The Trouble with Peace

by Joe Abercrombie

  Red Hat drew his at about the same moment. “Aye. Let’s settle it here and now.”

  “Shields for the rest o’ you, then!” cried Isern, clapping her hands. “And into the Circle with our two grey champions!”

  There was none of the usual trading of insults as Oxel’s men and Red Hat’s slid their shields onto their arms and made a wall around the Circle’s edge. All shocked into quiet at how quick this had come about.

  Oxel worked his head around with a click of neck bones. Red Hat undid the golden buckle on his cloak and tossed it over his shoulder to one of his men. Both of ’em bristled like they were still as brimming with vinegar at sixty as they’d been at twenty, and both of ’em quite clearly weren’t. Maybe if they had been they wouldn’t have got so easily prodded into fighting each other. But then getting warriors to fight has always been easy. It’s stopping the bastards that’s the tougher trick.

  “Well, here is a business the moon can smile upon!” called Isern. “We all know what the matter is and we all know what hangs on the result. Get to it!” She slipped from the Circle giving no one any time for second thoughts, and the shields were locked together behind her, metal rims scraping, painted faces pointing in.

  With some reluctance, the two old War Chiefs began to circle, Red Hat with his sword point up, Oxel with his out to the side. They circled closer, Oxel with his teeth bared and Red Hat’s tongue working at his lower lip. They circled, closer yet, then Red Hat stabbed and Oxel parried, chopped back and Red Hat ducked away. Shield-carriers gasped, and shields scraped as the circle flexed and shifted, then the noise mounted, men behind pressing in, and calling out, and shaking their fists, then grunting and shouting and bellowing encouragement till there was a roaring in the hall might’ve waked Rikke’s father, where he lay in the deep dark earth just outside the wooden walls.

  She pulled the old sheepskin tight around her shoulders. Still smelled like him, somehow. She wished for a moment he could be woken, and thought of him striding in to see what all the fuss was about. Thought of him smiling at her the way he used to, like she was the most precious thing he had. The most precious thing there was. Then she wondered if he would smile, when he saw her blinded eye and the runes on her face. Wondered if he’d have stared, fearful and queasy like everyone else. The thought made a tear gather in her blind eye that she had to dab away.

  By then, she wasn’t the only one leaking. Blood was trickling from Red Hat’s sleeve and tip-tapping from his fingertips, and Oxel had a red mouth from an elbow and was carrying a bit of a limp. Almost made Rikke feel bad, setting two old men to kill each other, but she had to make of her heart a stone. Someone had to steer Uffrith now her father was gone.

  Steel clanged and the two old War Chiefs groaned, tottered and wrestled, tired and clumsy. Bit of an unedifying spectacle, all in all. There’s a reason fighting mostly gets left to the young. Oxel’s chest heaved, his sword drooped. Red Hat’s twisted face glimmered with sweat as he gathered himself for one more effort, but it was clear where it’d fall. He swung overhand and Oxel stumbled out of the way. He barely even thrust, really, it was more that Red Hat slipped, and as luck would have it, he fell right onto Oxel’s sword. Luck can be quite the dodgy bitch, after all.

  The blade slid right through him, and Red Hat’s jacket stuck out to a glinting point behind his back, then the whole thing started turning red, not just his hood. His face went pink, veins bulging from his neck, and he tried to speak, but just spluttered blood onto the ground.

  Oxel ripped his blade back and Red Hat tottered, sword hanging from his hand and the point scraping the floor. He coughed and retched, like he couldn’t get a breath. He gave a hissing groan as he lifted his sword one more time, and Oxel took a cautious step back, but all Red Hat did was fish at the air with it, then turn all the way around and crash onto his side. Blood trickled out of his mouth and spread down the cracks between the stones around him, and his eyes goggled at nothing.

  “Reckon Uffrith won’t be joining the Union, anyway,” said Isern, leaning on her spear.

  Oxel’s men sent up a great cheer. Red Hat’s drooped, sullen and silent. Rikke had always liked Red Hat. He’d laughed at her jokes when she was a girl. He’d talked with her father into the night, firelight on their lined faces. And out of joining the Union or joining the North, she reckoned his had been much the better idea. But someone had to steer Uffrith now, and it couldn’t be him.

