Bethod hardly knew what to say. The smell of the place was chasing out his wits. ‘You’re teaching me about marriage now? You?’
‘Wisdom’s wisdom, ain’t it, no matter the source? I mean, if a man’s a fucker or a fighter then I’m more of a fighter. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s a fighter, but a fuck just soothes all those—’
‘Rattleneck’s coming,’ said Bethod.
‘Here?’
‘Yes.’
Ninefingers frowned. ‘Might be I should get dressed.’
‘That’s one idea.’
But, sadly, he didn’t. He brought his knees up to his face and, with snakelike speed, sprang onto his feet in one motion, drew himself to his full height, stretching his arms out wide and wriggling his fingers. His nine fingers and his stump, anyway.
Bethod swallowed. He swore the bastard kept getting bigger. He was no small man but Ninefingers stood half a head taller, a twisted mass of scar and muscle and woody sinew, like a machine made for killing with no thought spared by the engineers on the looks of it. The way he held himself was all pride, and hate, and contempt at the world and everyone in it. Contempt for Bethod, too, who was meant to be his Chief.
Bethod wondered again if he should do what Ursi wanted. Kill Ninefingers. He had been wondering about it ever since Heonan, when Logen climbed the cliffs and spilled the Hillmen’s blood in spite of his orders. While the rash fools cheered his audacity and made up bad songs about his skill, Bethod had been turning over how to kill the bloodthirsty fool. Who he could send to do it, and when. Knives in the night, how hard could it be? Put the mad dog down before he bit his master’s hand. Or perhaps cut off his master’s head.
And yet … and yet … they were friends, were they not? Bethod owed him, did he not? There were rules, were there not? A man should pay his dues, his father had always said.
And then there was the doubt niggling at the back of Bethod’s neck. What if something went wrong? What if the Bloody-Nine survived, and came for him?
‘So Rattleneck’s coming?’ Ninefingers strutted to a table made from an old door, his fruits slapping against his bare thighs with each step. ‘What’s that old bastard after?’
‘I asked him to come.’
Ninefingers paused with his left hand halfway towards the table. ‘You did?’ There was a wine jug there, and some cups. And there was a huge knife, too, only just this side of a sword, buried in the scarred tabletop close to Logen’s three reaching fingertips, its blade glittering cold in the chinks of daylight leaking into the tent.
Bethod realised then the place couldn’t have held more weapons had it been an armoury. A sheathed sword lay on the ground with its belt in a tangle, an unsheathed one on top of it. Nearby was an axe with a heavy head stained brown, Bethod hoped with rust but rather feared it wasn’t. There was a shield so hacked and dented and crossed with scars there was no telling what had once been painted on the face. And knives. Knives everywhere, the telltale glints of their blades and pommels among the furs, stabbed into the tent poles, buried to their crosspieces in the dirt. You can never have too many knives, Ninefingers was always saying.
Bethod wondered how many men he had killed. Wondered if anyone could put a count on it now. Named Men, and champions, and famed warriors, and Thralls, and Shanka, and peasants, and women, and children. Everything that breathed he’d stopped the breath of. For him to kill Bethod would be nothing. Every moment they stood together was a moment in which he chose not to do it. And Bethod felt again, as he did ten times a day, how weak a thing was power. How flimsy an illusion. A lie that everyone, for some unknown reason, agreed to treat as truth. And that blade in the table could, in an instant, be the ending of it, and the ending of Bethod, too, and all he had worked for. All he wanted to pass on to his sons.
Ninefingers grinned, a hungry grin, a wolf grin, as though he brushed aside the tissue of Bethod’s authority and saw into his thoughts. Then he wrapped his three fingers around the handle of the wine jug. ‘You want me to kill him?’
‘Rattleneck?’
‘Aye.’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ Ninefingers looked a little crestfallen, then started sloshing wine into a cup. ‘Right.’
‘I want to make peace with him.’
‘Peace, you’re saying?’ Ninefingers paused, cup halfway to his mouth. ‘Peace?’ He rolled the word around in his mouth as if it was a strange new dish. As if it was a word in a foreign tongue. ‘Why?’
