Ice Country

“Dazz! I was wondering when you’d freezin’show up,” my best friend says when I enter. Following protocol, Istamp the snow off my boots on the mat that says Stamp Here,and tromp across the liquid-ice-stained floorboards. Buff kicks outa stool at the bar as I approach. He’s gri

For a moment the place goes silent, as halfthe patrons stare at me, but as soon as they recognize me as one ofthe regulars, the dull drone of conversation continues, mixing withthe clink of tin jugs and gulps of amber liquid ice.

“Get a ’quiddy for Dazz,” Buff shouts to Yoabove the din. The grizzled pub owner and bartender sloshes thecontents of a dirty, old pitcher into a ti

“Thanks,” I shout. Yo nods his pockmarkedforehead in my direction and strokes his gray-streaked brown beardthoughtfully, as if I’ve just said something filled with wisdom,before heading off to refill another customer’s jug. He doesn’t getmany thanks around this place.

“Out with it,” Buff says, slapping me on theshoulder. His sharp green eyes reflect even the miniscule shreds ofdaylight that manage to sneak through the dirt-smudged windows.

“Out with what?”

Shaking his head, he runs a hand through hisdirty-blonde hair. “Uh, the big breakup with her highness, QueenWitch-Bitch herself. It’s all anyone’s been talking about allmorning. Where’ve you been? I’ve been dying to get all thedetails.”

Elbows on the bar, I lean my head against myfist. “It just happened! How the chill do you know already?”

Buff laughs. “You know as well as anyone thatword travels scary fast in this town.”

I do. Normally, though, the gossip’s about megetting broken up with after having done something freeze-brained,not the other way around. “What are they saying?” I ask, taking asip of ’quiddy and relishing the warmth in my throat and chest.

Buff’s excitement seems to wane. He stares athis half-empty mug. “You don’t wa

“Tell me,” I push.

“Look, Dazz…” Buff lowers his voice, a deeprumble that only I can hear. “…the thing about girls is, when youwant ’em they’re scarcer than a ray of sunshine in ice country, andwhen you don’t, they’re on you like a double-wide fleece blanket.”Now I’m the one looking at my unfinished drink, because, for once,one of Buff’s snowballs of wisdom is spot on. I thought I wantedthe witch—because of her looks—but as soon as I got to know her Iwanted to toss her out with the mud on my boots.

Using my knuckles, I knock myself in the headthree times, exactly like I rapped on the witch’s door this morningbefore it all went down. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask, Imentally command myself. “What are they saying?” I ask, repeatingmyself. Having not listened to my own internal advice, I feel likeknocking my skull against the heavy, wooden bar a few dozen moretimes, but I manage to restrain myself as I wait for Buff’sresponse.

“Well…some of them are saying good sticks foryou, she got what she deserved, Brown District pride and all thatbullshiver. You know the shiv I mean, right?”

All too well. I nod. “And the others?”

Buff chews on his lip, as if deciding how tobreak something to me lightly.

“Give it to me straight,” I say.

He sighs. “You know tomorrow they’ll moveonto the next freezin’ bit of juicy gossip, right?”

“Buff,” I say, a warning in my voice. I knowwhat’s coming, so I tilt my ti

“If I tell you, promise me you won’t startanything—I’m not in the mood.”

Looking directly into his black pupils, Isay, “I promise.”

He rolls his eyes, knowing full well I justlied to him. Then he tells me anyway. “Coker’s been saying thewitch was too good for you, that she shoulda dumped yourMountain-fearin’ arse a long time ag—”

I’m on my feet and breaking my false promisebefore Buff can even finish telling me. My stool clatters to thefloor, but I barely notice it. I get a bead on Coker, who’s betweentwo of his stone cutting mates, laughing about something.Regardless of what it is, and even though they’ve probably moved onfrom discussing me and the witch already, I pretend it’s about me.About how I’m not good enough for someone in the White District.About how I’m lazy and good for nothing.

My fists clench and my jaw hardens as heatrises in my chest. Always aware of what’s happening in his pub, Yosays, “Now, Dazz, don’t start nuthin’, remember the last time…”

“Dazz, hold up,” Buff says, his feetscuffling along behind me.

I ignore them both.

When I reach Coker he’s already half-turnedaround, as if sensing me coming. I spin him the rest of the way andslam my fist right between his eyes. A two for one special, likedown at the market. Two black eyes for the price of one. His headsnaps back and thuds gruesomely off the bar, but, like anystonecutter, he’s tougher than dried goat meat, and rebounds with aheavy punch of his own, which glances off my shoulder, sendingvibrations through my arm.

And his friends aren’t go

I shake my head and furiously try to blinkaway the dark cloud obscuring my sight, feeling a dull achespreading through the whole of my backside. When my vision returns,the first thing I see is Buff hammering rapid-fire rabbit punchesinto one of the stone cutter’s, sending him sprawling. The area’sclearing out, with patrons scampering for the door, which is a goodthing, because Coker gets ahold of Buff and throws him into anothertable, which topples over and skids into the wall.

Me and Buff spring to our feetsimultaneously, cocking our fists side by side like we’ve done somany times growing up in the rugged Brown District. Buff takesCoker’s friend and I take Coker. We circle each other a few timesand then all chill breaks loose, as the fists start flying. Aftertaking a hit in the ribs, I land a solid blow to Coker’s jaw thathas him reeling, off balance and stu

I whirl around to find Buff in a similarposition, standing over his guy and shaking his hand like he’s justpunched a wall. The guy he was fighting was so thick it probablywas like hitting a wall. We stand over our fallen foes,gri

Yo’s glaring at us, one hand on his hip andthe other holding an empty pitcher. I shrug just as his eyes flickto the side, looking past us. The last thing I hear is awell-muffled scuff.

Everything goes black when the wooden stoolslams into the back of my head.

Chapter Two

I wake up to a slapin the face. Not a loving, caring slap when the doc smacks anewborn baby in the butt to get it to cry, but a stinging, fullhanded palm across the face that snaps my head to the side and willlikely leave a fierce red handprint on my cheek. I’d be lying if Itold you it didn’t conjure up memories of at least oneex-girlfriend.