James Clemens: Hinterland

Brant increased his pace toward the city. A flippercraft from Tashijan could only mean some business with the lord and god of the city, Jessup of Oldenbrook. And as the god’s Hand of blood, Brant should be in attendance. It was only through the indulgence and understanding of Lord Jessup that Brant was allowed these morning excursions. He would not pay back such kindness by tarrying too long.

He hurried toward the nearest stone pylon. Each of the hundred support pillars of the city was as thick around as the encircling arms of fifteen men. Four of the columns had hollow hearts. Named the Bones of the city, they were positioned at the cardinal points of the compass. But it was not marrow that ran through these four Bones. Instead it was the true lifeblood of Oldenbrook.

Water.

Brant aimed for the western Bone.

The door to its interior was guarded by two massive loam-giants, men born under the Graced alchemy of loam to grow to hulking proportions. Heavy-browed, limbs like trunks, double muscled. And though Brant had lived all his life under the auspices of a god of loam, he still had a certain discomfort around these guardians of the Bones. The Huntress of Saysh Mal had always refused to allow her Grace to forge men in such a manner, finding it distasteful. Some of her prejudice had found its way into Brant’s heart.

Not that the guards here had ever given him reason to feel uncomfortable. Despite their large size and dour appearance, there was a vein of good nature in their hearts.

And by now the guards certainly knew him. As he approached, heavy axes were lowered, and the iron bar was lifted from the door.

“No luck,” one of them boomed, noting Brant’s empty hands. The guard was a red-mopped giant named Malthumalbaen. It was said that a giant’s name was as long as its bearer was large.

Brant slipped his bow from his shoulder. “Long winter,” he answered with an apologetic tone. He often shared his catch with the guards here. Paid little coin for these long, cold vigils, they appreciated the extra bits.

Malthumalbaen cursed under his breath, but not at Brant, only at the truth in the young man’s words. The large man shrugged deeper into his rabbit-fur-lined longcoat.

The other guard, brother to the first, Dralmarfillneer, only chuckled and clapped Brant on the shoulder as he passed. “Winters always end, Master Brant. Soon Mal will be cursing the heat and swelter.”

“Shine my arse, Dral! You were just whining about the wind yourself.”

Dral opened the door for Brant. “Only because I had to empty my bladder, Mal. Once you unbutton, the wind climbs right into your trousers and grabs hold of your eggs. And when you’re as blessed as I am, it takes time to free yourself.”

“Blessed, my arse, brother,” Mal replied. “We’re twins. What Father gave you, he gave me.”

Brant was ushered into the hollow center of the Bone column. He heard Dral’s last retort before the door closed. “Not in all ways, Mal…not in all ways.”

The iron bar scraped back into place, securing the exit.

Brant shook his head and waved a hand over the stone post rising from the floor’s center. Immediately the floor under his feet began to push him upward, sliding smoothly along the polished walls, propelled by the rushing column of water beneath it.

The Grace-fed water chute carried him toward the castillion far above. While bridges and ladders led from the ice to the lowermost tier, the Bones led to the four wings of Lord Jessup’s castillion.

As he was whisked up, his ears noted the climb past the many levels. The snowy castillion lay at the top of the city, the thirty-third tier. He braced his feet as the end of the chute neared. He craned his neck. The ceiling rushed toward him. From the stone roof, steel spears pointed down at him. An extra assurance against the unwelcome intruder. The platform, when bidden, could drive its passengers into those spikes.

As always, Brant ducked his head a bit as he neared his destination-but his life was spared. The platform settled to a stop, and the door was opened by another loam-giant, a mute.

The giant sternly nodded Brant out of the Bone’s chute.

“Thank you, Greestallatum,” Brant said, returning the nod. He knew that only another giant dared shorten a giant’s name, and even then, they’d best be friends.

The giant crossed and opened the far door into the main keep. The western wing of the castillion, the High Wing, housed the eight Hands of Oldenbrook. Brant moved into the wide hall. As was traditional, windows lined one wall, facing out to Oldenbrook Lake. Along the other wall, eight doors marked off the private rooms to the castillion’s Hands.

Brant hurried along the woven rug. As the Hand of blood, he had the room at the far end, closest to the residence of Lord Jessup himself. The god’s chambers rose from the center of the castillion and its four wings. A giant iron hearth stood outside the wide double doors, used for cleansing traces of corrupted Grace from cloth, stone, and steel.

Otherwise, the hall was empty.

Where was everyone?

As if his inquiry were heard, a door opened on his left. A tall, lithe woman dressed in silver strode out of her room. Liannora, Mistress of Tears. She was one of the eight Hands, each representing one of Lord Jessup’s blessed humours: blood, seed, sweat, tears, saliva, phlegm, and both yellow and black bile. A Hand’s duty was to collect and preserve the assigned humour, rich in the god’s powerful Grace.

Such a duty was a rare honor, and one Liannora considered Brant to be undeserving of attending. She stood before him, as pale as the snow outside. Her long straight tresses flowed like an icy waterfall. The only true color was the blue of her eyes. She seemed to typify Oldenbrook in winter. Even the hue of her eyes matched the tiles of the city.

“Master Brant,” she said with a calculating glance over his leathers, furs, and sodden boots. “Have you not heard?”

“Heard what? I’ve only just returned.”

One eyebrow arched. “Oh, yes…traipsing in the woods.” Her disapproval hung about her like a dark cloud. She joined his step down the hall. “We’ve all been commanded to assemble in Lord Jessup’s greeting chamber. A most important guest arrives even now.”

Brant pictured the flippercraft. “From Tashijan.”

“Then you did hear?” Her manner hardened further, if such a thing were possible.

“I saw the ship descending, flying the Tashijan flag, as I arrived back at the city,” he explained, rather hurriedly, trying his best not to seem rude.

“Ah,” Liannora said as they neared the hall’s end, plainly not mollified.

Brant headed for his room, glad to escape. He had never fully fit in here. The previous Hand of blood had been an elder statesman of the High Wing, well respected, revered, loved by all. It was a station Brant seemed to continually fail to fill: too young to respect, too quiet of disposition, and too darkly complexioned in a land of pale men and women.

“Where are you going?” Liannora asked as he stepped away.

Brant stopped. “To freshen and change.”

“There’s no time for that. I’m the last to respond to the summons. The party from Tashijan is already in attendance. You’ll just have to appear-” She waved a hand disparagingly over his clothes. “Few will expect otherwise anyway.”

Brant knew the words she didn’t add. For an Eighthlander.

Resigned, Brant headed toward the double doors. Before they could reach the threshold, one of the doors opened. A small figure stepped through, dressed all in black, from half cloak to boot. A hood was pulled up, and a masklin covered chin and lips.

A word escaped the figure, whispered, yet urgent. Brant’s ears, sharpened by seasons of hunting, picked the word out of the air.