A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,224

room from under her grey-flecked brows. ‘So the war’s over.’

‘Seems so,’ said Clover. ‘A lot of men dead, and nothing much changed.’

‘That’s war for you. Turns out best for the worst of us. No doubt we’ll have another presently.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘And in the meantime? Back to teaching sword-work?’

‘Can’t think of aught else I’m fit for that I can do sitting down. You?’

Wonderful frowned over at Stour and let a breath sigh through her nose. ‘Long as I’m done babysitting this bastard, I really don’t care.’

‘You could come join me.’

‘And teach boys sword-work?’

‘You’ve more wisdom to pass on than most, I reckon.’

She snorted. ‘More than you have, that’s for sure.’

‘There you go. Like all good partnerships, we make up for each other’s deficiencies. You can do the passing of the wisdom, I’ll do the sitting in the shade.’ And Clover took a sup from his own cup and grinned, thinking about being propped up against his favourite tree. The rough bark against his back. The sticks going clack clack down in the field.

‘You’re serious,’ she said, eyes narrowed.

‘Well … I’m not not serious. If I’ve ended up doing things alone, it’s more through bad luck than preference.’

‘That and through killing your friends, anyway.’

‘This is the North,’ muttered Clover. ‘Who hasn’t killed a friend or two?’ And they grinned at one another, and tapped their cups together.

A few chairs down, Stour was frowning into his ale as if there was a riddle at the bottom. ‘I never lost before. Not at anything.’

‘Would’ve won if it wasn’t for that fucking witch!’ sneered Greenway, as bitter as if it was him who’d lost. ‘Fucking Long Eye, or whatever. Fucking cheating, that’s what that was. They should all have the bloody cross cut in ’em.’

‘There’s no rule against shouting out, is there?’ Stour spoke soft, and with a musing sort of look Clover never saw him wear before. ‘And I reckon she did me a favour. Losing … it’s made me see things a new way. Like putting a coloured glass to your eye and seeing the world in new colours, or … no! Like taking one away, and seeing the world as it is!’

Scale raised his brows at his nephew. He wasn’t the only one doing it. Clover scarcely had room on his forehead for how high his had gone.

‘Might be you’re more like your father than I thought,’ said the king. ‘I knew you were a fighter, but I never had you marked down for a thinker.’

‘Nor did I,’ said Stour, his wet eyes bright. ‘But when you’re laid up wounded, what can you do but think? Made me realise. The Young Lion didn’t put me in the mud. But we’re all heading there sooner or later.’

‘True, Nephew, the Great Leveller waits for us all.’

‘Made me realise.’ And Stour stared at his hand as he curled the fingers into a fist. ‘You only have a lifetime to make your name and a lifetime might not be that long.’

‘True, Nephew. No one’ll hand you a place in the songs. You have to seize it.’

‘Made me realise.’ And Stour thumped the table. ‘You can’t wait to take what’s yours.’

Scale smiled as he lifted his cup. ‘True, Ne—’

The word was cut off in a kind of sickly squelch, and the king puked blood and ale and Clover saw to his great surprise that Stour had buried a knife in his uncle’s neck.

There was a click and something spattered Clover’s face, and he saw the old warrior beside him just got his head split down to the bridge of his nose with an axe.

Another was shoved onto the table and had his head hacked off right there. Took two blows.

Another thrashed as Greenway cut his throat, kicking meat and cups off the table, ale spraying.

Another snarled curses, flailing with his eating knife, all tangled up with his own fur cloak before he got a sword through his guts. He swore and drooled blood into his beard then a mace stove in the back of his head.

One of the king’s serving girls had been knocked on the ground, the other was clutching her jug to her chest like she could hide behind it. Scale himself had flopped face down on the table, eyes popping and his tongue hanging out, still weakly blowing red bubbles out of his nose while bloody ale dripped from the edge of the table with a tap, tap, tap.

One of his old warriors was underneath it, crawling, snarling, crawling, trying to reach a fallen