The Wisdom of Crowds

by Joe Abercrombie

  Leo frowned. “An alliance?”

  “Forgive me for saying so,” said Savine, “but the last time you came offering help it turned out rather badly for us.”

  “You were betraying King Orso then.”

  “And now?”

  “You’d be helping me put him back on the throne.”

  There was a pause one could only have called pregnant. Savine spent it thinking of the old Union, her old life, her old self, and trying not to let her desperate yearning show. “I somehow doubt… that Judge would simply give the power back.”

  “No.” Vick leaned forwards, the firelight bright on one side of her face, the other lost in shadow. “We’d have to take it.”

  Savine held Harod a little tighter. More blood. More death. She glanced over at Leo. No sign of doubt in his eyes. Quite the reverse.

  “What do we get?” he asked.

  “Four chairs on the Closed Council, when it’s reconvened.”

  Savine could not help taking a sharp breath. Four chairs would once have been a dazzling prize. In the old days, Arch Lector Sult and High Justice Marovia had ruined lives by the hundred over a single one.

  “What if I want more?” asked Leo.

  “I’m not here to bargain. Four’s what I’ve got and four’s what I’m offering. It’s fair.”

  “Fair might look different from where I sit,” said Leo. “With what I’ve lost.”

  “You could always ask Judge for more.”

  “She might listen if I offered her a treacherous chief inspector in return.”

  Leo’s threats moved Teufel no more than his scars or his cock. “Go ahead. But don’t be surprised if I say the whole thing was your idea, but you got greedy and wanted more than I could offer. As you both know, I can be quite convincing. I expect we’d all end up in the dock together, probably with a tailor, and an engraver, and a couple of dark-skinned strangers, accused of a conspiracy to make the river freeze.”

  It all sounded depressingly plausible. “What exactly do you expect us to contribute?” asked Savine. For four chairs, she imagined it would be quite a lot.

  “Your friends from Angland, your friends from the Open Council.” She paused a moment. “And the People’s Army.”

  “I don’t have it,” snapped Leo.

  “If you stretched, I reckon you could get your fingers around it.”

  “And what do you deliver?”

  “Lord Marshal Forest and his rebels, well-organised royalists inside the city, information from inside the Inspectorate, Styrian contacts and Styrian money. Not to mention the king’s blessing. And the king’s forgiveness.”

  “You’ve spoken to Orso?” asked Savine.

  Teufel gazed levelly back. “I have.”

  She resisted the urge to ask how he was. “And you have his agreement?”

  “I do.”

  “And we’re supposed to take your word for it?” sneered Leo. “Forgive me if I—”

  Savine cut him off. “Judge has to be stopped.” She had dreamed, last night, of falling from a high place, and woken in a cold sweat. “At any price.”

  Leo gave an unhappy grunt. “Well. On that we can all agree.”

  “Four chairs on the Closed Council is fair.” After everything that had happened, it was far more than they could have hoped for. “We will provide the Anglanders, and the ex-lords of the Open Council, and the People’s Army.”

  Leo took a breath and sighed noisily through flared nostrils. “Great tempests wash up strange companions, Farans said.”

  “Never had you down for a philosopher,” said Teufel.

  “I’ve been catching up on my classics.”

  The inspector gave a sharp little nod. “Then we all have lots of work to do. I’ll see myself out.”

  The door clicked shut. Harod had stopped feeding, his head rolled back, mouth open, a dribble of milk on his chin. Savine lifted him, carried him to the nursery, softly lowered him into his cot, chewing her lip with concentration as she slid her hands out from under him and left him beside his sister.

  She looked down at them, both sleeping. Ardee on her side, one long-lashed eye closed and her mouth wide open. Harod on his back, tiny hands palm-up as if he was surrendering. So small. So perfect. So vulnerable. She remembered something her father once told her. Being a parent means always being afraid. Afraid for your children. Afraid of your children.

  When she turned from pulling the nursery door ever-so-gently closed, Leo was watching her.

  “So we’re in bed with King Orso now, are we?”

