Half the World

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Be well, my dove. Even more, be ready.” Skifr’s hand darted out but Thorn caught it by the wrist before it could slap her and held it trembling between them.

  Skifr smiled wide. “And always strike first.”

  FATHER YARVI SMILED AS he peeled away the bandages. “Good. Very good.” He pressed gently at the sore flesh of her cheeks with his fingertips. “You are healing well. Walking already.”

  “Lurching like a drunk already.”

  “You are lucky, Thorn. You are very lucky.”

  “Doubtless. Not every girl gets to be stabbed through the face.”

  “And by a duke of royal blood too!”

  “The gods have smiled on me, all right.”

  “It could have been through your eye. It could have been through your neck.” He started to bathe her face with a flannel that smelled of bitter herbs. “On the whole I would prefer to be scarred than dead, wouldn’t you?”

  Thorn pushed her tongue into the salty hole her missing tooth had left. It was hard to think of herself as lucky just then. “How are the scars? Tell me the truth.”

  “They will take time to heal, but I think they will heal well. A star on the left and an arrow on the right. There must be some significance in that. Skifr might have told us, she had an eye for portents—”

  Thorn did not need Skifr to see into her face’s future. “I’ll be monstrous, won’t I?”

  “I know of people with uglier deformities.” And Yarvi put his withered hand under her nose and let the one finger flop back and forth. “Next time, avoid the blade.”

  She snorted. “Easily said. Have you ever fought seven men?”

  Drops trickled into the steaming bowl as he wrung out the flannel, the water turning a little pink. “I could never beat one.”

  “I saw you win a fight once.”

  He paused. “Did you indeed?”

  “When you were king, I saw you fight Keimdal in the square.” He stared at her for a moment, caught for once off-balance. “And when you lost, you asked to fight him again, and sent your mother’s Chosen Shield in your place. And Hurik ground Keimdal’s face into the sand on your behalf.”

  “A warrior fights,” murmured Yarvi. “A king commands.”

  “So does a minister.”

  He started to smear something on her face that made the stitches sting. “I remember you now. A dark-haired girl, watching.”

  “Even then you were a deep-cunning man.”

  “I have had to be.”

  “Your trip to the First of Cities has turned out better than anyone could’ve hoped.”

  “Thanks to you.” He unwound a length of bandage. “You have done what no diplomat could achieve, and made an ally of the Empire of the South. Almost enough to make me glad I didn’t crush you with rocks. And you have your reward.” He tapped at the elf-bangle, its faint light showing through her sleeve.

  “I’d give it back if I could open it.”

  “Skifr says it cannot be opened. But you should wear it proudly. You have earned it, and more besides. I may not be my mother’s son any longer, but I still have her blood. I remember my debts, Thorn. Just as you remember yours.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time for remembering, the last few days. I’ve been remembering Throvenland.”

  “Another alliance that no one could have hoped for.”

  “You have a habit of coming away with them. I’ve been thinking about the man who poisoned the water.”

  “The man you killed?”

  Thorn fixed his pale blue eye with hers. “Was he your man?”

  Father Yarvi’s face showed no surprise, no confirmation and no denial. He wound the bandages around her head as if she had not spoken.

  “A deep-cunning man,” she went on, “in need of allies, knowing King Fynn’s ready temper, might have staged such a thing.”

  He pushed a pin gently through the bandages to hold them firm. “And a hot-headed girl, a thorn in the world’s arse, not knowing anything, might have got herself caught up in the gears of it.”

  “It could happen.”

  “You are not without some cunning of your own.” Father Yarvi put the bandages and the knife carefully away in his bag. “But you must know a deep-cunning man would never lay bare his schemes. Not even to his friends.” He patted her on the shoulder, and stood. “Keep your lies as carefully as your winter grain, my old teacher used to tell me. Rest, now.”

  “Father Yarvi?” He turned back, a black shape in the bright outline of the door. “If I hadn’t killed that poisoner … who would have drunk the water?”

  A silence, then, and with the light behind him she could not see his face. “Some questions are best not asked, Thorn. And certainly best not answered.”

