Ice Country

Something in me snaps. Or maybe was alreadysnapped from the night Joles was taken from me. Whatever the case,I can’t control my fists, which start swinging at Abe like I’mtaking on a whole gang of Red District rowdies. The first punch isa gut shot and bends him at the waist—the second takes his headoff. He spins from the impact, torqueing around in an awkward,twisting way, and then goes down in a heap.

Brock’s on me like a beggar on a bear steak,while Hightower holds Buff away from the fray. “You didn’t just dothat,” Brock says, half-laughing, like he’s been hoping I’d dosomething crazy. “Nice punch,” he adds, which surprises me. What’sthe plan? Compliment me to death?

I grit my teeth and wait for him to pull aknife. He doesn’t.

Although I hit Abe with everything I had andmy hand is stinging, he’s pulling himself to his feet, massaginghis jaw, one eye closed and the other one all bugged out and angryas chill.

“I’ll leave,” I say. “I’ll find another wayto pay the Hole back.” Even as I say it I wish there was anotherway, wish I could take back those two punches thrown only out offrustration and anger and sorrow about my sister. Not because Abecalled me Daisy, a stupid lowbrow insult. That was just removingthe lid covering what’s been boiling up in me for days.

Abe laughs again and it sounds slightlymaniacal. Okay, a lot maniacal, which I suspect is the onlyway a laugh can sound when it comes right after taking a haymakeruppercut to the jaw.

“That’s not the way things work around here,”he laughs. He cracks his jaw, sighing, like it was out of place andis now as good as new. “You’ll take your punishment and then we’llget on with the job. Other than that, your only other option is ashallow grave.”

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

Brock moves forward, his arms out like Imight bite him. “I gotta ’old you,” he explains. I don’t wantcrazy-eyes holding me, but I don’t have much of a choice, do I? SoI relax and let him pull my arms behind my back, clamping themtight 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 abig guy, but not small either, and clearly there’s a toughness inhim that’s beyond flesh and bone.

I lick my lips, waiting for the first blow tocome.

When it does it’s like a wooden plank to thegut, taking every last bit of breath out of me. But that’s not theend of it. Oh nay, not by a mile. While I wheeze and try to get mybreath back, Abe lays into me like an avalanche, pummeling mystomach, chest, and finally my face. No stranger to a good beating,I take every punch with dignity, never crying out, but wishing thateach shot will be the last. There’s blood ru

The only strange thing about it all: Abeseems 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 tobeat on me full force from start to finish.

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

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

The price of a temper.

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

~~~

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

Although Abe’s beating left me hurting everyplace from the waist up, the exercise feels good, and the cold’sleft me numb. I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but tonight I’m okay. Eventhe hefty load I’m carrying didn’t bother me too much. I’ve gotthree bear skins, four sizeable jugs of melted snow water that arestarting to freeze, and the “extra cargo”, which basically lookslike 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 hiketo the border, but I bite back my grunts and soldier on, determinedto bear it like a man. I don’t know why, but I want Abe’s respectnow more than ever.

As the cloudbanks roll away overhead, thebrilliant night sky looms above, full of more stars than I evenknew existed. It’s like the whole sky is stars. And the moon is apale globe, bigger than I’ve ever seen it, fuller than full. An owlhoots softly somewhere in the forest, as if asking us ournames.

We don’t offer them.

The sound of axes tearing into wood clucksthrough the forest. There are jackers working this late? Iwonder to myself. And this far down the mountain—all the way at theborder? It doesn’t make sense. There are trees aple

Abe sticks two fingers in his mouth andwhistles. The chopping stops and his whistle is returned. Clearlysomeone’s expecting us.

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

Out of the tangle of the forest, we walkfaster, skirting the edge of our two countries. Ahead of us a groupof Heaters emerge from the shadows, lugging axes and picks andshovels. The choppers. Not Icer lumberjacks after all, which makesmore sense. But are the Heaters allowed to harvest ice countrytrees?

Abe doesn’t seem bothered at all, juststrides 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 everythingwe’re carrying, save for our sliders. I straighten up, feelinginstant relief in my back and bones, hoping there’s no pick uptonight. Hiking back up the mountain will be hard enough withouttugmeat strapped to our backs.

With coppery eyes and more black hair than aYag, a short, barrel-chested man steps forward, hand extended as ifceremonially accepting the trade items. “Thank ye,” he says, hisvoice scratchier than a gnarled thicket. “Load up, you tugs!” hebellows.

The Heaters behind him move forward and grabthe packs and sling them over their backs, staggering under theweight. These men don’t look like the two muscly border guards Isaw before. They’re ta

To me, they look like prisoners.

Chapter Ten

We transfer goods tothe fire country prisoners three more times that winter, always atnight, always to different locations. The day trips are prettystock standard, trading ice country goods for fire country goods,but the night trips always include the strange bags of mysteryherbs.