  Savine winced. Did he really have to use that phrase? “We are taking the best chance to bring this nightmare to an end.” And perhaps to repair a fraction of the damage they had done. “We can’t trust Judge, Leo, you know that.”

  “She likes me well enough.”

  She winced even more at that. He could only be saying it to annoy her. “For now, perhaps. You are a likeable fellow.” When he chose to be. “But once she has thrown everyone she hates off the Tower of Chains she will start on the people she likes. That’s what she is.”

  He frowned down at his stump, scratching gently at the scars. “I daresay you’re right.”

  “I usually am.”

  “It’s a gamble, though.”

  “The way things are going, the bigger gamble would be to do nothing. We are living on borrowed time. Anyone who used to be powerful. Anyone who is powerful. All of us.”

  Leo let his head drop back, looking at her down his nose. “We fought against Orso.”

  “That was then.”

  He had that cruel look now. That bitter, jealous look. “Do you still love him?”

  Again, the urge to slap him. “I never loved him,” she lied.

  “Not even as a brother?”

  This time she wanted to punch him. She realised her fist was clenched to do it. But she made it open. The satisfaction would not have lasted long. And she could let him be angry. She had all her limbs, after all.

  She slipped one knee down beside him. “What can I do… to prove it?” And she worked her other knee onto the settle so she was straddling him.

  She pulled her nightgown up with her right hand, down with her left, cool of the night on one bare shoulder, warmth of the fire on the other. She did not look in his eyes. She was not sure she would like what was in them. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had claimed to love her and, if she squinted, she had almost been able to convince herself that she loved him. But you have to make the best of it.

  She took his hand, guided it, slid it up her chest. She took his face, kissing him, working her hips against his stomach. It was not like it had been. But what was? She reached behind her, found his prick, rubbed herself against it, looking for the right spot—

  The cry echoed from the other room. Ardee, this time, hard and insistent. A moment later Harod joined her, higher, faster, weaker. She closed her eyes and sagged.

  “Fuck.”

  Taking and Keeping

  She’d never thought so when it was happening, but Rikke had to admit that she quite liked being bullied. She’d heaps of practice, and it brought out the stubborn best in her. Plucky Rikke. Everyone loved that girl. Sharp thinking, sharp talking, with the odds against her but right on her side.

  It was the opposite that landed her in trouble. Folk begging, wheedling, pleading, it made her all weak and nervy. Wriggly Rikke. That bitch was no use to anyone. The problem was, sitting in Skarling’s Chair, she was begged a lot more than she was bullied.

  “Please!” The farmer went so far as to drop to his knees, the artful bastard, twisting his hat in his hands. “I’m at your mercy.”

  That was the whole problem. She could’ve sent him home with a box full of silver. Or she could’ve sent his head home and kept the rest of him. All within her gift.

  She narrowed the one eye that saw anything in the hope it might see through his skin to the truth. That he was a poor honest fool with a sick wife and twelve hungry chil
dren to feed. Or that he was a greedy liar with silk hidden under his stained shirt and pots of gold buried in his barn.

  But the Long Eye refused to open, and the answer was more’n likely neither one anyway, but somewhere in between, as answers always are. Times were hard, and she could squeeze more out of him, but it’d hurt. It’d hurt him, and it’d hurt her. It’d hurt him more, of course, but he’d only get squeezed once today. There was a whole queue of hat-twisters outside Skarling’s Hall ready to fling themselves onto their knees at the least provocation. If she was soft on one, she’d have to be soft on ’em all. And soft might feel good for a day, but it can hurt in the long run. Hurt everyone.

  “Hmmm,” she grunted. “Hmmm.”

  All the while, from inside his cage, the watery eyes of that born bully Stour bloody Nightfall were on her, as if to say, You wouldn’t have caught me showing too much mercy.

  Rikke’s father had worn being a leader so lightly no one realised they were being led. Listening far more’n he spoke. Folk nodding at his every word like they never heard such wisdom, even if all he was doing was excusing himself for a piss. Sitting on his bench with the old sheepskin around his shoulders, chin propped on his fist. She tried to sit that way, too, but it didn’t work in Skarling’s Chair, she ended up squirming around like she didn’t belong there. Her father had earned everyone’s respect, over years. Rikke didn’t have years. And it sometimes seemed folk would indulge a man’s mistakes, while they held a woman’s against her.

