Half the World (Shattered Sea) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,18

blowing like a fish and soaked with Mother Sea’s salt spray. Thorn was quite extremely terrified but she put a brave face on. The only faces she had were brave, though this was a green one, as the thrashing of the ship like an unbroken horse soon made her sick as she’d never been sick in her life. It felt as if everything she’d ever eaten went over the side, over her oar, or over her knees, and half that through her nose.

Thorn had a fair storm blowing on the inside too. The giddy wave of gratitude at being given back her life had soon soaked away, leaving her chewing over the bitter truth that she had traded a future as a proud warrior for one as a minister’s slave, collared by her own over-hasty oath, for purposes Father Yarvi had no intention of sharing.

To make matters even worse, she could feel her blood coming and her guts were stabbed through with aches and her chest was sore and she had a rage in her even beyond the usual. The mocking laughter of the crew at her puking might’ve moved her to murder if she could’ve unpeeled her death-gripping fingers from the oar.

So it was on wobbling legs she staggered onto the wharf at Yaletoft, the stones of Throvenland pocked with puddles from last night’s storm, twinkling in this morning’s sun. She blundered through the crowds with her shoulders hunched around her ears, every hawker’s squawk and seagull’s call, every wagon’s rattle and barrel’s clatter a knife in her, the over-hearty slaps on the back and snide chuckles of the men who were supposed to be her fellows cutting deeper still.

She knew what they were thinking. What do you expect if you put a girl in a man’s place? And she muttered curses and swore elaborate revenges, but didn’t dare lift her head in case she spewed again.

Some revenge that would be.

“Don’t be sick in front of King Fynn,” said Rulf, as they approached the looming hall, its mighty roof beams wonderfully carved and gilded. “The man’s famous for his temper.”

But it was not King Fynn but his minister, Mother Kyre, who greeted them at the dozen steps, each one cut of a different-colored marble. She was a handsome woman, tall and slender with a ready smile that did not quite reach her eyes. She reminded Thorn of her mother, which was a dark mark against her from the off. Thorn trusted few enough people, but hardly any had ready smiles and none at all looked like her mother.

“Greetings, Father Yarvi,” said King Fynn’s handsome minister. “You are ever welcome in Yaletoft, but I fear the king cannot see you.”

“I fear you have advised him not to see me,” answered Father Yarvi, planting one damp boot on the lowest step. Mother Kyre did not deny it. “Perhaps I might see Princess Skara? She can have been no more than ten years old when we last met. We were cousins then, before I took the Minister’s Test—”

“But you did take the test,” said Mother Kyre, “and gave up all your family but the Ministry, as did I. In any case, the princess is away.”

“I fear you sent her away when you heard I was coming.”

Mother Kyre did not deny that either. “Grandmother Wexen has sent me an eagle, and I know why you are here. I am not without sympathy.”

“Your sympathy is sweet, Mother Kyre, but King Fynn’s help in the trouble that comes would be far sweeter yet. It might prevent the trouble altogether.”

Mother Kyre winced the way someone does who has no intention of helping. The way Thorn’s mother used to wince when Thorn spoke of her hero’s hopes.

“You know my master loves you and his niece Queen Laithlin,” she said. “You know he would stand against half the world to stand with you. But you know he cannot stand against the wishes of the High King.” A sea of words, this woman, but that was ministers for you. Father Yarvi was hardly a straight talker. “So he sends me, wretched with regret, to deny you audience, but to humbly offer you all food, warmth, and shelter beneath his roof.”

Which, apart from the food, sounded well enough to Thorn.

King Fynn’s hall was called the Forest for it was filled with a thicket of grand columns, said to have been floated down the Divine River from Kalyiv, beautifully carved and painted with scenes from the history of Throvenland. Somewhat less