The Trouble with Peace

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Maybe three dozen,” offered one of the others, shuffling forward on his knees. Here was a sad lesson. You can talk fine words till your tongue bleeds and never get a favour. Cut one throat and everyone’s falling over themselves to be helpful.

  “Three dozen’s not many,” said Isern.

  “No.” Rikke scratched her head as she frowned up at the black battlements against the white sky. “But he don’t need many to hold that.”

  Common Ground

  “So sorry I’m late,” said Orso, striding into the room. The table was set for a royal dinner, silverwear gleaming. “So much to do, you understand. Well, of course you understand, you’ve an army of your own to manage. And bigger even than mine! Don’t get up!” Hildi struck a match and began to light the tall candles as Orso trotted over to offer his hand, smiling hugely. His mother had always told him it was important to smile. Especially at your enemies.

  Brock was not much changed. Every bit the chunkily handsome storybook hero that Orso remembered. He had grown something of a beard, but then he probably grew a beard between breakfast and lunch, even those bits at the corners of the mouth that Orso could never quite get to come through. Frozen uncomfortably between rising and staying seated, Brock looked at the proffered hand with an air of puzzled disgust. Like a man who had rolled over to find a turd in his bed. Then he reluctantly reached for it.

  “Not too firmly!” said Orso. “Remember I’m no warrior!” When Brock’s hand gingerly gripped his, he gave it as bone-crushing a squeeze as he could manage and was mildly gratified to see him wince. Small victories, perhaps, but Orso’s father had always said one must take all the victories one can get.

  Brock gestured to the two men he had brought with him, standing grimly against the wall. “These are my aides—Antaup…” Lean and handsome, with that slicked-back black hair which somehow always let a rakish lock or two drop over the forehead. “And Whitewater Jin.” A rugged, red-bearded Northman who looked to have been opening doors with his face most of his life.

  Orso grinned at them, too. Grins were free, after all. “Are there any small Northmen? I’ve never seen one!”

  “We keep ’em at the back,” growled Jin.

  “Lucky for them! I’ll be at the back myself, if it comes to fighting, I can promise you that, eh, Tunny?”

  Tunny gave an approving nod. “Well in the rear, Your Majesty.”

  “How about you, Young Lion? You’ll be leading by example, I daresay?”

  “I daresay,” said Brock stiffly.

  “Corporal Tunny and Colonel Gorst you know, of course, and this is Hildi, my—” Orso frowned. “What the hell are you, Hildi? My butler? My jester?”

  “Your parasite,” she said as she lit the last of the candles and neatly wafted out the match. “I’m only here till you pay what you owe me—”

  “For the Fates’ sakes, you know I’m good for it.” Orso gave a weary sigh as he dropped into his chair. “But that’s being king. Everyone wants a little piece of you. You’ll find out. If you win.”

  Brock paused with mouth open, then gave a kind of grimace, as though he had realised the only way to get that turd out of his bed was with his fingers. “We don’t want to depose you, Your Majesty—”

  “Please don’t ‘Majesty’ me, it’s faintly ridiculous at the best of times, but with armies in the field it’s positively absurd. Let’s talk like equals. Like friends. Just for tonight. I imagine tomorrow’s events will necessitate a whole new relationship between us, in any case.”

  Brock grimaced again as he pronounced the name. “Orso, then—”

  “Wine?” asked Orso, and Hildi ghosted forward with a cloth over one arm and tipped the bottle towards Brock’s glass.

  “Not for me.”

  “I hope you won’t mind if I do, it’s a very good Osprian. Maybe your friends would like to—”

  Whitewater Jin looked as if he might be on the point of accepting but Brock jumped in first. “My friends want the same thing as me. To avoid a battle, if we can. That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re invading Midderland… to avoid a battle? Couldn’t you have simply… stayed loyal?” And Orso took a noisy slurp from his glass, regarding the Lord Governor of Angland over the rim.

