Ice Country

“Why what?” Abe says, staring at mestrangely, as if he can see the tail end of the question hangingoff the tip of my tongue.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Good,” he says, ripping off his mask. Hisface is pale white with a nose so flat it looks like someone usesit for a punching bag on daily basis. His ears stick out and sortof up, like maybe he can hear as well as an animal, like a rabbit.He’s older than us, but only by a few years. “First, someinstruction.”

Beside me, Buff mumbles, “I thought schoolwas long over.”

Abe ignores him. “Brock. Wa

Brock nods and pull off his mask, revealing aface that only a mother could love, and even that would be stretch.It’s so bruised and scarred that it looks like he mighta had a petdog and offered his cheeks as a chew toy. Either that or this guy’sbeen in a lot of fights, and not just of the fists and brawnvariety. A long, six-inch scar runs from the edge of his right eyeto his lips, like a curved scythe. It reeks of knife wound.

Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t startsomething with these guys. Between grunting Hightower and Brock,whose eyes are looking crazier by the second, we mighta had ourhands full.

Brock says, “We ain’t got many rules, but ifyou break one, we’ll break you.” He sniggers, but I don’t thinkhe’s joking. “One. Do as yer told. Abe gets ’is instructionsstraight from the crown, so take what ’e says as if King Goff’s theone sayin’ it. And don’t ask questions. If we don’t tell yousomethin’, it’s cuz we don’t want you to know. Got it?”

He pauses, as if testing us to see if we’llask any questions right after him telling us not to. We both justnod.

“Number two. Don’t tell anyone about what youdo while on the job. You work fer the king, helpin’ wit’ the firecountry trade routes. That’s it.”

“Well done,” Abe says, which draws agrotesque smile from Brock’s pock- and scar-marked face. “Maybe yougot more than just rocks fer brains after all.” Brock’s smile fadesand he looks like he wants to add a few scars to Abe’s mostlysmooth face.

“It’s forbidden to go to fire country,” Isay, taking care to craft my question as a statement.

“Not for us,” Abe growls.

“And you’re the ones in charge of all thefire country trade,” I say. Another statement.

“We’re not the only group,” he sayscryptically. “But we’re the most important ones.”

I look at Buff, who shrugs. “Let’s do this,”he says, cracking his knuckles beneath his thick gloves.

Whatever this is.

Chapter Seven

The job is freezin’easy.

First off, Abe gives us our own sliders.Beautifully carved, sanded, and polished planks of wood that aresmoother than my arse was the day I was born. “Straight from theking’s stores,” Abe said when Hightower removes them from wherethey’re strapped to his back and hands them to us. Compared to thehomemade sliders we used to make as kids, these are perfection. Andsomehow they fit our feet perfectly, as if someone came andmeasured our feet while we were sleeping. Stepping onto them, weput one foot in front of the other, tying the ropes tight aroundour ankles.

On they feel even better than they lookedoff. Buff’s smile says he’s thinking the same thing.

With a couple of whoops and a few hollers(and at least one grunt from Hightower), we push off from themountain, and all the hours I logged sliding as a kid seem tosurround me as I feel every bump, slide into every turn, and dodgeevery obstacle. Buff’s never been as good at sliding as me, but hehas no trouble either. Compared to Nebo we’re both slidinggeniuses, and compared to the others, well, we pretty much fitright in. I’ve got no idea where we’re going or what we’re doing,but if I’m getting paid for sliding down the mountain then I figurenot asking questions should be no problem at all.

We carve up the mountain for almost an hour,feeling the icy wind whipping around us, pushing life into ourlimbs and hope into our hearts. Maybe, just maybe, by our ownstupidity we’ve stumbled upon the perfect job for us.

With every passing minute my body temperaturewarms, both from the athletic exertion and because some of thesting seems to drain from the air, as if our very motion issiphoning the cold away. Eventually, the thick, powdery snow thins,giving way to hard packed ice that propels us forward at speedsthat are beyond anything I’ve ever imagined, sending bolts ofexcitement up my spine and whirling around my chest.

It’s easy. Abe leads, and we follow, matchinghis every turn, cut, and angle, until the ice turns to slush, likeit does sometimes in the Brown District in the very heart of thesummer when it hasn’t snowed for a few days and the sun sneaks apeak between the clouds.

Except this slush seems permanent, like itnever really gets solid again, not even after a good snowfall. Likemaybe it’s not cold enough to sustain it.

A minute later my eyes widen and somethinglurches in my stomach when I see what lies ahead. Armies of trees,as spindly and free of leaves as the ones that surround thevillage, but different somehow. It takes me a moment to realizewhat it is. They’re not covered in snow. We’re in the thick ofwinter, the coldest time of year, and they’re as brown andsnow-free as if it’s the least cold summer day of the year.

As I’m thinking all this, Abe pulls up,sending up splashes of brown muck that seem as much dirt as snow,and even then, snow is a loose term. In fact, it’s almostmore water than snow. We’re sliding on water and dirt.

We stop in a line, staring out at the brownand gray forest before us, naked, as if its white blanket has beenpicked up by a giant and rolled away, leaving it bare andunprotected. And beyond the trees are flatlands, dotted withstrange green and gray plants, with gnarled branches, protruding atstrange angles. The land is so flat I can see for miles, all theway to the horizon, where the cloud-free sky starts its rise in apool of red blood. From where we’re standing, a full quarter of thesky is red, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Welcome to the border,” Abe says, gri

~~~

When we reach the border, the barest glint ofsunlight slices through the battalions of gray before the cloudsare able to close ranks and block it again. The sun is high in thesky, at its peak: midday has arrived. A full half day of work spentsliding down the hill. Not too shabby.

To think, the border can be reached in only ahalf day. If it wasn’t for the fear of catching the Cold, you’dthink Icers would come down to see it all the time, regardless ofwhether the king forbids it.

Then I see them: the Heaters. People of firecountry. My first ever glimpse.

Two brown-ski

But then I feel it. A sort of tingling thatstarts in my toes and stretches up my legs and through my torso.Eventually it reaches my fingers and even the tip of my nose,leaving everything feeling…warm. Nay, more than that. More thanwarm. Hot. Like I’ve just stepped into our fireplace back at home,letting the flames surround me. Sweat beads on my face and dripsoff my nose and chin.

I look around to see if anyone else isfeeling the same sensation.

While I’ve been staring at the Heaters,everyone else’s been stripping. Bearskin coats and gloves and hatsare flying all over the place, discarded haphazardly. Buff’s gothis pants half off too, leaving the bottom half of his muscled legslooking exceedingly white and hairy in his black undergarments. Theothers are taking their pants off, too, but underneath they’rewearing some kind of short pants, looser than undergarments, andmuch less embarrassing. Without any other choice, I follow Buff’slead and strip down to my skivvies, relishing the feel of thewarm—not just not cold, but warm! like it’s full ofhot stew or warm tea—air. Although I feel out of place amongst theother more appropriately clad Icers, once the Heaters approach Ifeel better. They’ve got next to nothing on—just a thin clothcovers their torsos, giving them an almost savage look. Their hairand eyes are dark, and their bodies lean and tight and firm, liketheir skin’s been twice-stretched over their bones and muscles.They carry long spears and have wooden bows looped on their backswith leather straps.