Bethod blinked. ‘What do you mean, why?’
‘I can take that fucker, Chief, believe me! I can take him like that.’ And the cup burst apart in his hand, spraying wine and bits of pot across the furs on the floor of the tent. Ninefingers blinked at his bleeding fist, as though he’d no idea how that happened. ‘Uh. Shit.’ He looked for something to wipe it on, then gave up and wiped it on his chest.
Bethod stepped towards him. The dead knew he did not want to. The dead knew his heart was pounding. But he stepped towards him anyway, and fixed him with his eye, and said, ‘You can’t kill the whole world, Logen.’
Ninefingers grinned as he reached for another cup. ‘Folk are always telling me who I can’t kill. But strong men, weak men, big names, little names, they all die once you cut ’em enough. Shama Heartless, you remember him? Everyone told me not to fight him.’
‘I told you not to fight him.’
‘Only ’cause you were scared I’d lose. But when I fought him, and when I looked set to win … did you ask me to stop?’
Bethod swallowed, mouth dry. He remembered the day well enough. The snow on the trees, and the smoke of breath as the crowd roared, and the clashing of steel, and both his fists clenched painfully tight as he willed Ninefingers on. Willed him on desperately, every hope hanging on him.
‘No,’ he said.
‘No. And once I spilled his guts with his own sword … did you ask me to stop?’
‘No,’ said Bethod. He remembered the steam from them, remembered the smell of them, remembered the gurgling moan Shama Heartless made as he died, the great roar of triumph that had burst from his own throat. ‘I cheered you on.’
‘Yes. You called for no peace then, if I remember right. You felt …’ Ninefingers’s eyes were fever-bright, his hands clutching at the air as he searched for the word. ‘You felt … the joy of it, didn’t you! Better’n love. Better’n fucking. Better’n anything. Don’t deny it!’
Bethod swallowed. ‘Yes.’ He could still feel the joy of it.
‘You showed me the way.’ And Ninefingers raised his forefinger and touched it gently to Bethod’s chest. So gentle a touch, but his whole body turned cold at it. ‘You. And I’ve walked the path you pointed, haven’t I? Wherever it led. No matter how far or how dark or how long the odds, I’ve walked your path. Now let me show you the way.’
‘And where will you lead us?’
Ninefingers raised his arms and tipped his head back towards the stained canvas above them, flapping gently with the breeze. ‘The whole North! The whole world!’
‘I don’t want the whole North. I want peace.’
‘What does peace mean?’
‘Anything you want it to.’
‘What if what I want is to kill Rattleneck’s son?’
By the dead, it was worse than speaking to Scale. It was like speaking to an infant. A terribly dangerous infant standing four-square in the way of everything Bethod wanted. ‘Listen to me, Logen.’ Carefully. Patiently. ‘If you kill Rattleneck’s son, there’ll be no end to the feuds. No end to the blood. Everyone in the North will be against us.’
‘What do I care to that? Let ’em come! He’s my prisoner. I took him, and I’ll say what’s done with him.’ His voice grew louder, wilder, more cracked. ‘I’ll say! I’ll decide!’ He stabbed at his chest with a finger, spit flecking from his teeth and his eyes popping. ‘Easier to
stop the Whiteflow than to stop the Bloody-Nine!’
Bethod stood staring. Blood-drunk and murder-proud, just like Ursi had said. The selfishness of a baby, the savagery of a wolf, the vanity of a hero. Could this truly be the same man he once counted his closest friend? Who he used to ride beside, laughing, for hours at a time? Pointing at the landscape and saying how they’d site an army on it. How they’d make fortresses, or traps, or weapons from the ground. He hardly recognised him any more.
For a moment, he wanted to ask, What happened to you?
But Bethod knew what had happened. He’d been there, hadn’t he? He’d pointed the way, just like Ninefingers said. He’d been a willing companion on the road. He’d swept up the rewards and smiled while he did it. He’d made a monster, and he had to make things right. Had to try, at least. For everyone’s sake. For Logen’s. For his own.