  “Loyal?” Brock stared back at him, ever so slightly pale. “No man was more loyal than me when Scale Ironhand attacked the Protectorate. We leaped to the Dogman’s defence. Never considered anything else. We were outnumbered but we fought even so. We knew we had the Union behind us. We knew help would come. Any day.” He looked over at the Steadfast Standard, chest swelling with pride, as if the damn thing really was made of gold rather than just gold thread. “Back then, I would’ve followed that flag into hell!”

  Orso swallowed uncomfortably. This story was making his wine taste somewhat sour.

  “But all we got from Midderland was well-wishes,” said Brock, nobly disappointed, “and empty promises, and endless demands for taxes. Do you wonder why there wasn’t a man in Angland who wouldn’t follow me here?” His voice was growing louder and louder. Self-righteousness suited him. “We fought your war. Men died. My friends died. I nearly died. My leg burns with every step and stinks like a shithouse floor and will never heal.” Brock smashed the table with his fist and made the cutlery jump. “And all because you sat here on your fat arses while we fought for our lives!”

  Orso felt Gorst shift as the echoes faded and he held up a calming hand. The room was very still. He had to admit, he had never felt more respect for Leo dan Brock than at that moment. He was a man one could envy. A man for whom everything was simple. And he had a good claim to being the injured party. It was a shame it had come to this.

  “You make a very good point,” said Orso. “No doubt it will mean nothing to you now, but I find it hard to describe my utter shame and disgust that you were sent no help. I did try, in my own rather useless way… something of an irony that most of the men I field against you now are the ones I raised to help you then. But the Breakers rose up in Valbeck, and I had to fight that fire first. And then… well. You know what happened at Red Hill and afterwards better than anyone. Suffice to say you managed without us. The Closed Council let you down. My father let you down.” He took a hard breath. “I let you down. But… is this really the remedy? Insurrection? Treason? Civil war?”

  Brock glared across the table. “You left us no choice.”

  “Really? Because I don’t remember anyone trying to talk to me about it. I know we have our differences, but we both, I think, believe in the Union? While there is still time—can we not find a way to satisfaction without the deaths of so many of our countrymen? Can we not find some common ground?”

  “Perhaps,” said Brock coldly, “if you were to dismiss your entire Closed Council and replace them with men of our choosing.”

  “And taking a wild guess… you would choose yourselves?”

  “We’d choose patriots!” shouted Brock, thumping the table again but with less conviction. “Men of quality.” Moving away from the sun-drenched uplands of anger and into the shadowy thickets of politics, he was rather less impressive. “Men who can… well… take the Union back to its founding principles.”

  “But whether a man is a patriot, or for that matter of quality, all depends on who you ask, doesn’t it? Our current predicament makes that abundantly clear, if nothing else. As for principles, it was Bayaz who founded the Union, and he’s still on the Closed Council when it pleases him, in spite of my best efforts. You should spend some time in there. You’ll find your most proudly rigid principles turn shockingly flaccid. The First of the Magi can stretch them until they fit around any outrage, believe me.”

  Leo dan Brock’s impressive jaw muscles worked, but to little result. He really was no philosopher. “We have the numbers,” he grumbled. “You have to surrender.”

  “Well, I’m no general, but I believe… technically speaking… I could fight and lose? Put yourself in my place. Would you surrender?”

&nb
sp; Orso could almost see the wheels turning behind Brock’s eyes. Plainly, putting himself in someone else’s place was not something he did often. Was not something he had the equipment for. Perhaps it was fortunate that Hildi barged in at that moment with a gilded tray in her hands, two bowls of Suljuk porcelain steaming on top.

  “Aha!” Orso whisked up his spoon. “My cook is called Bernille, and I know they say nothing good ever comes from Talins, but I swear her soup will change your mind.”

  Brock frowned down at his bowl, then over at his friend Antaup.

  “Oh, come on, I’m not going to poison you.” Orso leaned across, dipped his spoon in Brock’s soup and sucked it dry. “Now eat up, there’s a good fellow. There are excuses for High Treason but letting Bernille’s soup go cold is bloody unforgivable.”

