The Wisdom of Crowds

by Joe Abercrombie

  Orso closed his eyes. He realised that, somewhere deep inside, he had been supposing this was all temporary. A passing fad. A nightmare from which they would all soon wake.

  But perhaps this was simply how the world was, now.

  Perhaps this was how it had always been.

  Nest of Vipers

  “I can feel it in my liver,” whispered Isern, “the little bitch is up to something.”

  Corleth strode through the crowd ahead, down the rain-slick cobbled streets that led from Skarling’s Hall into the chilly city, a canvas bag over one shoulder.

  “I see it,” said Isern, “and the moon sees it, and the only one can’t see it is you.”

  “Not the only one,” said Rikke. “Aside from the moon and your liver, everyone likes her well enough.”

  “So you’re saying there’s a lot of fools about, a thing I well knew already. Did she tell you she was going?”

  “She did not,” said Rikke, “but why should she?”

  “Did she ask leave to go?”

  “She did not, but why should she?”

  “What’s she got in the bag?”

  “Folk sometimes have bags, that’s no proof of anything.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to get cocky?”

  “Only a thousand times.”

  “If you’d listened to one of ’em I could hold my tongue now.” Isern bared her teeth, showing that missing one, eyes still fixed on Corleth. “I’m telling you she smells wrong.”

  “You’re a fine one to complain of odours.”

  “Sneaking out o’ Skarling’s Hall.”

  “You’d no objection to us sneaking into it.”

  “When we were sneaking around our enemies.”

  “We did somewhat leave the Brocks with their arses in the breeze, and we’d been welcoming them with a smile not long before.”

  “You had, but you smile far too easily.” Isern slipped around a corner, pulling Rikke through a knot of people and behind a cart where they could watch Corleth walk on. “Bloody Brocks. They’d have stabbed you in the back if you hadn’t stabbed ’em first. I see it, and the moon sees it, and the only one can’t see it—”

  “No, that one I saw pretty clearly, too.” Rikke hooked a finger into the chain of emeralds Savine gave her and pulled them around a little. They weren’t tight. They weren’t heavy. But they seemed to chafe at her these days, since she started sitting in Skarling’s Chair. “Guess we’ll never know for sure now, will we…”

  Isern shook her shaggy head in disgust. “We’re not here to prod at the soft underbelly o’ your guilt, which is a thing a leader needs to toss into the shit-pit along with her mercy, but to find out what your friend Corleth is doing creeping through Carleon, all flighty and furtive.”

  “She don’t look all that furtive.” Wasn’t like she was padding on tiptoe, or sliding around corners, or checking behind her, the way Rikke would surely have done if she was about some shifty business. “She’s just walking through town.”

  “Aye, but where’s she walking?” Isern pressed herself to a wall and peered around its corner, and Rikke found herself doing the same. Corleth was ahead still, trotting up the steps towards a little house like a hundred others in the city, rain drip-dripping from the eaves of its mossy thatch. “She comes to this house every other day, d’you see. Regular as the moon.”

  Rikke frowned. That did sound a little troubling. “Maybe she’s found a man to keep her warm in the winter.” She blew into her cupped hands, thinking of the Nail, and what they’d got up to that morning, and had to grin. “They can be worth the effort.”

  “A lover would be nothing to hide.”

  Rikke shrugged. “A really ugly lover?”

  “Shush.” Isern swept Rikke into a doorway with the back of her arm. What with the clammy cold it reminded her of their times out in the woods, hiding from Stour Nightfall’s men, and that brought back a stab of the fear she’d felt then, followed by a warm wash of satisfaction that she currently had the bastard hobbled in a cage.

  The door opened. Corleth grinned, which seemed strange, as she wasn’t much of a grinner. She went in and the door shut.

  “Right,” growled Isern, striding towards the house. “Now we’ll plumb the bottom of her schemes.”

  “Who’s cocky now?” hissed Rikke, hurrying after. “What if she is hiding something?” She pictured a room crammed with Black Calder’s cut-throats, all turning as Isern kicked the door open. “We should get Shivers and a few of his lads…”

  But Isern was already thumping at the rickety door hard enough to rattle it in the frame. It whipped open and Corleth frowned out, somewhat suspicious to see the two of them crowded onto the doorstep. “What are you two doing here?”