  “RULF’S BEEN GETTING THE CREW back together.” Brand pushed some invisible dust around with the toe of his boot. “Few new men but mostly the same old faces. Koll can’t wait to get started carving the other side of the mast, he says. And Dosduvoi’s thinking of preaching the word of the One God up north. Fror’s with us too.”

  Thorn touched a finger to her bandages. “Reckon folk’ll be asking me how I got the scars, now, eh?”

  “Hero’s marks,” said Brand, scratching at the ones that snaked up his own forearms. “Marks of a great deed.”

  “And it’s hardly like my looks were ever my strongest point, is it?” Another awkward silence. “Father Yarvi says you killed Duke Mikedas.”

  Brand winced as though the memory was far from pleasant. “The ground killed him. I just made the introduction.”

  “You don’t sound proud of it.”

  “No. Not sure I’m touched by Mother War like you are. Don’t have your …”

  “Fury?”

  “I was going to say courage. Anger I’ve got plenty of. Just wish I didn’t.”

  “Father Yarvi says you carried me back. He says you saved my life.”

  “Just what an oar-mate does.”

  “Thanks for doing it, even so.”

  He stared at the ground, chewing at his lip, and finally looked up at her. “I’m sorry. For whatever I did. For …” He had that helpless look of his again, but rather than making her want to hold him, it made her want to hit him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault,” she grated out. “Just the way things are.”

  “I wish they were a different way.”

  “So do I.” She was too tired, too sore, too hurting inside and out to try and make it pretty. “Not as if you can make yourself like someone, is it?”

  “Guess not,” he said in a meek little voice that made her want to hit him even more. “Been through a lot together, you and me. Hope we can be friends, still.”

  She made her voice cold. Cold and sharp as a drawn blade. It was that or she might set to crying and she wouldn’t do it. “Don’t think that’ll work for me, Brand. Don’t see how this just goes back the way it was.”

  His mouth gave a sorry twist at that. As if he was the one hurt. Guilt, more than likely, and she hoped it stung. Hoped it stung half as much as she did. “Up to you.” He turned his back on her. “I’ll be there. If you need me.”

  The door shut, and she bared her teeth at it, and that made her face ache, and she felt tears in her eyes, and dashed them hard away. Wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair at all, but she guessed love’s even less fair than the battlefield.

  To fool herself once was once too often. She had to rip those hopes up before they could take root. She had to kill the seeds. As soon as she could she limped off to find Rulf and asked for a different oar to pull on the way back home.

  Owed her that much, didn’t they?

  STRANGE BEDFELLOWS

  “So you’re leaving?” asked Sumael, her heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor.

  “Within the week,” said Father Yarvi. “We may not make it home before the Divine freezes as it is. You could always come with us. Don’t pretend you don’t miss the northern snows.”

  She laughed. “Oh, every balmy day he
re I wish I was frozen near to death again. You could always stay with us. Don’t you enjoy the southern sun?”

  “I am a little too pale. I burn before I brown.” He gave a ragged sigh. “And I have an oath to keep.”

  Her smile faded. “I didn’t think you took your oaths that seriously.”

  “This one I do,” said Father Yarvi.

  “Will you break the world to keep it?”

  “I hope it won’t come to that.”

  Sumael snorted. “You know how it is, with hopes.”

  “I do,” murmured Brand. He got the feeling there were two conversations going on. One in plain sight and one hidden. But he’d never been much good with conversations, or with things he couldn’t see, so he said no more.

  Sumael swung a gate open with a squealing of rusted hinges, rough steps dropping into darkness. “She’s down there.”

  The vaulted passage at the bottom was caked with mold, something scurrying away from the flickering light of Brand’s torch.

  “Just follow my lead,” said Yarvi.

  Brand gave a weary nod. “What else would I do?”

  They stopped before a barred opening. Brand saw the glimmer of eyes in the shadows and stepped close, raising his torch.

