Half the World (Shattered Sea) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,13
his face, the echoes of his voice bouncing from the galleries above and shattering into the thousand thousand whispers which gave the hall its name.
The rumors had in fact been overly generous to the greatest of men. The High King was a shrivelled remnant in his outsize throne, withered face sagging off the bone, beard a few gray straggles. Only his eyes showed some sign of life, bright and flinty hard as he glared down at Gettland’s minister.
“Now you kneel, fool!” hissed Rulf, dragging Thorn down beside him by her belt. And only just in time. An old woman was already walking out across the expanse of floor toward them.
She was round-faced and motherly, with deep laughter lines about her twinkling eyes, white hair cut short, her coarse gray gown dragging upon the floor so heavily its hem was frayed to dirty tatters. About her neck upon the finest chain, crackling papers scrawled with runes were threaded.
“We understand Queen Laithlin is with child.” She might have looked no hero, but by the gods she spoke with a hero’s voice. Deep, soft, effortlessly powerful. A voice that demanded attention. A voice that commanded obedience.
Even on his knees, Yarvi found a way to bow lower. “The gods have blessed her, most honored Grandmother Wexen.”
“An heir to the Black Chair, perhaps?”
“We can but hope.”
“Convey our warm congratulations to King Uthil,” scratched out the High King, no trace of either warmth or congratulation on his withered face.
“I will be delighted to convey them, and they to receive them. May I rise?”
The first of ministers gave the warmest smile, and raised one palm, and tattooed upon it Thorn saw circles within circles of tiny writing.
“I like you there,” she said.
“We hear troubling tales from the north,” croaked out the High King, and curling back his lip licked at a yawning gap in his front teeth. “We hear King Uthil plans a great raid against the Islanders.”
“A raid, my king?” Yarvi seemed baffled by what was common knowledge in Thorlby. “Against our much-loved fellows on the Islands of the Shattered Sea?” He waved his arm so his crippled hand flopped dismissively. “King Uthil is of a warlike temper, and speaks often in the Godshall of raiding this or that. It always comes to nothing for, believe me, I am ever at his side, smoothing the path for Father Peace, as Mother Gundring taught me.”
Grandmother Wexen threw her head back and gave a peal of laughter, rich and sweet as treacle, echoes ringing out as if she were a chuckling army. “Oh, you’re a funny one, Yarvi.”
She struck him with a snake’s speed. With an open hand, but hard enough to knock him on his side. The sound of it bounced from the balconies above sharp as a whip cracks.
Thorn’s eyes went wide and without thinking she sprang to her feet. Or halfway there, at least. Rulf’s hand shot out and caught a fistful of her damp shirt, dragging her back to her knees, her curse cut off in an ugly squawk.
“Down,” he growled under his breath.
It felt suddenly a very lonely place, the center of that huge, empty floor, and Thorn realized how many armed men were gathered about it, and came over very dry in the mouth and very wet in the bladder.
Grandmother Wexen looked at her, neither scared nor angry. Mildly curious, as though at a kind of ant she did not recognize. “Who is this … person?”
“A humble halfwit, sworn to my service.” Yarvi pushed himself back up as far as his knees, good hand to his bloody mouth. “Forgive her impudence, she suffers from too little sense and too much loyalty.”
Grandmother Wexen beamed down as warmly as Mother Sun, but the ice in her voice froze Thorn to her bones. “Loyalty can be a great blessing or a terrible curse, child. It all depends on to whom one is loyal. There is a right order to things. There must be a right order, and you Gettlanders forget your place in it. The High King has forbidden swords to be drawn.”
“I have forbidden it,” echoed the High King, his own voice dwindled to a reedy rustling, hardly heard in the vastness.
“If you make war upon the Islanders you make war upon the High King and his ministry,” said Grandmother Wexen. “You make war upon the Inglings and the Lowlanders, upon the Throvenmen and the Vanstermen, upon Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords, whom it has been foreseen no man can kill.” She pointed out