  “What’re you doing here?” roared Isern, triumphant, and she caught Corleth around the neck and shoved her into the house, pulling a dagger with the other hand.

  “By the dead,” squeaked Rikke, scrambling after, “don’t knife her!”

  It was a pretty ordinary sort of house, far as she could tell once she was into the gloomy inside. One room lit by one little window, a fine cook-smell wafting from a pot on the fire. The canvas sack lay open beside it, but instead of secrets it held carrots and a couple of bones. There was no gang of cut-throats. Just a bent old woman with weak eyes and a generous wart on her cheek, highly surprised by the blade-wielding hillwoman just burst into her house.

  “What the fuck?” croaked Corleth, flattened against the wall with Isern’s hand clamping off her windpipe.

  The old woman snatched up a broom. “Let go o’ my granddaughter!”

  Rikke sighed, feeling more’n a little guilty over her part in this farce. “Reckon you can stow the dagger, Isern. Less you plan to chop carrots with it.”

  “My grandma lives here,” muttered Corleth, rubbing at her pink neck as Isern let her go. “I come see her when I can. Make sure she’s got wood for her fire. Bring her scraps for soup.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Rikke.

  “Got enough weighing on your shoulders.” By the dead, Rikke felt worse’n ever. “D’you think you could put the blade up now?”

  With a level of sourness few indeed could match, Isern secreted the knife in the ragged depths of her clothing.

  “You understand we’ve got to be watchful,” said Rikke. “Black Calder’s a crafty one. Could have spies anywhere.”

  “You thought my Corleth was spying?” The old woman lowered her broom, lip all a-wobble, poor thing. “All she talks about is how clever you are. How proud she is to be serving you. How you’ll change the North. Folk come to me for advice and I’m always telling ’em what a good thing—”

  “All right, Granny,” said Corleth, waving her down. “We have to be watchful, it’s true. Just a misunderstanding, is all.”

  “Aye,” said Rikke, giving Isern a hard side-eye. “It’s easy to stuff the blame in the wrong places.”

  “And it’s true Black Calder’s crafty.” The old woman took a step towards Rikke, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, there’s this old bitch lives two doors down I’ve never trusted. You should keep an eye on her.”

  “Might be we’ll do that.”

  “Now.” Corleth’s granny stared sternly around. “Who’s for soup?”

  The cold rain was flitting down harder when they made it back into the street, and Rikke pulled her hood up again and twitched it tight against the cold. “Thank the dead we smoked out that nest o’ vipers,” she said.

  Isern was not amused. “You can’t let your guard down. Now, with your arse in Skarling’s Chair, less than ever. You have to be hard. Have to make of your heart a—”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll have Corleth cut with the bloody cross for taking those kitchen scraps, soon as I get back.” Rikke shook her head. “I like the girl. She has sturdy hips.”

  “Where do her hips come into it? Planning to sire children upon her?”

  “No, I mean, she’s solid. Steady. Not likely t
o suddenly catch fire.” Rikke raised a brow at Isern. “Unlike some I could mention.”

  “My narrow hips did not offend when I saved your life out in the wasteland.”

  “Eh. They did a little.”

  “I’m telling you there’s something off about that girl.” Isern spat over her shoulder towards the house. “And her granny, too.”

  “Oh, aye, the granny especially. Never saw such a terrifying presence.” Rikke puffed out her cheeks as she strolled back up the steep way towards Skarling’s Hall. “Must be the Bloody-Nine in disguise.”

  Lines of Communication

  They spread out around the farm. Clover counted ten, but he kept sitting on his stump all the while so he wouldn’t spook ’em, only moving to give the carcass over the fire a prod, and that very slowly. The sun was getting low beyond the hills and the valley full of shadows, so he couldn’t really tell the faces, but there was one old-timer with a grey beard, one with a leather hood, one who wore a dented helmet, one young lad. Friends, enemies, the longer Clover lasted, the more they all looked the same. The more they bloody were the same.

