A Little Hatred (The Age of Madness #1) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,75

they soon shut up. ‘Lost a lot of things, in my life,’ he said. ‘Lost ’em, or had ’em taken. Lot of good folk gone back to the mud these past few weeks. Lot of empty spaces, here, now, where friends should be sitting. Spaces that can’t ever be filled.’ And he raised his cup, and so did everyone else, and a solemn murmur went around the barn.

‘To the dead,’ growled Shivers.

‘To the dead,’ echoed Rikke, sniffing back a sudden wave of sadness and anger mixed.

‘But I’ve been blessed with loyal allies!’ Rikke’s father nodded towards Lady Finree, doing her best to look comfortable, bless her. ‘And now my daughter’s come back to me.’ He grinned down at Rikke. ‘So, in spite of some sorrows, I count myself lucky!’ And he hugged her tight, and kissed her head, and while the barn rang to its ancient rafters with cheers and whoops, muttered softly, ‘Luckier’n I deserve, I reckon.’

‘I’d like to raise a cup myself!’ Rikke clambered onto the table with a hand on her father’s shoulder and held her cup over her head. Ale slopped out and spattered on the wood, though it was already so ale-spattered no one could’ve noticed the difference. ‘To all o’ you sorry bastards who were so hopelessly lost, but thanks to the tender guidance of Isern-i-Phail, were able to find your way back to me!’

‘To lost bastards!’ someone roared, and everyone drank, and there was laughter, and a fragment of song, and a fight broke out in a corner and someone got punched and lost a bit of a tooth, but all in good humour.

‘By the dead, I’m glad you’re back safe, Rikke.’ Her father cupped her face in his gnarled old hands. ‘Anything happened to you …’ Seemed like he had tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes, and he smiled, and sniffed. ‘You’re all the good I’ve done.’

The way he looked worried her – washed-out and grey, years older than when she’d last seen him just a few weeks ago. The way he talked worried her – sappy and sentimental, always looking back like he’d nothing ahead to look to. But the last thing she wanted was to let him see she was worried, so she clowned more than ever.

‘What’re you talking about, you silly old bastard? You’ve done piles of good. Mountains. Who’s done more good for the North than you? Not a one o’ these fools wouldn’t die for you.’

‘Maybe. But they shouldn’t have to. I’m just not sure …’ He frowned out at the barnful of drunk warriors like he hardly saw them. Like he was staring through them with the Long Eye and saw something horrible beyond. ‘Not sure I got the bones for the fight any more.’

‘Now listen.’ She caught his deep-lined face and dragged it back towards her, growling the words at him, fierce. ‘You’re the Dogman! There’s no man in the North got more bones than you. How many battles you fought in?’

He gave a faint smile at that. ‘Feels like pretty much all of ’em.’

‘It is pretty much all of ’em! You fought beside the Bloody-Nine! You fought beside Rudd Threetrees! You beat Bethod in the High Places!’

He licked at one pointed tooth as he grinned. ‘I don’t like to boast, you know.’

‘Man with your name doesn’t need to.’ She raised her chin, puffed herself up, showed him how proud she was to be his kin. ‘You’ll beat Stour Nightfall and his arse-lickers, and we’ll see him hanged with brambles, and I’ll cut the bloody cross in him and send his fucking guts back to his daddy!’ She realised she was snarling the words, spraying spit, shaking her fist in his face, and she made the fingers uncurl and wiped her mouth with them instead. ‘Or something …’

Her father was somewhat taken aback at her bloodthirstiness. ‘You never talked like that before.’

‘Aye, well, I never had my home burned, either. Never understood why feuds were such a popular pastime in the North but I reckon I’m getting it now.’

Her father winced. ‘Hoped my scores would die with me and you could walk free of ’em.’

‘Weren’t your fault! Or mine. Scale Ironhand attacked us! Black Calder burned Uffrith! Stour fucking Nightfall chased me through the woods. They trampled your garden …’ she finished, lamely.

‘The beauty o’ gardens is that they grow back.’

‘Changes your feelings,’ she growled, the anger bubbling up again at the memory, ‘when you’re sunk to your neck in a freezing river,