Something in this statement seemed off-the-mark to Raif. A fraction too much space separated the words and it seemed to him that the Robber Chief was questing. Caution kept Raif silent.
Traggis Mole held the smoking stick in his gloved hand, though Raif had no memory of him bending to pick it up. Walking a circuit of the firepit, he scraped it along the wall. "Did they tell you about the Rift wrall that walked amongst us? How many fought it and how many it killed? Did your fine friends tell you that they arrived too late and the beast had already passed? Did they also tell you that every night I stand watch here, high above my city, and look down into the Rift? And did they tell you that once you start watching it never ends?"
The Robber Chief threw the stick into the fire, where it flared bright for a moment and then was gone. "Night fells and the shadows gather, and to watch you must grow accustomed to the dark. Bide where I stand, Raif Twelve Kill—alone and armed in the darkness—and ask yourself is this a prize worth winning, or a hole without end that will suck away your life?"
Raif made a gesture with his head; he did not know what it was nor what he meant.
"You did not think you could come here and keep your intent hidden?" Traggis Mole asked, turning so that the fire lit the down-facing planes of his face. "No subtlety conceals Stillborn's plans for you. You should ask him why he would not take the city alone, and then listen very hard to the answer. He's a good hunter and liked as well as any man is liked in this god-spurned place. If you had not returned two days back do you think he would have challenged me?"
Rather than say anything against Stillborn Raif did not speak, but the truth lay in the shadows between them. "Fifteen years is a long time to spend complaining."
Raif moved his legs apart to spread his weight. Whilst Traggis Mole had been speaking he had the sense that he was standing in a fixed position above the darkness. All he could see below him was night sky. Once when he and Drey had been at the swim hole in the Wedge, Drey had wedged a board underneath a rock to use as a dive platform. Somehow it was different from diving off boulders; there was a bounce and you were suspended a couple of feet over the water. You didn't have to step out, just down. That's what Raif felt now, as if the jump would be easier here. A move forward was the same thing as a move down.
Everything Traggis Mole said had the hard ring of truth about it, even the stuff about the gold. Raif did not care about the gold, not did it change his opinion of Stillborn. The Maimed Man had warned him early on that this was not the clanholds and he was no longer clan. Raif frowned. If that had been an attempt by the Robber Chief to switch Raif's allegiance it had failed. What had not failed were the other things Traggis Mole had said. You must grow accustomed to the dark. Those words described his life.
Walking the short distance to the edge of the cliff, Raif look down at the city, forced himself to see it. A bonfire had been lit on the main ledge and Maimed Men were gathered in numbers, probably roasting the meat Addie and Stillborn had brought them. No other fires burned brightly. The glows of dozens of grass and willow fires flickered weakly, a single stick or blade of grass away from extinction. Traggis Mole had once called this place a termites' nest, and that's how it looked to Raif as the dark forms of men and women scuttled below him. He did not care about these people, so why had he told Stillborn and Addie Gunn that he would make himself their chief?
In the light of day it was easy to say things and have them sound like sense. The night was different, full of dark spaces were doubts could grow. Words could get spun back on you. Traggis Mole had found the flaws in Raif's plan and hurled them back like darts. Raif did not want to spend the rest of his days on the edge of this abyss, battling whatever came out.
As if reading his mind, Traggis Mole said, "This flaw in the earth is mine. I've ruled it for seventeen years and I've found it gets no lovelier over time." Somehow the Robber Chief was now beside Raif on the edge, his finely shaped mouth pouring cold words in his ear. Men whine amongst themselves, throwing blame. What's the Mole doing for us? Why haven't we got more food? Why doesn't the Mole act and change things? They forget where they are. They grow lazy, burn grass instead of wood and slaughter their ponies for meat. You tell them to go hunting and raiding and they look at you as if you're cursing in a foreign tongue. This is the Rift. People here do not work toward the well-being of their fellow men. To rule here is to be king of a hole. Once you fall in there is no digging yourself out. Are you prepared for that, Twelve Kill, prepared to feed these ungrateful wretches, break up their knife fights, dispose of their dead? And all the while you have to stand here and watch, one eye on the Rift and the wralls that walk there, and the other eye on your back, marking the men who would slit your throat?"
The Robber Chiefs gloved hand closed like a vise around Raif's arm. "I will not let you slit my throat."
Raif swallowed. He could smell the Robber Chief, a smell of sweat and minerals and something else just short of sweet. The man's fingers were like nails being driven into his flesh. Below, the city and the Rift seemed to be tipping toward them. Raif was acutely aware of the slope of the rock. If you were to set a ball by the firepit it would roll off.
"Tell me you will not slit my throat," demanded the Robber Chief. The force of his grip made both of them shake.
Raif's arm was beginning to numb. Something about the Robber Chief's smell was familiar and vaguely disturbing, but his mind could not grasp what it was. For some reason he kept thinking about Drey's dive board. Moving forward was the same as moving down.
"I will not slit your throat," he cried out.
Instantly the same force that held him, yanked him back and he fell backward onto the rock, landing on his butt. He sat there a moment, planting his palms on the ground and breathing hard. Sharp tingles rose up his arm toward the wound made by the Shatan Maer, and suddenly Raif knew what the Robber Chief smelled of.
He wished he had recognized it sooner for it might have prevented him from taking a step forward.
And down.
I will not slit your throat. The words were a lie; he had spoken them knowing he would defy them. Oh, he would have been sure not to use a knife and take it to the Robber Chief's throat, but in all other ways the statement was false. Raif would have, and might still, kill him.
Break an oath, kill a clansman, lie to a man's face: the list of his sins had just grown longer.
Raising his chin, Raif gazed at the stars. Perhaps, hundreds of leagues to the southwest at Blackhail, Drey and Effie were doing the same. He liked to think of them safe. It gave him something, not strength exactly, more like a solid surface to rest upon … as he fell.
Raif glanced over his shoulder toward the Robber Chief, who had come to rest by the fire. A gloved hand, angling out from his greatcloak and grasping the edge of the firewall, told everything. Raif wondered how he had not seen it sooner. He, of all people, should have known.
"So you will not slit my throat," Traggis Mole repeated, a soft bitterness edging his voice. "I will make myself grateful for that"
Rising to his feet, Raif said, "The Rift Brothers should be taught how to set traps. There's small game to the east of here. Rabbits, ground squirrels, coons. Lean meat, but a man could do worse."
A strange light glittered in Traggis Mole's black eyes. "Do it' he said.
That cost him, Raif thought, unsure whether or not he had been right to bring it up. Traggis Mole's pride ran deep.
"Linden Moodie leads a sortie into the clanholds at dawn tomorrow. You will not be expected to go along."