  “I win!” roared Oxel, holding up his bloody sword. “I fucking win! Send word to the Great Wolf that we’re joining the North and—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” called Rikke, holding her palms high and bringing every face towards her. “Let’s not dash off ahead of ourselves. I never agreed to that.”

  “You said you’d fall behind the winner!”

  “I said ideas should contend. I didn’t say there were only two.”

  Oxel’s face twisted. “What the fuck do you mean, girl?”

  “Red Hat said join the Union. You said join the North. Spat it at me over my father’s grave, as I recall.” She gave it a moment, feeling her own heart thumping hard in her chest, then shrugged as if she hadn’t a care. “I say we stay as we are. As my father wanted us. Independent.”

  “Who fights for that?” sneered Oxel. “You?”

  “A woman, in the Circle? Wouldn’t dream o’ polluting the proud institution by sticking my tits in it. First step in getting anything done is knowing what you can’t do, and I wouldn’t last two breaths in there wi’ you. Reckon I’ll leave it to my champion.” And Shivers brushed one of Red Hat’s shield-carriers out of his way and stepped past, grey sword drawn and hanging by his side. “I mean, why even have a champion if he doesn’t fight your duels?”

  A mutter went through the watching men. Oxel’s men, and Red Hat’s, and Hardbread’s, and the rest. Fear, and anger, and excitement, too. The Bloody-Nine was the worst man in the world to find yourself in the Circle with. But Caul Shivers came a close second.

  “You tricky bitch!” snarled Oxel.

  Rikke laughed. “Aye, Tricky Rikke. But this is the North! Tricks are a tradition even older and more proper than duels.” She let her smile fade. “My father fought all his life so we could be free. Fought his friends and his enemies. Fought Black Dow, and Black Calder, and Scale Ironhand, and Stour Nightfall, and never lost. Gave everything for it. Gave till he was a husk. Think I’m going to give up what he gave me just ’cause you ask?” She curled back her lips and screamed it, spraying spit. “You didn’t even fucking ask nicely!”

  Oxel worked his mouth. “We’ll see, you little cunt.”

  “I do the seeing.” Rikke nodded at Shivers. “The dead are blind.”

  To be fair, Oxel gave her a shock of his own by springing forward without even waiting for Red Hat’s corpse to get dragged out, lashing at Shivers’ blind side with everything he had. No doubt he thought his best bet was surprise and knew his chances would wither with every swing. No doubt he was right.

  It was a good effort, but Shivers was fresher, and stronger, and quicker, and Rikke never yet saw him surprised. He caught Oxel’s sword with his own, metal squealing as he steered it wide to hack a long scar in one of the shields at the edge of the Circle.

  Oxel righted himself as Shivers stepped back into space, weighing his sword, the bright rune near the hilt glinting on the dull blade. “Come on, you bastard!” he snarled. “Come on, you half-blind maggot! I’ll cut a new arse in you!”

  Shivers wasted no breath on hard words. Just watched. Calm as a fisherman waiting for the tide.

  Oxel came on, feinted low but swung high. Rikke gasped, sure he’d caught Shivers in the face, knowing the future of Uffrith, not to mention her own, was hanging by a thread. But Shivers whipped back from the waist at the last moment, let the blade whistle past his nose, let Oxel stumble after it.

  Caul Shivers wasn’t Stour Nightfall. If he’d ever had a mind to show off, he’d left it far in the past with his other eye.

  His
sword chopped deep into Oxel’s side, under his ribs, specks of blood spattering the gawping faces of his shield-carriers.

  Oxel staggered sideways, giving a bubbling wheeze, clutching at his side and the blood leaking dark between his fingers. He tried a despairing lunge, all off balance, but Shivers stepped around it, pinned Oxel’s right arm under his left, lifted his sword high and clubbed Oxel on the crown of his head with the pommel.

  Sounded like someone hitting a pot with a hammer. Oxel’s sword clattered to the ground and he dropped to his knees, blood bubbling through his hair and running down his face in red streaks. He gave a funny slurp and looked up at Rikke.