He lowered his voice and spoke softly, calmly. He did not attack, but he did not retreat. He was a rock.
‘He’s your prisoner. Of course he is. You’ll decide. Of course you will. But I’m asking you, Logen. As your Chief. As your friend. Let me use him. Do you know what my father used to say?’
Logen blinked, frowning like a spiteful child now. And like a spiteful child, his curiosity won out. ‘What did he say?’
And Bethod tried to pour all his conviction into the words. The way his father had, each one heavy as a mountain. ‘Before you make a man into mud, make sure he’s no use to you alive. Some men will smash a thing just because they can. They’re too stupid to see that nothing shows more power than mercy.’
Ninefingers frowned. ‘You saying I’m stupid?’
Bethod looked into the black pits of his eyes, the faintest reflection of his own face at the corners, and said, ‘Prove you’re not.’
They stared at each other then, for what felt like an age, close enough that Bethod could feel Ninefingers’s breath on his face. He did not know what would happen. Did not know whether Ninefingers would agree. Did not know whether he would kill him where he stood. Did not know anything.
Then, like a leaf of steel bent and suddenly released, Logen’s mouth snapped into a grin. ‘You’re right. Course you’re right. I’m just funning.’ And he slapped Bethod on the arm with the back of his hand.
Bethod wasn’t sure he’d ever had less fun than in the last few moments.
‘Peace is what we need now.’ Logen capered to the table, all good humour, and sloshed out more wine, spilling some down his leg and barely noticing. ‘I mean, I’ve no use for the bastard’s corpse, have I? What good is he dead? Just meat. Just mud. Give him back to Rattleneck. Send him back to Daddy. Best all round. Let’s get done with this and go home. Breed some fucking pigs or some shit. He’s yours.’
‘Thank the dead,’ muttered Bethod, hardly able to speak for his hammering heart. ‘You’ve made the right choice. Trust me.’ He took a long breath, then walked on wobbly legs to the tent-flap. But he stopped before he got there and turned back.
A man should pay his dues, his father always told him.
‘Thanks, Logen,’ he said. ‘Truly. I couldn’t have got here without you. That much I know.’
Logen laughed. ‘That’s what friends are for, ain’t it?’ And he smiled that easy smile he used to have – the smile of a man who’d never entertained a dark purpose – and the fresh cut on his cheek twisted, and the stitches wept a streak of blood. ‘Now where’d that girl get to?’
It was bright outside, and Bethod closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, wiped his sweating forehead on the back of his hand.
He could do it. He could taste it.
Freedom.
Peace.
The scythes in the fields, the men building instead of breaking, the forest cleared for his great road, and a nation rising from the dust and ashes. A nation that would make all the sacrifices worthwhile …
And all he had to do was make a man who hated him beyond all else see things his way. He took another breath and puffed out his cheeks.
‘He giving up Rattleneck’s son?’ asked Craw, taking a pause from nibbling at his thumbnail to spit out the bitings.
‘He is.’
The Dogman closed his eyes and gave his own sigh of relief. ‘Thank the dead. I tried to tell him. Tried to, but …’
‘He’s not an easy man to talk to, these days.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Just keep him here until Rattleneck’s gone,’ said Bethod. ‘The last thing I need is the Bloody-Nine wandering into my negotiations with his wet cock hanging out. And by the dead, make sure he does nothing stupid!’
‘He’s not stupid.’
Bethod looked back to the shadowy mouth of the tent, Logen’s happy humming floating from it. ‘Then make sure he does nothing mad.’
‘You can stop right there,’ said Craw, putting his shoulder in front of Bethod and drawing a length of steel as a warning.
‘Of course.’ The stranger didn’t look much of a threat, even to Bethod, who was well used to seeing threats everywhere. He was an unassuming little fellow in travel-stained clothes, leaning on a staff. ‘I only want a moment of your time, Lord Bethod.’
‘I’m no lord,’ said Bethod.
The man just smiled. There was something odd about him. A knowing glint in his eyes. Different-coloured eyes, Bethod noticed. ‘Treat every man like an emperor, you’ll offend no one.’
