The Trouble with Peace (The Age of Madness #2) - Joe Abercrombie Page 0,228

father had been less than complimentary on the subject of Skarling’s Hall. A cold, hard, rock-carved room for cold, hard, rock-carved men. The place Bethod had seized the North. The place Black Dow betrayed the Bloody-Nine. The place Black Calder had ordered a hundred killings and thievings and petty backstabbings.

But Rikke was a firm believer that dark pasts don’t have to mean dark futures, and she was pleasantly surprised by the mood in there. She felt honesty in the light streaming through the high windows. She saw strength in its bare stone walls. She heard truth in the sound of the rushing river far below. The cold, though, she could not deny. Summer was well and truly gone.

“Someone get a fire lit, eh?” she called out as the Named Men tramped into the hall. “Before I shiver my tits off.”

“Such as they are,” said Isern, frowning down. “A clean floor is a thing the moon despises. A clean floor bespeaks a small mind.”

“Better’n a dirty one, isn’t it? Bespeaks an orderly mind, I reckon.”

“Same thing.” Isern curled her lip back, spat a long chagga stain across the stones and gave a nod of satisfaction, like she’d made a small improvement to the world. “You never know, that might be the spot where my daddy near killed the Bloody-Nine for killing my brother.”

Shivers gave a snort. “Ain’t far from the spot where I near killed the Bloody-Nine for killing my brother.”

“Maybe you should’ve done it,” said Isern.

“Maybe’s a game with no winners.” Shivers turned that ring on his little finger thoughtfully around. “I let go o’ my regrets. You’ll swim better without their weight.”

There was a clash and rattle from the corner of the hall. The Nail had stalked up to the iron cage hanging in the back corner and now his knuckles were white at the bars like he’d rip it apart with his big bare hands.

“Doubt you’ll pull it down without some tongs or something,” said Rikke, strolling up.

“I’ll pull it down one way or another,” he snarled as he wrenched it about, chains jingling.

“I say leave it up.”

The Nail turned on her, holding one fist up under her nose, close enough she had to look at it a little cross-eyed. “My father died in this fucking cage!”

“Aye.” She soaked his rage up with a smile, like a bundle of fresh-shorn fleece might soak up punches. “And we might need it to hold the folk who killed him.” And she put her forefinger on that great scarred mass of fist and gently pushed it down.

The Nail blinked, like he was puzzling that through. Then he started to smile. “I could get to like you.”

“I’m likeable. Known for it. Likeable Rikke, they call me.”

“Who’s they?”

“Just, you know, they.”

“Would My Lady of the Long Eye care to bring her vision to pass?” Isern flicked dust from the seat of Skarling’s chair, standing on its dais in the light of the great windows, polished by the arses of the great men of yesteryear.

“Guess someone’s got to sit in it,” said Rikke. “And I did come all this way, and in mixed weather, too.” And she spun about and dumped herself down. She shifted one way. She shifted the other.

“Well?” asked Shivers.

“Bit hard on the arse.”

“Was there a cushion in your vision?” asked Isern. “You might think of finding one if you plan to perch there long.”

The Nail stretched his chin a long way forward to scratch at his throat. “Do you plan to perch there long?”

Rikke looked up at Shivers. He raised his brow. She looked up at Isern. She raised hers. “Well,” she said, and noisily spat again, “I daresay none o’ Crummock-i-Phail’s children would disagree with my considered opinion that…” She left an unnaturally long pause before finishing. “We could do worse.”

“My thanks for that ringing endorsement,” said Rikke.

“They’ll be back, you know,” said the Nail. “Stour and all his warriors.” And he jerked his thumb towards the door as if he expected ’em to troop in any moment.

“Some will be,” said Rikke. “But if King Orso took any notice of the letter I sent him, they’ll have a much harder fight than they were expecting. So Stour’ll come back with a lot fewer warriors than you were expecting. If he comes back at all.”

The Nail stared at her, mouth slightly open.

“Spent a year in Ostenhorm,” she explained, “with what they call a governess.”

“What’s that? Some kind o’ witch?”

“A particularly boring kind o’ one. But to be fair, it turns