  “You—”

  Shivers’ sword pinged as it took Oxel’s head off and sent it bouncing across the circle. One of Red Hat’s shield-carriers jumped out of the way to let it roll past. Shivers turned to Oxel’s men as their chief’s body flopped sideways. He didn’t roar in triumph or throw his arms up in victory or bellow insults. Just looked at ’em, like he was making an offer, and wasn’t much bothered either way whether anyone took him up on it.

  No one did a thing. No one said a thing. Just a long silence as the wash of blood from Oxel’s corpse became a stream, then a trickle, a great slick of it joining with Red Hat’s and slowly spreading.

  Rikke put her hand on Shivers’ shoulder and slipped past him, padding into the centre of the Circle.

  “Any more ideas need testing?” she asked, turning all the way around so everyone got the chance to speak.

  She’d no idea what she’d have done if someone spoke up. But no one did a thing. No one said a thing.

  “Anyone else want to go their own way?”

  Her mouth was dry and her pulse thumped in her skull. But there was silence like winter. Silence like death.

  “No more opinions? No one?”

  The Named Men shuffled meek out of her path, shields limp on their arms, as Rikke wandered back to her bench, bare feet leaving a trail of bloody footprints across the floor of her father’s hall.

  “What happens now?” muttered Hardbread, staring at the two corpses and clutching at his sparse white hair.

  “I know exactly what’ll happen,” said Rikke, even if a lot of it was a sea of doubts, and she sat back down and dragged that sheepskin around her shoulders. “I’ve seen it.”

  “What have you seen?” asked one of Red Hat’s men. Angry at what had happened, maybe, but with a touch of curiosity in his voice, too. A needy little whine. In the end, no matter what they say, most folk want a path to follow. Someone to tell ’em it’ll all be fine. Someone to tell ’em what to do.

  “I know you lot love to worry, but you can stop now.” Rikke tipped her head on one side and smiled. She didn’t have to put any threat in it. The runes on her face did that for her. Well, the runes and the two corpses and Shivers standing speckled with their blood. “All you have to do is what I tell you. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Like Rikke’s father used to say, you want things right, you have to put ’em right yourself. She took up her scissors, and brought her knee up to her chin, and set to trimming her toenails again. The big one on her left foot had this funny little spike of skin at the corner. Always took a while to shape it nicely.

  Fire with Fire

  “You’re a magus, then?” asked Stour.

  “The Magus Radierus, at your service!” No doubt he sounded the part, making quite the meal from every “r” passed through his mouth, and he looked the part, too. Robe with all sorts of gold thread in it, and a big long beard forked and streaked with white, and a twisted staff with a sort of crystal on the end.

  “So you can do magic?” Stour had his sword drawn. He loved to keep it drawn, which seemed folly to Clover. The big advantage of a sword over an axe, after all, is that you can sheathe the bastard thing and not make everyone nervous. But making everyone nervous was one o’ the Great Wolf’s favourite pastimes, sword’s point resting on the flagstones beside Skarling’s chair, toying with the pommel, turning it so the blade flashed and flickered. Sometimes when the sun hit the windows right, he’d catch it on his sword and shine it in people’s eyes, just because.

  “Not only magic.” The old man sounded pretty confident as he wafted his staff about. “But the High Art of Juvens!” There was quite the sheen of sweat across his forehead, though.

  “Show me,” said Stour. Clover didn’t much like the way this was going.

  The old man closed his eyes, muttering some words Clover couldn’t understand, waved his free hand with much to-do, then flung something into the air in a puff of glittering dust. It was a little bird, which flapped about a bit and ended up sitting puzzled on one of the rafters.

  “That’s nice,” said Clover.

  Beside him, Black Calder took another swig of ale and disgustedly shook his head. “By all the fucking dead.”

  “I thought it was nice.”

  Stour, it seemed, did not agree. He narrowed his eyes the way he did when someone was about to get hurt, which wasn’t rarely. “I heard tell you could disappear.”

  “Well… er…” The eyes of the magus darted nervously about. “Only under certain conditions, my king. Auspicious moments in the moon’s cycle, you understand, when the stars align, and—”

  “Hit him,” said Stour.

  Greenway’s fist smacked into the old man’s cheek and knocked him flat on his back, robes flapping and his staff clattering down, the crystal on the end jolting loose and skittering away into a corner.

