Half a War. Джо Аберкромби
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before they met their enemy.
Sister Owd set Skara’s bandaged hand gently down on the table. ‘As an equal partner in the alliance,’ she called, ‘by ancient law and long precedent, Throvenland should also be represented in such a contest.’ This time she refused to meet Mother Scaer’s chilling eye, and sat back well pleased with her contribution.
Skara was less delighted. She had no strong or subtle men, only Blue Jenner.
He raised his bushy brows as she glanced over at him, and muttered, ‘I find stairs a challenge.’
‘I’ll climb for you,’ said Raith. Skara had not seen him smile until then, and it seemed to light a flame in that cold face, his eyes glinting bold and mischievous and making him seem more striking than ever. ‘Got to be better’n talking, hasn’t it?’
‘We haven’t had a chance to talk,’ said Blue Jenner.
‘I’m not much of a talker,’ grunted Raith.
‘Fighter, eh?’
Raith didn’t answer. If he had to he’d answer with his fists.
‘It’s up to me to make sure the princess stays safe.’
Raith nodded towards the door. ‘That’s why I’m out here.’
‘Aye.’ Jenner narrowed his eyes. ‘But is she safe from you?’
‘What if she’s not?’ Raith stepped up to the old raider, teeth bared, right in his face so he was just about butting him. Had to show he was the bloodiest bastard going. Let them see weakness it’ll be the end of you. ‘How would you stop me, old man?’
Blue Jenner didn’t back off, just raised his lined hands. ‘I’d say “whoa, there, lad, old fool like me fight a young hero like you? I don’t think so!” And I’d back right down soft as you like.’
‘Damn right,’ growled Raith.
‘Then I’d nip to my crew and get six big fellows. Middle oars, you know, used to pulling but light on their feet. And when it got dark two of ’em would wrap you up real nice and warm in your blanket.’ And he gave the blanket over Raith’s shoulder a little brush with the back of his hand. ‘Then the other four would bring out some stout timbers and beat that pretty package till it had nothing hard in it. Then I’d deliver the slop left over back to Grom-gil-Gorm, probably still in the blanket ’cause we wouldn’t want to get mess all over Princess Skara’s floor, and tell the Breaker of Swords that, sadly, the boy he lent us was a shade too prickly and it didn’t work out.’ Jenner smiled, his weathered face creasing up like old boots. ‘But I’d rather not add to my regrets. The gods know I got a queue of the bastards. I’d sooner just give you the chance to prove you’re trustworthy.’
It was a good answer, Raith had to admit. Clever, but with iron in it. Made him look a clumsy thug, and he didn’t like to look that way. Subtle thug was better. He shifted back, gave Jenner a little more room and a lot more respect. ‘And what if I’m not trustworthy?’
‘Give men the chance to be better, I find most of ’em want to take it.’
Raith hadn’t found that at all. ‘You sure, old man?’
‘Guess we can find out together, boy. You want another blanket? Could get cold out here.’
‘I’ve dealt with colder.’ Raith would’ve loved another blanket but he had to seem like nothing could hurt him. So he drew the one he had tight around his shoulders and sat down, listened to the old man’s footsteps scrape away. He missed Gorm’s sword. He missed his brother. But the cold draught and the cold stones and the cold silence were much the same.
He wondered if the dreams would be too.
‘When I ring the bell, you climb.’
‘Yes, my queen,’ croaked Koll. There were few people in the world he was as much in awe of as Queen Laithlin and most of them were here, now, watching. It felt like half the people of the Shattered Sea were rammed into the yard of the citadel in the shade of the great cedar, or crammed at the windows, or peering down from the roofs and the battlements.
King Uthil stood on the steps of the Godshall, Father Yarvi leaning on his staff at his right hand, Rulf beside him, scratching at the short grey hair above his ears, giving Koll what was no doubt meant to be a reassuring grin. Opposite, on a platform carefully built to just the same height, stood Grom-gil-Gorm, zigzag lines of gold forged into his mail glittering in the morning sun, his white-haired shield-bearer kneeling by him, Mother Scaer with her blue eyes fiercely narrowed.
Rin had found a way in, just as she always did, on a roof high up on Koll’s left. She waved like a mad woman as he looked up, flailing her open palm around for luck. Gods, Koll wished he was over there with her. Or better yet in her forge. Or better yet in her bed. He pushed the idea away. Brand was standing right beside her, after all, and might not stay oblivious forever.
Queen Laithlin raised one long white arm to point towards the top of the cedar, gold glinting on the highest branch. ‘The winner is the one who brings Princess Skara back her armring.’
Koll shivered from his toes to the roots of his hair, trying to shake free of the tingling nerves. He glanced up at the mast that stood rooted in the yard beside Thorn, carved from foot to head by his own hands on the long journey to the First of Cities and back.
Gods, he was proud of that mast. The carving he’d done on it, and his part in the story it told. There’d been brave deeds in plenty on that voyage, and he had to be brave now. He was sure he could win. What he wasn’t sure of was whether he wanted to. For a man reckoned clever, he got wedged in a lot of stupid corners.
He gave one of those sighs that made his lips flap. ‘The gods have a silly sense of humour.’
‘They surely do.’ Gorm’s ex-cup-filler, Raith, frowned about at the crowd. ‘When I got on the boat in Vulsgard I never thought I’d end up climbing trees.’ He leaned close, as if he’d a secret to share, and Koll couldn’t help leaning in with him. ‘Nor playing nursemaid to some skinny girl.’
Princess Skara stood between a wide-eyed Sister Owd and an unkempt Blue Jenner, seeming as perfect and brittle as the pottery statues Koll had stared at in the First of Cities, long ago, trying to work out how they were made.
‘Life is too easy for very pretty people,’ he said. ‘They get all manner of advantages.’
‘I assure you it’s as hard for us beauties as anyone,’ said Raith.
Koll looked round at him. ‘You’re a good deal less of a bastard than I took you for.’
‘Oh, you don’t know me that well yet. Taking this damned seriously, ain’t he?’
Grom-gil-Gorm’s Shend standard-bearer had stripped to the waist, a pattern of scars burned into his broad back to look like a spreading tree. He was putting on quite the performance, lean muscles flexing as he stretched, twisted, touched his toes.
Raith just stood there, scratching at a nick out of his ear. ‘Thought we were climbing, not dancing.’
‘So did I.’ Koll grinned. ‘Might be we were misinformed.’
‘My name’s Raith.’ And Raith held out a friendly hand.
The minister’s boy smiled back. ‘Koll.’ And he took it. Just like Raith had known he would, ’cause weak men are always eager for the friendship of strong ones. His smile faded quick enough when he found he couldn’t tug his hand free again. ‘What’re you—’