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
T he 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.
We carve up the mountain for almost an hour,
feeling the icy wind whipping
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
T he 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.
We carve up the mountain for almost an hour,
feeling the icy wind whipping
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