‘Walk with me, then.’ Bethod set off through the tents and the mud towards the holdfast. ‘And I can spare you a moment.’
‘Sulfur is my name.’ And the man bowed humbly, even while hurrying after. A touch of fancy Southern manners, which Bethod quite liked to see. ‘I am an emissary.’
Bethod snorted. Emissaries rarely brought good news. New challenges, new insults, new threats, new feuds, but rarely good news. ‘From what clan?’
‘From no clan, my Lord. I come from Bayaz, the First of the Magi.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Craw, unhappily, sword still halfway drawn.
And Bethod realised what most bothered him about this man. He carried no weapon. As strange as to be travelling without a head in these bloody times.
‘What does a wizard want with me?’ asked Bethod, frowning. He did not care for magic in the least. He liked what could be touched, and predicted, and relied upon.
‘It is not what he wants that he wishes to discuss, but what you want. My master is a most wise and powerful man. The wisest and most powerful who yet lives in these latter days, perhaps. Doubtless he can help you, with your …’ Sulfur waved one long-fingered hand about as he sought the word. ‘Difficulties.’
‘I appreciate all offers of help, of course.’ They squelched between the guards and back through the gate of the holdfast. ‘But my difficulties end today.’
‘My master will be overjoyed to learn it. But, if I may, the trouble with difficulties solved is that, so often, new difficulties present themselves soon after.’
Bethod snorted at that, too, as he took up a place on the steps, frowning towards the gate, Craw at his shoulder. ‘That much is true enough.’
Sulfur continued to talk in his ear, voice soft and subtle. ‘Should your difficulties ever weigh too heavy to bear alone, my master’s door is always open. You may pay him a visit whenever you wish, at the Great Northern Library.’
‘Thank your master for me, but tell him I have no need of—’ Bethod turned, but the man was gone.
‘Rattleneck’s on his way, Chief.’ Pale-as-Snow was hurrying across the yard, cloak spattered with mud from hard riding. ‘You’ve got his son, aye?’
‘I do.’
‘Ninefingers agreed to give him up?’
‘He did.’
Pale-as-Snow raised his white brows. ‘Well done.’
‘Why wouldn’t he? I’m his Chief.’
‘Of course. And mine. But it�
�s getting how I don’t know what that mad bastard’ll do one day to the next. Sometimes I look at him and …’ He shivered. ‘I think he might kill me out of pure meanness.’
‘Hard times call for hard men,’ said Craw.
‘That they do, Craw,’ said Pale-as-Snow, ‘and no doubt these times qualify. The dead know I’ve faced some hard men. Fought beside ’em, fought against ’em. Big names. Dangerous bastards.’ He leaned forward, white hair stirred in the breeze, and spat. ‘I never met one scared me like the Bloody-Nine, though. Have you?’
Craw swallowed, and said nothing.
‘Do you trust him?’
‘With my life,’ said Bethod. ‘We all have, haven’t we? More than once. And each time he’s come through.’
‘Aye, and I guess he came through again taking Rattleneck’s son.’ Pale-as-Snow gave a grin. ‘Peace, eh, Chief?’
‘Peace,’ said Bethod, rolling the word around his mouth and savouring the taste of it.
‘Peace,’ muttered Craw. ‘Think I’ll go back to carpentry.’
‘Peace,’ said Pale-as-Snow, shaking his head like he could hardly believe such a thing might happen. ‘Shall I tell Littlebone and Whitesides to stand down, then?’
‘Tell them to stand up,’ said Bethod. He thought he could hear the sound of hooves outside the gates. ‘Get their men ready to fight. All their men.’
‘But—’
‘The wise leader hopes he won’t need his sword. But he keeps it sharp even so.’
Pale-as-Snow smiled. ‘So he does, Chief. Ain’t no point in a blunt one.’
Riders came thundering through the gate. Battle-worn men on battle-ready horses. Men with well-used armour and weapons. Men who wore their frowns like swords. Rattleneck was at the front, balding and running to fat but a big man still, with gold links in his chain-mail shirt and gold rings in his hair and gold at the hilt of his heavy sword.
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