A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,158

and kissed him, gentle and serious, and full of belief. ‘I’ve seen it.’

Folk were already gathering at the appointed place. Seemed the rivers of blood spilled yesterday had only sharpened the thirst for more. Losing a duel himself had much diminished Clover’s taste for the business, but he’d been asked to hold a shield for the heir to the North and that was reckoned quite the honour. Felt prudent to at least arrive in good time.

A patch of grass had been shaved to the roots not far from the bridge where the fighting had been hottest, the Circle marked out with pegs and rope, six good strides across. Carpenters had knocked up some seating on platforms so the big folk would get a good view of everyone’s futures being settled. So Black Calder and Scale Ironhand, and the Dogman and Lady Brock wouldn’t miss a drop of blood spilled. Be a shame for it to hit the dirt unnoticed, after all.

Good weather for it. Blue washing out to pale on the horizon as the sun sank wearily towards the hills. A great arrow of geese was honking off southwards, high up, not caring much for the doings of men. Not caring much who won or lost, who lived or died. Good to know the geese’d still be flapping regardless, though it would likely be scant comfort to whichever hero got a sword up his arse.

The men who held the shields around the Circle, making sure no one left till the business was settled, were meant to be the fiercest warriors either side could find and, to be fair, the younger ones were shooting some warlike glares across the shortened grass. The older ones had seen it all before, though, and saved their snarls for when they mattered. For all they stood on different sides, some of Scale’s and the Dogman’s Named Men were chatting like old friends. Clover knew most o’ the names. Red Hat and Oxel, Flatstone and Brodd Silent, Lemun the Chalk from up near Yaws and Gregun Hollowhead from the West Valleys. The Nail, too, pale hair stuck up like thistle-fluff, bound all over with bloody bandages from yesterday’s fighting.

Strange, in a way, for men who’d been fixed on killing each other a few hours before to be happily mingling, stamping and blowing and polishing their shield-rims, mulling over fights long past, the fight just done and the fight to come. But then warriors on different sides always had more in common with each other than with anyone else.

‘Loneliest o’ professions,’ murmured Clover to himself. Shepherds might not make many friends, but they weren’t often called upon to kill the ones they had made, either.

‘Jonas Steepfield.’ Clover jerked around at the whispering voice, the sound of that name frightening and oddly exciting both at once. A big man stood beside him with a battered shield on his arm, grey hair stirring in the wind about a grey stubbled face with a scar that put Clover’s to shame. And in the midst of that scar, a bright ball of dead metal where an eye should’ve been.

‘If it ain’t Caul Shivers. I don’t go by Steepfield any more. I learned a big hard name makes men want to take a blade to you just so they can cut off a piece of it.’

Shivers gave the kind of weary nod that’s born of hard experience. ‘The world’s full of eager fools, all right.’

‘No call for me to be swelling their number. It’s just Clover now.’

‘There was clover in that Circle, eh? Where you fought.’

‘There was. Whenever I smell it, I remember how being beaten feels.’

Shivers gave that weary nod again, looking off towards the hills. ‘We should talk, sometime. One scarred old warhorse to another.’

‘You’re the warhorse, Shivers. I’m more a crow, picking at the leftovers.’

‘Not that I don’t like the act, it’s a good one.’ Shivers glanced over towards Greenway, prancing around like he was the one about to face the Young Lion and was sure of winning, too. ‘Don’t doubt you’ve got a lot of eager fools taking you for quite the figure of fun.’ He leaned close to whisper. Or maybe to whisper even more throatily. ‘But we both know what y’are.’

Clover had heard it said Caul Shivers could see your thoughts with that metal eye. Horseshit, of course. But he’d seen plenty with the other. Few men more. Might be the hardest name in the North still casting a shadow. He didn’t need a magic eye