Ice Country(19)

Behind Abe’s back I see Brock use his thumb to make a slashing motion across his throat. “I, uh, well, Brock didn’t do anything actually. I just, well, sort of fell going around a bend, sir. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Nebo finishes lamely, ducking his head like he expects to be hit.

Clearly there’s more to the story, and if I had to guess, it was probably Brock who caused the fall in the first place.

I chew on my lip, which is suddenly feeling numb. “So this is his first day, too?” I ask, wondering why he didn’t meet them at the same place as us.

“Ha ha ha!” Brock laughs boisterously. “First day—that’s funny. Despite Neeb’s awful display of sliding, ’e’s actually been runnin’ with us for comin’ on a year now.”

“Then why…” I start to ask, but then figure out exactly what happened. Why would Nebo be playing high stakes boulders-’n-avalanches if he’s already got a job and debts to pay? Simple. Because he wanted out. One lucky night and he could pay his way back to whatever normal job he might’ve had before he first lost big at the Chance Hole. But why would he want out of a job working for the king?

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

“Nothing,” I say.

“Good,” he says, ripping off his mask. His face is pale white with a nose so flat it looks like someone uses it for a punching bag on daily basis. His ears stick out and sort of 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, some instruction.”

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

Abe ignores him. “Brock. Wanna start with the rules?”

Brock nods and pull off his mask, revealing a face 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 pet dog and offered his cheeks as a chew toy. Either that or this guy’s been in a lot of fights, and not just of the fists and brawn variety. A long, six-inch scar runs from the edge of his right eye to his lips, like a curved scythe. It reeks of knife wound.

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

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

He pauses, as if testing us to see if we’ll ask any questions right after him telling us not to. We both just nod.

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

“Well done,” Abe says, which draws a grotesque smile from Brock’s pock- and scar-marked face. “Maybe you got more than just rocks fer brains after all.” Brock’s smile fades and he looks like he wants to add a few scars to Abe’s mostly smooth face.

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

“Not for us,” Abe growls.

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

“We’re not the only group,” he says cryptically. “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 are smoother than my arse was the day I was born. “Straight from the king’s stores,” Abe said when Hightower removes them from where they’re strapped to his back and hands them to us. Compared to the homemade sliders we used to make as kids, these are perfection. And somehow they fit our feet perfectly, as if someone came and measured our feet while we were sleeping. Stepping onto them, we put one foot in front of the other, tying the ropes tight around our ankles.

On they feel even better than they looked off. 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 the mountain, and all the hours I logged sliding as a kid seem to surround me as I feel every bump, slide into every turn, and dodge every obstacle. Buff’s never been as good at sliding as me, but he has no trouble either. Compared to Nebo we’re both sliding geniuses, and compared to the others, well, we pretty much fit right 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 figure not asking questions should be no problem at all.