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 o
ne 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.
He spattered mud across the yard and everyone in it as he pulled his horse up savagely and glowered down at Bethod, teeth bared.
Bethod only smiled. He held the upper hand after all. He could afford to. ‘Well met, Rattleneck—’
‘I don’t think so,’ he snapped. ‘Shitly met, I’d say. Shitly fucking met! Curnden bloody Craw, is that you?’
‘Aye,’ said Craw, mildly, hands folded over his sword-belt.
Rattleneck shook his head. ‘Never expected a good man like you to stand for the likes of this.’
Craw only shrugged. ‘There’s always good men on both sides of a good fight.’ Bethod was starting to like him more and more. A reassuring presence. A straight edge in a crooked time. If there’d ever been an opposite of the Bloody-Nine, there he stood.
‘I don’t see too many good men here,’ snapped Rattleneck.
Bethod had told his wife they liked spiteful, prideful, wrathful men in the North, and picked the most childish of the crowd for leaders, and here was the best example one could have asked for, or perhaps the worst, booming away with nostrils flaring wider than his blown horse’s.
Bethod amused himself with the thought but filled his tone to the brim with deep respect. ‘You honour my holdfast with your presence, Rattleneck.’
‘Your holdfast?’ he frothed. ‘Last winter it was Hallum Brownstaff’s!’
‘Yes. But Hallum was rash and he lost it to me, along with his life. I’m glad you came to it, anyway.’
‘Only for my son. Where’s my son?’
‘He’s here.’
The old man worked his mouth. ‘I heard he fought the Bloody-Nine.’
‘And lost.’ Bethod saw the flicker of fear across Rattleneck’s lined face. ‘The folly of youth, to think you’ll win where a hundred better men have gone in the mud.’ He let that hang for a moment. ‘But Ninefingers only knocked him on the head and that’s your family’s least vulnerable spot, eh? He hardly got worse than a scratch. We aren’t the blood-mad bastards you may think.’ Not all of them, anyway. ‘He’s safe. He’s well treated. A perfect guest. He’s down below us now, in my cellar.’ And because it would not do to give him things all his own way, Bethod added, ‘In chains.’
‘I want him back,’ said Rattleneck, and his voice was rough, and his cheek trembled.
‘So would I, in your position. I have sons myself. Get down from your horse, and let’s talk about it.’
They stared at each other across the table. Rattleneck and his Named Men on one side, glaring as if they were about to start a battle rather than make a peace. Bethod on the other, with Pale-as-Snow and Curnden Craw beside him.
‘Will you have wine?’ asked Bethod, gesturing to the jug.
‘Fuck your wine!’ shouted Rattleneck, slapping the cup away so it skittered down the table and shattered against the wall. ‘And fuck your maps, and fuck your talk! I want my son!’
Bethod took a long breath and sighed. How much time did he waste sighing? ‘You can have him.’
As he had hoped, that caught Rattleneck and his men well and truly off guard. They blinked at each other, frowned and grumbled, cast him dark glances, trying to work out the ruse.
‘Eh?’ was the best Rattleneck could manage.
‘What use is he to me? Take him, with my blessing.’
‘And what do you want in return?’
‘Nothing.’ Bethod sat forward, staring into Rattleneck’s grizzled face. ‘I want peace, Rattleneck. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.’ That was a lie, he knew, he’d sought more battles than any man alive, but a good lie’s better than a bad truth, his mother always used to tell him.
‘Peace?’ snorted Blacktoe, one of Rattleneck’s Named Men and a fierce one at that. ‘Did you give peace to them five villages you burned up the valley?’
Bethod met his bright eye, calm and even. He was a rock. ‘We’ve had a war, and in a war folk do things they regret. Folk on both sides. I want no more regrets. So yes, Blacktoe, I want peace, whatever you believe. That’s all I want.’
‘Peace,’ murmured Rattleneck. Bethod was watching his scarred face, and caught it. That twitch of need. That softening of his mouth. That misting of his eye. He recognised it from his own face and knew Rattleneck wanted peace, too. After the blood that had been spilled these last few years, what sane man wouldn’t?
Bethod clasped his hands on the table. ‘Peace now, and the Thralls can go back to their farms, the Carls to their halls. Peace now, and their wives and mothers and children need not struggle with the harvest alone. Peace now, and let us build something.’ And Bethod thumped the table. ‘I’ve seen enough waste, how about you?’
‘I never wanted this,’ snapped Rattleneck.
‘Believe it or not, nor did I. So let us end the fighting. Here. Now.
We have the power.’
‘You listening to this?’ Blacktoe asked his Chief, voice squealing up high with disbelief. ‘Old Man Yawl won’t have no peace, not ever, and nor will I!’
‘Shut your mouth!’ snarled Rattleneck, glaring Blacktoe into a sullen silence then glancing back to Bethod, combing thoughtfully at his beard. Most of his other men had softened up, too. Thinking it over. Thinking what peace might mean. ‘Blacktoe’s got a point, though,’ said Rattleneck. ‘Old Man Yawl won’t have it, and there’s Black Dow to think on, too, and plenty of others on my side with scores to settle. They might not take to peace.’
‘Most will. For the others, it’s our job to make them take to it.’
‘They won’t let go their hate of you,’ said Blacktoe.
Bethod shrugged. ‘That they can keep. As long as they hate me in peace.’ He leaned forward and put the iron into his voice. ‘But if they fight me, I’ll crush them. Like I did Threetrees, and Beyr, and all the rest.’
‘What about the Bloody-Nine?’ asked Rattleneck. ‘You’ll be making a farmer of that animal, will you?’
Bethod gave away no hint of his doubts in that direction. ‘Maybe I will. My man. My business.’
‘He’ll just do what you tell him, will he?’ sneered Blacktoe.
‘This is bigger than one man,’ said Bethod, holding Rattleneck’s eye. ‘This is bigger than you, or me, or your son, or the Bloody-Nine. This is something we owe our people. Talk to the other clans. Call off your dogs. Tell them the land I’ve taken in battle belongs to me and my sons and their sons. What you still hold is yours. Yours and your sons’. I don’t want it.’ He stood and held out his hand, making sure it was neither palm up nor palm down, but perfectly level. Perfectly fair. A hand that took no liberties and gave no favours. A hand that could be trusted. ‘Take my hand, Rattleneck. Let’s end this.’
Rattleneck’s shoulders slumped. He looked a tired man as he slowly rose. An old man. A man with no fight left in him.
‘All I want is my son,’ he croaked, and he reached out and took Bethod’s hand, and by the dead his grip felt fine. ‘Give me my son, you can have a thousand years of peace, far as I care.’
Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law Page 30