  Mother Scaer, once minister of Vansterland, then emissary of Grandmother Wexen, now sat against a wall of mossy rock with her shaved head on one side, her tattooed forearms on her knees and her long hands dangling. She had five elf-bangles stacked on one wrist, gold and glass and polished metal glinting. Brand would’ve been awestruck at the sight of them once but now they seemed petty, gaudy, broken things beside the one Thorn wore.

  “Ah, Father Yarvi!” Scaer stretched a long leg toward them, chains rattling from an iron band about her bare ankle. “Have you come to gloat?”

  “Perhaps a little. Can you blame me? You did conspire to murder the Empress Vialine, after all.”

  Mother Scaer gave a hiss. “I had no part of that. Grandmother Wexen sent me here to stop that puffed-up bladder of arrogance Duke Mikedas from doing anything foolish.”

  “How did that work out?” asked Yarvi.

  Mother Scaer held up a length of chain to show them, and let it drop in her lap. “You should know better than anyone, a good minister gives the best advice they can, but in the end the ruler does what the ruler does. Did you bring this one to frighten me?” Mother Scaer’s blue eyes fell on Brand, and even through the bars he felt a chill. “He is not frightening.”

  “On the contrary, I brought him to make you feel comfortable. My frightening one picked up a scratch killing seven men when she saved the empress and ruined all your plans.” Brand didn’t point out that he’d killed two of those men. He took no pride in it, and he was getting the feeling that wasn’t the story everyone wanted to tell. “But she’s healing nicely. Perhaps she can frighten you later.”

  Mother Scaer looked away. “We both know there is no later for me. I should have killed you at Amwend.”

  “You wanted to leave my guts for the crows, I remember. But Grom-gil-Gorm said, why kill what you can sell?”

  “His first mistake. He made a second when he trusted you.”

  “Well, like King Uthil, Gorm is a warrior, and warriors tend to prefer action to thought. That is why they need ministers. That is why he needs your advice so very badly. That, I suspect, is why Grandmother Wexen was so keen to prize you from his side.”

  “He will get no help from me now,” said Mother Scaer. “You, and Grandmother Wexen, and Duke Mikedas between you have made sure of that.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Yarvi. “I am heading back up the Divine within the week. Back to the Shattered Sea.” He pushed out his lips and tapped at them with his forefinger. “To send a passenger on to Vulsgard would not be too much trouble, eh, Brand?”

  “Not too much,” said Brand.

  Yarvi raised his brows as though the idea had just occurred. “Perhaps we could find room for Mother Scaer?”

  “We’ve lost one mysterious bald woman.” Brand shrugged. “We’ve space for another.”

  Gorm’s minister frowned up at them. Interested, but not wanting to seem interested. “Don’t toy with me, boy.”

  “Never been much good at toying,” said Brand. “I had a short childhood.”

  Mother Scaer slowly unfolded her long limbs and stood, bare feet flapping on damp stone as she walked to the bars until the chains were taut, then leaned a little farther, shadows shifting in the hollows of her gaunt face.

  “Are you offering me my life, Father Yarvi?”

  “I find it in my hands, and have no better use for it.”

  “Huh.” Mother Scaer raised her brows very high. “What tasty bait. And no hook in it, I suppose?”

  Yarvi leaned closer to the bars himself, so the two minister’s faces were no more than a foot’s length apart. “I want allies.”

  “Against the High King? What allies could I bring you?”

  “There is a Vansterman on our crew. A good man. Strong at the oar. Strong in the wall. Would you say so, Brand?”

  “Strong at the oar.” Brand remembered Fror bellowing out the Song of Bail on that hill above the Denied. “Strong in the wall.”

  “Seeing him fight beside men of Gettland made me realize again how much alike we are,” said Yarvi. “We pray to the same gods under the same skies. We sing the same songs in the same tongue. And we both struggle under the ever-weightier yoke of the High King.”

  Mother Scaer’s lip curled. “And you would free Vansterland from her bondage, would you?”

  “Why not? If at the same time I can free Gettland from hers. I did not enjoy wearing a galley captain’s thrall-collar. I enjoy being slave to some drooling old fool in Skekenhouse no more.”