  “I just do tricks!” he squealed as Greenway dragged him up again, his magnificence somewhat spoiled by a bloody mouth. “In a travelling show! It’s not magic. Not really.” His “r” sounds weren’t too clever any more. None of his sounds were. “I’m not a magus! I can disappear, but… it’s a box with a fake bottom—”

  Stour’s lip curled. “Get this old halfhead out o’ my sight.”

  Greenway caught the would-be magus around the neck and hauled him towards the door, heels helplessly kicking. Turned out he could disappear after all. Clover felt the twitch of a smile, almost turned around to toss the joke at Wonderful. Then he remembered he’d killed her.

  Black Calder gave a great scornful snort as Radierus was dragged out, making Stour frown over. “Something tickling you, Father?”

  “Aye, rounding up magicians.” Calder snorted again. “Quite the bloody joke.”

  “You could skip to the punchline right now. Head to the Great Northern Library and bring your friend the First of the Magi to see me.”

  The scorn slipped from Calder’s face and left him grim. “Bayaz is no friend of mine. No friend of anyone’s. His help’ll cost far more than it’s worth. Cost you everything. Better off shaking hands with the plague.”

  “The Dogman’s daughter has the Long Eye,” said Stour, and a few of his warriors muttered and grumbled unhappily. “I have to fight fire with fire.”

  “That’ll win you naught but ashes,” said Calder. “There’s not much magic left in the world, and what there is ain’t worth the price. You’d best hope all you find is tricks and liars.” And he sank further into his seat and took another swig of ale. Seemed with his brother back to the mud, he was set on keeping the breweries in business himself.

  Greenway was marching the next magician in, and she looked a lot less promising than the last. A sturdy woman with a ragged dress and dirty bare feet who couldn’t tear her big round eyes away from the cage in the corner. Gregun Hollowhead wasn’t in it any more. His head was rotting on a spike over the gates of Carleon. But one of his Named Men had come to complain about it so the cage had a new guest, starved and battered, one scabbed leg dangling from the bottom and nearly scraping the sticky stones underneath.

  “Who’s this one?” asked Stour, rubbing at his chin. He’d grown himself a little bit of beard, just under his mouth, while he shaved the rest. Clover couldn’t understand it. Grow it or don’t, but why leave bits? It was like leaving your wife half-fucked. But then, Clover had given up on
trying to work out why anyone did anything, especially Stour.

  “She’s from a village up near Yaws,” said Greenway.

  “That so?” asked the Great Wolf, considering her with his bright, wet eyes.

  “Her name’s Seff.”

  Calder sat up, looking sharply over. “Huh,” grunted Stour. “That was my mother’s name.”

  “Good sign, I guess,” said Greenway.

  “It’s just a fucking name, fool. I’ve heard tell you can see things, Seff from up near Yaws.”

  She glanced around the hard faces in the room. No one could’ve looked more terrified, and Clover didn’t blame her. “Well… sometimes I do… I reckon…”

  Calder sank back with another great snort of contempt, made his son bare his teeth in frustration. “What do you see?”

  “One time, I saw the village burning,” said Seff from up near Yaws, “and the next day men came, and… well, they burned the village.”

  “Saved everyone, then?”

  She swallowed. “Well, no, ’cause no one believed me.”

  “Guess that’s their fault, eh?”

  “I reckon…”

  Stour sat forward. “You heard there’s a witch down in Uffrith?”

  “The Dogman’s daughter?” Seff from up near Yaws nervously licked her lips. “I heard she’s got the Long Eye. Got it real and true, like back in the Old Time. Heard she can see what a man’s thinking. Heard she can stay dry in the rain ’cause she knows where all the drops’ll fall. Heard she’s got everything that’ll happen written in a golden book and all she has to do is look it up so—”

  “That’s all shit!” barked Stour, straining forward with the veins bulging from his neck, making everyone in the hall jump. “But she can see things. She saw where my sword would be. Only reason I lost that duel.” He got up, pulling that fine wolfskin cloak about him, the point of his sword scraping on the old stones as he stepped down from the dais. “If she can see things… I need to see things, you understand? So tell me…” Stour stopped in front of Seff, the hall all quiet. “What do you see?”