  Finally, one strolled up to the fire and held his palms out to it. Clover knew his face as it came into the light. Trapper. One of Black Calder’s boys.

  “Hey, Trapper,” he said, friendly as he could. Always keep it friendly, if you can.

  “Clover? That you?”

  “I believe it is, though these days I’m sure o’ nothing.”

  “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

  “That there is quite a story.” Trapper’s men were poking around, but not too carefully. It was chilly, and they were drifting over to the warmth, and that homely smell of cooking meat. “Sailed to Midderland with the Great Wolf and the Young Lion, felt seasick on the way over, got caught in a storm, fought a battle, lost, felt seasick on the way back.” They’d gathered about the other side of the fire, now, off guard. “Then Tricky Rikke sent me down here to have a word with you lot. Some doubts over where the border’s at, apparently.”

  Took ’em a moment to catch up. Then the one with the grey beard hefted a big axe. “You’re working for that witch?”

  Clover scratched gently at his scar. “Honestly, the situation’s a little…

  changeable. Trying to pick my way to solid ground, as usual. I was hoping to offer you lads some meat. A token of good intentions, you know.” He pushed his knife into the carcass and the juice leaked bloody. “Don’t think it’s done yet, though. Unless you want to come back later?”

  Trapper shifted one hand to sit on the pommel of his sword and slowly shook his head. “Don’t think we can.”

  “Then I guess we’ll have to do this hungry.” Clover gave a sharp whistle and an arrow flitted from nowhere and stuck quivering into the carcass.

  His hope had been they’d stay calm, realise they were surrounded, do the sensible thing. But thinking about it now, the sensible thing’s a lot to ask once arrows start flying, even into things that are already dead.

  “Fuck!” someone shouted. The old boy with the grey beard whirled about, axe all over the place. One of the others had to dodge it, nearly fell, stumbled back and kicked a shower of sparks from the fire. Trapper drew his sword. Another in a lambskin cloak took off running like a hare at a handclap. Total shambles.

  “Whoa!” said Clover, holding his palms high. “Everyone, whoa!”

  The one with the helmet took a step at him, raising his spear. An arrow stuck into his shoulder and he breathed in hard and gave a great squeal, spear dropping into the fire and sending up more sparks. He twisted around, reaching over his shoulder, then under, trying to get to the arrow, but his fingertips couldn’t quite touch it.

  “I’m shot!” he hissed between his gritted teeth. “They fucking shot me!”

  “We see,” said Clover, pointing around the farm. “I’ve got men in the barn there, and over there. And in those trees, and those. All around you, shafts nocked and strings drawn.” There was only Sholla and a few others, really, but Clover had no problem with a lie that saved lives. Or any other kind, for that matter. “Unless you all want an arrow you can’t reach, my strongly worded advice would be to stack your weapons neatly over there and come join me at the fire, so we can all have a little chat without the distraction of the Great Leveller breathing on our necks.”

  “How do we know you won’t just kill us?” asked a scratty-haired young lad beside Trapper. His version of Flick, it appeared, both in age and sense, or lack thereof.

  “’Cause if the purpose was to kill you, I’d have ordered ’em to shoot while you were still blundering up the road. Believe me—and Trapper’ll confirm it—I’m not one for taking unnecessary risks with my person. All I want is a chat. No call for further bloodshed.”

  Now Downside came striding from the trees, dragging the one with the lambskin cloak along with one big hand, heavy axe gripped in the other.

  “Chief,” he grunted, and threw the man down next to the one with the arrow in his shoulder.

  “I’m shot,” whimpered the one with the arrow in his shoulder.

  “I’m clobbered,” groaned the one with the lambskin cloak, a bloody hand clapped to his bloody head.

  “We see.” Trapper lowered his sword and dug it point-first into the ground. With bad grace the others swung bows from backs, pulled out axes and knives, set down spears, till there was quite a little armoury heaped up in front of the farmhouse.

  Clover gave a satisfied nod. “Don’t that feel better?”

  “Not really,” said Trapper, frowning at Downside’s axe.

