toward a fall that
will eventually kill it. Nothing makes any sense. That’s usually
when
everything
makes sense. It hits me.

“Is it some kind of medicine, like the
concoctions the healers use?”

The look on his face tells me I’ve hit on
something that’s close to the truth. “Abe made me promise not to
talk about all that,” he says.

“All what?” Buff says with a growl, but I
warn him off with my eyes. I don’t want to scare him back into his
shell.

“Nope,” Neebo says, crossing his arms.

“What kind of medicine?” I ask. I soften my
voice. “Please—it’s important.”

He bites his lip, as if he has to keep it
from telling me everything.

“Please,” I say again.

“Uh-uh.”

“What’s the special cargo we’ll be picking up
soon?” I ask.

His eyes close and he goes back to shaking
his head.

“Do you know what happened to my sister?” I
ask.

He stops shaking, but doesn’t open his eyes,
doesn’t give an answer. Just sits there.

We leave, knowing more than we did when we
arrived, and yet knowing nothing.

~~~

It’s quiet on the home front. Mother’s passed
out on the floor in front of a dwindling fire, a blanket draped
over her, clearly placed there by Wes, who’s sitting in a wooden
chair just watching the last few flames dissolve into hot
embers.