The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,127

really looked like under all that flash and flutter and dancing, prancing strut, but no one seemed to care. There was a jealous stirring among the warriors, an awestruck murmur as if some priceless gemstone had been lifted from its case rather than a woman walked in through the door.

The soldiers and servants in her wake looked somewhat concerned by Stour’s fighters bearing in on every side, festooned with steel. Even the Young Lion himself, walking with a trace of a limp, for all he tried to hide it. But his wife glided down the middle like a swan down a river with roses on both banks. She’d smile at one man or another as if at a particularly handsome bloom, and he’d blink, or blush, or look down at his boots, hoary old warriors who’d laughed at red wounds humbled with a red smile.

She stopped beside Clover, and murmured something to her husband, and Clover wondered how her lips could be so pink and her eyes so dark and her skin so pale and perfect. Had to be painted on, like a face onto a Carl’s shield, but done with so much craft you could hardly tell. It was the closest thing to magic he’d seen in Skarling’s Hall, for all Stour’s magi and seers and wise women.

Brock took a step towards them, glanced at Sholla and said in very good Northern, “My wife is asking whether women fight here.”

Clover shook himself like he was waking from a dream. “Well, now and again in the North we run out o’ men. But we never run out o’ fights.” He glanced sideways at Sholla and leaned forward to murmur under his breath, “Then, between you and me, there are times you tell ’em not to fight and they bloody do it anyway.”

Brock rendered it into the Union tongue for his wife, and she gave a laugh as glittering as her dress. Clover wondered how long she’d practised to get it just right but still felt greatly pleased with himself that he’d been the cause of it, then greatly disappointed when she walked on. Downside stared after her like a fox at an open chicken coop.

“Watch out,” muttered Sholla. “You might both die o’ thirst from all that drooling.”

“The Great Wolf!” called Leo dan Brock, spreading his arms as he came towards the dais. “Greater than ever! King of the Northmen, no less!” And he offered Stour his hand.

“The Young Lion!” Stour rose from Skarling’s Chair. “Not as young as you were, but no worse for that.” He caught Brock’s hand, and pulled him up onto the dais, and flung his other arm around his shoulders, and slapped him on the back with an echoing clap. Then the two of ’em had one of those hugs which is halfway to a wrestling match, making out they were best of friends while each tried to drag the other off his feet.

“This is my wife, Lady Savine,” said Brock, once they’d finally fought the hugging to an ungainly draw.

And she sank down, rustling skirts spreading across the flags like a pool of gold, so smoothly it seemed she couldn’t have any legs at all under there but was mounted on a well-oiled platform. “My king. It is my honour to meet so great a warrior.”

“Oh, I know a bit about honour.” Stour grinned down at her from the dais. “And it’s all mine.” Her Northern might be poor, and have a heavy accent, but she’d already worked out where to tickle the Great Wolf. Not that he was too tight a riddle to untangle.

Downside leaned towards Clover, still staring at Brock’s wife. “I have got to get me one o’ those…”

Sholla rolled her eyes. “Like you could afford it.”

Diplomacy

By the dead, diplomacy was hard work.

“So, you see…” Leo stumbled on, “the Closed Council have to be stopped. Before they do more damage. We need good men in charge. Honest men. Patriots.”

“Oh, aye?” grunted Stour, tossing a bone onto the floor.

The Great Wolf made no effort to hide his boredom at all this talk of tax and injustice and patriotism, and Leo hardly blamed him. When Isher spoke about this stuff it made sense right off, but Leo was always tripping on the details. And here, at a feast in Skarling’s Hall, surrounded by red-handed warriors, the arguments all sounded so flimsy and ridiculous. By the dead, he was boring himself. There’d been enough bloody talk. What he needed to do was do. But