  “Well, it does for me, I can tell you that.” Clover whistled again, and Sholla, Flick and a couple of others slipped from the hedgerows, from the barn, from their hiding places and padded over, arrows still nocked to their bows, while Trapper and his men dropped in a reluctant half-circle around the far side of the fire, like children about to listen to a story.

  “Now then,” said Clover. “Why don’t we start with what Black Calder’s about? What’s his mood, what’s his strength, what’s his thinking, you know. And naught but the truth, if you please.”

  “Truth?” said one of Trapper’s men, the one with the big grey beard. “Truth is there’ll be a price to pay for this, Jonas Clover.” And he curled his lip and spat in the fire, and might have caught the carcass, too, which was somewhat of an annoyance. “Man can’t just flip sides whenever the wind changes.”

  Clover rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “There’s always one.”

  “Black Calder’s going to win back the North!” the old man growled. Quite the voice he had, rough as a throat full of gravel. “No fucking painted witch and no fucking Long Eye’ll change it.” He glanced up at Downside, standing over him. “When he does, the lot of you will—”

  There was a sharp crack as Downside buried his axe in the man’s head and dragged him over backwards. His leg kicked so hard he kicked his boot off and it went flying high in the air, onto the roof of the barn, and that was the last move he made.

  Downside leaned over, working his axe free. “That boy had a big mouth,” he grunted, by way of explanation.

  “He did rather,” Clover had to admit. He spread his hands at the men on the other side of the fire, all staring at their dead comrade’s one bare foot. “But could we all work at making that the last corpse we leave here? Reckon we can all agree if there’s one thing we got too much of in the North, it’s corpses.”

  “You killed my uncle, you bastard!” hissed the scratty lad. “You better be looking over your shoulder, ’cause one o’ these days I’ll—” There was a crack as Downside split his skull and blood spattered right in Clover’s face.

  “Gah!” he squawked, flinching back and nearly falling off his stump, and the body pitched forwards, boots swinging up, then flopping down. A red pool quickly spread, hissing faintly as its edge touched the embers of the fire. Downside frowned at his stained axe-blade, started wiping it on the boy’s back.

  “Could you
bloody not?” Clover shouted at him.

  Downside shrugged. “Sorry, Chief. Had the feel of a feud brewing, and it’s always best to settle a feud at the outset, rather’n let it fester.”

  Clover took a hard breath, still wiping spots of blood from his face.

  “I can see your point, I suppose.”

  “I’m shot,” whimpered the one with the arrow.

  “We see. Where was I?”

  “Black Calder,” said Flick.

  “Right, yes. Black Calder. How’s his mood?”

  Sholla slipped her arm around Trapper’s head and eased the point of her knife up his nose. “And like the man said, naught but the truth.”

  “Never seen him this angry,” squeaked Trapper, staring cross-eyed at Sholla’s knife. “But cold, too. Cold and careful.”

  “I was worried that might be the way of it,” muttered Clover. “How many men does he have?”

  Trapper winced as Sholla’s knife tickled his nostril. “More coming in every day. Fresh men, and strays got back from the Union, and he’s made a deal with this new bastard from beyond the Crinna. What do they call him?”

  “Stand-i’-the-Barrows,” said one of the others. “They say he sleeps in a nest of bones.”

  “That don’t sound good,” said Flick.

  “Sounds bloody uncomfortable,” said Sholla.

  Sounded bloody uncomfortable for the whole North. When Black Dow brought Stranger-Come-Knocking and his savages over the Crinna to help him fight the Union, the trouble had lasted years. It was plain Calder was going to make a real fight of it. And that was a fight Clover didn’t want to be on either side of.

  When he turned on Stour, he’d had no doubt it was the right choice. For his own sake, for Wonderful’s sake, for everyone’s sake. But he’d been sure Rikke would kill the bastard. Then she hadn’t, and he started to worry she might be too soft for the job. Siding with the winner is forever sensible, of course. The trouble starts when you’re not sure who the winner might be. Quite the pickle.

  “All right, Trapper, I’m letting you and your lads go.” Clover winced at the dead old man’s bare foot, dirt under the big toenail. “Well, the ones still capable o’ going. Tell Black Calder you ran into us. Tell him I tried to be reasonable.”