  If Isern had been there, she’d have told her to make of her heart a stone. To bury her doubts in a shallow grave. A sprinkle of blood now might save a flood later. Viciousness is a quality much loved o’ the moon. But Isern wasn’t there. Rikke realised she was fussing at the ring through her nose, and forced her hand away, and ended up picking at the arm of Skarling’s Chair with her fingernail instead, which was no better.

  “What do you think, Corleth?”

  The girl blinked. “Me?”

  “Far as I know, you’re the only Corleth I’ve got.”

  She stared at the farmer, then back at Rikke. “I guess it was a tough harvest. And it’s been a tough winter.”

  “Aye. A tough winter for everyone.” Rikke slumped down unhappily. “You can pay half now. But you’ll make it up after the next harvest, you hear?”

  From her father it would’ve sounded patient and level-headed. From her it sounded like a thin-beer compromise. She saw it on the faces. Hardbread scratching his wispy pate. The warriors about the hall sighing away like bellows. Now every farmer in the North would be trying every trick to tickle out her mercy.

  “You’ll be making it up to me!” she screeched as the man hurried out, making herself sound weaker’n ever. There was another fellow shoving in at the same moment. A warrior from Uffrith, used to be one of Red Hat’s Carls.

  “I’ve got news!” he called, and from the look on his face it wasn’t good. Good news felt like a thing she’d heard about but never actually seen, like dragons or deserts.

  “Don’t keep it to yourself,” she grumbled.

  “It’s the Nail! He came wi’ four hundred Carls. He took Buddlehay, on the river. Killed three men and said the village was his. He said Uffrith’ll be his as well.”

  “That treacherous fucking arsehole!” snarled Rikke, jumping out of Skarling’s Chair. “Thinks he can stab us in the back while we’re tied up wi’ Calder! I’ll see the bloody cross cut in him!”

  Hardbread looked even more worried than usual. “We send men to fight the Nail, we’ll scarcely have enough to keep Carleon, let alone to hold the walls if Calder comes.”

  Shivers rubbed at his jaw. “Folk here still aren’t sure about you—”

  “You think they like Black Calder better?” snapped Rikke.

  “No one likes Black Calder. They worry what’ll happen if he wins.”

  A silence. “And they think he will,” Rikke finished for him.

  Hardbread spread his hands. “Isern-i-Phail’s gone, the Nail’s turned against us…”

  Just went to show, people say they want fair rulers but, in the end, they’d rather have a bastard in charge. Case of what they’re used to, maybe. She hopped down from the dais so she could talk to the two old Named Men at closer quarters. “So what? We give up Skarling’s Chair? After all the work we’ve put in taking it?”

  Hardbread shrugged. “In the end… it’s just a chair.”

  “It bloody isn’t!” Rikke snapped, making him turn his wrinkled old face away, as if from a chilly wind. “It’s a sign o’ who’s in charge. I let Black Calder take it back and he’ll take back the North, bit by bit, and we’ll be stuck where we started, but without Angland to help us. Have we heard aught from Clover?”

  “Nothing,” said Shivers. “But we know Calder’s gathering men.”

  Hardbread was nodding away. “He’s never done things by halves. Might have an army ready to march by now.”

  “But it’s winter still,” said Corleth, softly. Everyone turned to look at her, and she went a bit pink in the cheeks, but she kept talking. “Not so cold as it was, but there’s snow thick on the roads towards Currahome. No way Calder comes till the weather warms. Should be time for men to make it to the West Valleys and back ’fore spring.”

  Shivers looked unhappy. Even more than usual. “It’s a risk.”

  Rikke wished she had a chagga pellet to push around her mouth, but Isern wasn’t there to roll ’em, so she was going without. “Have to take some risks if you’re going to win. Hardbread? Gather every man we can spare.”

  He gave Shivers a worried glance. “All right.”

  Rikke drew him close, lowering her voice. “As we discussed, now, Hardbread. You remember what we discussed?”