  “An alliance between Gettland and Vansterland?” Brand grimly shook his head. “We’ve been fighting each other since before there was a High King. Since before there was a Gettland. Madness, surely.”

  Yarvi turned to look at him, a warning in his eye. “The line between madness and deep-cunning has ever been a fine one.”

  “The boy is right.” Mother Scaer pushed her arms through the bars and let them dangle. “There are ancient feuds between us, and deep hatreds—”

  “There are petty squabbles between us, and shallow ignorance. Leave the wrathful words to the warriors, Mother Scaer, you and I know better. Grandmother Wexen is our true enemy. She is the one who tore you from your place to do her slave-work. She cares nothing for Vansterland, or Gettland, or any of us. She cares only for her own power.”

  Mother Scaer let her head fall on one side, blue eyes narrowed. “You will never win. She is too strong.”

  “Duke Mikedas was too strong, and both his power and his skull lie in ruins.”

  They narrowed further. “King Uthil will never agree.”

  “Let me worry about King Uthil.”

  Further still. “Grom-gil-Gorm will never agree.”

  “Do not underestimate yourself, Mother Scaer, I do not doubt your own powers of persuasion are formidable.”

  Blue slits, now. “Less so than yours, I think, Father Yarvi.” Of a sudden she opened her eyes wide, and pushed her hand out through the bars so fast that Brand flinched back and nearly dropped his torch. “I accept your offer.”

  Father Yarvi took her hand and, stronger than she looked, she pulled him close by it. “You understand I can promise nothing.”

  “I am less interested in promises than I used to be. The way to bend someone to your will is to offer them what they want, not to make them swear an oath.” Yarvi twisted his hand free. “It will be cold on the Divine, as the year grows late. I’d pack something warm.”

  As they walked off into the darkness, Father Yarvi put his hand on Brand’s shoulder. “You did well.”

  “I scarcely said a thing.”

  “No. But the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. You’d be surprised how many clever people never take the lesson.”

  Sumael was waiti
ng for them at the gate. “Did you get what you wanted?”

  Yarvi stopped in front of her. “Everything I wanted and far more than I deserved. But now it seems I must leave it behind.”

  “Fate can be cruel.”

  “It usually is.”

  “You could stay.”

  “You could come.”

  “But in the end we must all be what we are. I am counselor to an empress.”

  “I am minister to a king. We both have our burdens.”

  Sumael smiled. “And when you’ve a load to lift …”

  “You’re better lifting than weeping.”

  “I will miss you, Yarvi.”

  “It will be as if I left the best piece of myself behind.”

  They looked at each other for a moment longer, then Sumael dragged in a sharp breath. “Good luck on the journey.” And she strode away, shoulders back.

  Father Yarvi’s face twisted and he leaned against the gate as if he might fall. Brand was on the point of offering his hand, but the wise speaker learns first when to stay silent. Soon enough the minister drew himself up without help.

  “Gather the crew, Brand,” he said. “We’ve a long way to go.”

  FAREWELLS

  Thorn gently slid her oar from its port and gave the sweat-polished wood a fond final stroke with her fingertips.

  “Fare you well, my friend.” The oar was all indifference, though, so with a parting sigh she hefted her sea-chest rattling onto the wharf and sprang up after it.

  Mother Sun smiled down on Thorlby from a clear sky, and Thorn closed her eyes and tipped her face back, smiling as the salt breeze kissed her scarred cheeks.

  “Now that’s what weather should be,” she whispered, remembering the choking heat of the First of Cities.

  “Look at you.” Rulf paused in tying off the prow-rope to shake his balding head in wonder. “Hard to believe how you’ve grown since you first sat at my back oar. And not just in height.”

  “From girl to woman,” said Father Yarvi, clambering from the South Wind.

  “From woman to hero,” said Dosduvoi, catching Thorn in a crushing hug. “Remember that crew of Throvenmen singing a song about you on the Divine? The she-devil who killed ten warriors and saved the Empress of the South! A woman who breathes fire and looks lightning!”