Half a War. Джо Аберкромби
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boys?’
‘That’s right. Lufta sent me to check the walls.’
‘He did?’
If you can’t fashion a good lie, the truth will have to serve. ‘Aye, there’s these two buttresses, see, and Lufta’s got this worry someone might climb up between them.’
‘On a night like this?’
Koll gave a little chuckle. ‘I know, I know, it’s mad as a hatful of frogs, but you know how Lufta gets …’
‘What’s that?’ asked the man, frowning towards the rope.
‘What’s what what?’ asked Koll, stepping in front of it, run out of lies and now of truths as well. ‘What?’
‘That, you—’ His eyes bulged as a black hand clamped over his mouth and a black blade took him through the neck. Thorn’s face appeared beside his, hardly more than a shadow in the rain, only her eyes standing out white from the tar-smeared skin.
She lowered the warrior’s limp body gently onto the parapet.
‘What do we do with the corpse?’ muttered Koll, catching his lantern before it dropped. ‘We can’t just—’
Thorn took him by the boots and flipped him into space. Koll peered over, open-mouthed, watching the body plummet down, hit the walls near the base and flop off broken into the surging waves.
‘That’s what we do,’ she said as Fror slipped over the wall behind her, dragged the axe from his back and tore away the rag he’d used to muffle the tar-smeared blade. ‘Let’s go.’
Koll swallowed as he followed them. He loved Thorn, but it scared him how easily she could kill a man.
The steps down to the yard were just where Skara had told them, puddled with rainwater in their worn centres. Koll was just letting himself dream again of the harvest of glory he’d reap if this mad plan worked when he heard a voice echo from below, and pressed himself into the shadows.
‘Let’s go inside, Lufta. It’s windy as hell out here!’
A deeper voice answered. ‘Dunverk said guard the little gate. Now stop your bloody whining.’
Koll peered over the edge of the steps. A canvas awning flapped in the wind below them, firelight spilling from underneath.
‘This little gate isn’t so secret as we hoped,’ Thorn whispered in his ear.
‘Like maggots from apples,’ he whispered back, ‘secrets do have a habit of wriggling free.’
‘Fight?’ muttered Thorn. Always her first thought.
Koll smoothed the path for Father Peace, as a good minister should. ‘We might rouse everyone in the fortress.’
‘I’m not climbing back down that chimney,’ said Fror, ‘I can promise you that.’
‘Lend me your cloak,’ whispered Koll. ‘I’ve an idea.’
‘Are you sure now is the best time for ideas?’ Thorn hissed back.
Koll shrugged as he drew the hood up and tried to shake loose muscles still trembling from the climb. ‘They come when they come.’
He left them on the steps and trotted carelessly down, past a half-ruined stable, water dripping from its rotten thatch.
He saw the men, now, seven warriors squatting around their fire, flames torn flickering by the wind that slipped in under their flapping awning. He noted how the firelight fell over the heavy door in the corner behind them, a thick bar lowered across it, the name of She Who Guards the Locks scored deep into the wood. He blew out a misty breath, gathered his courage, and gave a jaunty wave as he walked up.
‘Ach, but damn this weather!’ Koll ducked under the dripping canvas, thrust his hood back and scrubbed his hands through his wet hair. ‘I couldn’t be wetter if I’d gone swimming!’
The men all frowned at him, and he grinned back. ‘Still, I suppose it’s no worse than summer in Inglefold, eh?’ He slapped one on the shoulder as he worked his way towards the door and a couple of the others chuckled.
‘Do I know you?’ asked the big man near the fire. By his silver armrings and surly manner, Koll reckoned him the leader.
‘No, no, I’m one of the Yutmarkers. Dunverk sent me. I’ve a message for you, Lufta.’
The big man spat, and Koll was pleased to find he’d reckoned right. ‘Give it, then, before I go deaf from age. It runs in my family.’
Now for the gamble. ‘Dunverk’s heard tell of an attack. Vanstermen and Gettlanders together, trying to take the fortress and burn our ships.’
‘Attack this place?’ One of the men snorted. ‘They must be fools.’
Koll nodded wearily. ‘That was my very thought when I heard the plan and I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Did it come from this spy?’ asked Lufta.
Koll blinked. That was unexpected. ‘Aye, this spy. What’s their name now …?’
‘Only Bright Yilling knows that. Why don’t you ask him for a name?’
‘I’ve so great a respect for the man I couldn’t bring myself to bother him. They’re coming for the great gate.’
‘Fools? They’re madmen!’ Lufta licked his teeth in some annoyance. ‘You four, with me, we’ll go over to the gate and see. You two, stay here.’
‘I’ll keep watch, don’t worry!’ called Koll as the men trudged off, one holding his shield up over his head against the rain. ‘There’ll be no Gettlanders getting past me!’
The two left behind were a sorry pair. One young but going bald in clumps, the other with a red patch like spilled wine across his face. He had a fine dagger, silver crosspiece all aglitter, shown off in his belt like a thing to be most proud of though he’d no doubt stolen it from some murdered Throvenman.
Soon as Lufta was out of earshot, that one set to complaining. ‘Most of Yilling’s boys are dragging in plunder all over Throvenland and here we are stuck with this.’
‘Without doubt it’s a great injustice. Still.’ Koll pulled Fror’s cloak off and made great show of shaking the rain from it. ‘Reckon there’s no safer place about the Shattered Sea for a man to sit.’
‘Careful with that!’ grunted Red Face, so busy slapping the cloak away as water flicked in his eyes Koll had no difficulty easing the dagger from his belt with his other hand. It’s amazing what a man won’t notice while he’s distracted.
‘So sorry, my king!’ said Koll, backing away. He nudged Bald Patches in the ribs. ‘Got some airs on him, your companion, don’t he?’ And under his flapping cloak, he slipped the dagger into this man’s belt. ‘Let me show you a wonderful thing!’ He held his hand up before either of them could get a word in, flipping a copper coin back and forth over his knuckles, fingers wriggling, both men fixed on it.
‘Copper,’ murmured Koll, ‘copper, copper, and … silver!’
He flipped his hand over, palming the copper in a twinkling and holding a silver coin up between finger and thumb, Queen Laithlin’s face stamped on it glinting in the firelight
Bald Patches frowned, sitting forward. ‘How d’you do that?’
‘Ha! I’ll show you the trick to it. Lend me your dagger a moment.’
‘What dagger?’
‘Your dagger.’ Koll pointed at his belt. ‘That one.’
Red Face sprang up. ‘What’re you doing with my damn knife?’
‘What?’ Bald Patches gaped at his belt. ‘How—’
‘The