  “I do,” he said. “You can rely on me.”

  Rikke frowned. “Don’t like it when folk say they can be relied on. Implies a strong possibility they can’t be. My father had three War Chiefs. Red Hat, Oxel and you. I remember ’em fondly. Well, apart from Oxel, he was a cunt. But you’re the last of that whole crowd.” She reached out and gently adjusted his mail coat. “Wouldn’t want you to go the same way.”

  “They both got murdered in the Circle,” said Hardbread.

  Rikke gave him a significant look from under her brows. “I know. I’m the one made it happen.”

  There was a pause. Hardbread swallowed. “I remember what we discussed.”

  “Get to it, then, y’old bastard! I want to see the Nail strung up by his fucking fruits!”

  “Won’t they just… I don’t know… tear off?”

  “I didn’t mean it literally.” Rikke scratched her head. “But I guess if they did, that’d get the point across.” Certainly no one would be complaining that she was too soft afterwards.

  Hardbread gave a weary nod, and beckoned the warriors of Uffrith after him, and tramped towards the doors.

  “The two o’ you had a lot to talk about,” muttered Corleth.

  “You know how these bloody old men are.” Rikke threw an arm around the girl’s solid shoulders. “That was some wise counsel you gave.”

  “Just… what felt right.”

  “Don’t be afraid to speak your mind. I need some good advice, with Isern gone. In fact, I could’ve used some while she was still here. Heart a stone and beloved o’ the moon and blah, blah fucking blah. I want you to stay close to me.”

  Corleth blinked. “’Course, Chief.”

  “I know it’s a weight, having responsibility dropped on you from a height, all unexpected, believe me I know, but you’ve got the shoulders for a burden, eh?” And Rikke hugged her tighter, walking her towards the doors. “It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, how chance throws the right people in your path? But I daresay you want to check in on your grandmother. Make sure her fire stays banked in this weather.” Though it wasn’t near as cold as it had been, thaw water dripping from the archway above.

  “Aye,” said Corleth. “Reckon I’ll do that.”

  “Brin
g me back a bowl o’ that soup, eh?” And Rikke watched her pick her way across the yard towards the gate. The snow was mostly gone now, melted down to slushy patches at the corners of the walls. “Best soup in Carleon, I swear!”

  Rikke gave a cheery wave. Then as Corleth disappeared she let her hand drop, her smile fading, her shoulders slumping, the worry gnawing at her. “By the dead,” she muttered. “It ain’t easy, being chief.”

  Shivers stepped up beside her. “Might be why everyone told you it’d be hard,” he said, in that breathy whisper of his.

  “Aye, well, I’ve a habit of not listening to things I don’t want to hear.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “You’ve got to always look like you know the way.” Rikke found she was fussing with her necklace yet again and had to pull her hand away. Bad habit, the fussing and fiddling, it made her look weak. “Like you’re always sure, even if you’re farting doubts with every step.” She glanced about, making certain no one was watching, then looked up at him. “Am I doing the right thing, Shivers? Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Take a breath,” he said, looking sideways at her. “It’s just soup.”

  “Don’t toy with me, you old fucker, you know what I mean. Am I doing the right thing with Isern, with the Nail, with Black bloody Calder.” She waved a floppy hand at Skarling’s Chair and took the cage with Stour Nightfall in, too. “With all of it.”

  “You’re the one wi’ the Long Eye,” he said.

  “More curse than blessing, that’s the truth of it.” She pressed her hand against the tattooed side of her face, cold and clammy now, and gave it an impatient rub. “I can pretend I know what’s coming, but all it really gives you is more questions.”

  “Wish I had some answers. Truth is, though…” He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I spent most o’ my life stumbling from one fuck-up to another.”

  She glanced at his ruined face. “You’d never know to look at you.” And she found she was fussing with her necklace and forced her hand away from it with a grunt of frustration. “Just sometimes… I wish I was still someone of no importance.”

  “You’ve always been of importance to me.” She felt the weight of Shivers’ hand on her shoulder and was grateful for it. “There’s only one thing I can tell you for sure. Whatever comes, I’ll be here.”