  Probably it was great soup. If kings don’t have great soup, who does, after all? But Leo was in no mood to enjoy it. He felt angry, and worried, and with the sky almost dark outside the narrow windows, like he’d missed his chance. He’d been sure Orso would be out of his depth with soldiers in the field. That he’d be weak, and cowardly, and desperate to concede to anything. But the man couldn’t have looked more relaxed. You had to admire his nerve. Anyone would’ve thought he was the one with the numbers.

  “So…” and Orso tossed his spoon into his empty bowl. “If I replace my Closed Council with your chosen men, I get to stay king? I honestly don’t enjoy it, but all my crockery has little crowns on, and so forth. Changing everything would be…” He glanced at his strange little waiter.

  She puffed out her cheeks as she filled his glass again. “Bloody nightmare.”

  “We’re not usurpers,” grumbled Leo, “we’re—”

  “Patriots, yes, of course,” said Orso, “but I’m not sure you’ve thought this all the way through. Once the troops go home… what’s to stop me changing my mind?”

  Leo had tended to leave the thinking through to Jurand, and Savine, and his mother, and none of them was there. He frowned and said nothing.

  “I am sure your friend Lord Isher has thought it through. He’s not a man to under-plan, eh? We both know all that nonsense with Wetterlant was entirely his design.”

  “How d’you mean?” muttered Leo, feeling as if he was blundering into a trap but unable to stop himself.

  “He came to me. Isher. Offering to heal the wounds between the Closed and Open Councils. To orchestrate a deal that would see Wetterlant imprisoned, the commoners satisfied, the noblemen mollified and me looking like a masterful statesman.” Orso snorted. “I should have known. Any plan intended to make me look good has to be doomed. Ah! Fish!”

  Orso’s blonde-haired girl came out of nowhere and whisked a steaming plate in front of Leo. “Bernille really does work magic with seafood.” Orso twirled a fork around between his fingers. “She’s more sorceress than cook, even in a farmhouse kitchen. No, no, it’s the small cutlery, Leo. What was I saying?”

  “Wetterlant and Isher,” said Corporal Tunny.

  “Ah, yes. I went into the Lords’ Round that day expecting to emerge just yet merciful. Imagine my dismay when I ended up the epitome of an idiotic tyrant. But then, spare a thought for Wetterlant.” He forked up a chunk of fish and chewed with great relish. “He was left dangling. Literally. I couldn’t even make a clean job of that. Quite the ugly scene. I bloody hate hangings. Still, I’ll confess I don’t miss the man. An utterly loathsome specimen and guilty as the plague. So much for the good graces of Lord Isher, eh? He loves to play the peacemaker, but he’s been sowing discord this whole time. I daresay he’s the one who sold this little package to you first? Told you Wetterlant was wronged and I was a monster? Men of quality.” And he shook his head and chuckled.

  Leo frowned, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. He’d been rather pleased with how he’d done the righteous anger, but now he wasn’t enjoying himself at all. Talking to Orso was like talking to Jappo Murcatto, but with higher stakes and lower hopes of success. All his firm reasons, his noble certainties, his staunch alliances, seemed to be crumbling like castles made of sand.

  “I don’t know what story you’ve been told about reform, and freeing me from my chains and blah, blah, blah, but I’m quite certain Isher means to replace me entirely. Probably with you. Not sufficiently glorious to make a good puppet, is he? But I daresay he imagines he could pull the strings skilfully enough. And then, of course… there is your wife.”

  Leo forced the words through gritted teeth. “Leave her out of this.”

  “Please, no one has a higher opinion of Savine than I do.” Orso gave a sad little sigh, staring off into the middle distance. “I’ve been in love with the woman for years, in spite of my best efforts. But I don’t think it’s unfair to say she’s just…” And he held up finger and thumb with a hair’s breadth between them. “A teensy bit ambitious. I wouldn’t put money on great Juvens if he came between her and what she wanted. I never imagined she would be able to resist being queen. That’s why I was so surprised that she turned me down.”

  “That she what?”

  “When I proposed to her.”

  Leo just managed to stop himself giving a strangled squawk. If he’d been floundering in the conversation before, he was drowning in it now. Clearly his wife hadn’t shared the whole truth when it came to her relationship with the king. What else might she have kept from him?

  “A bolt of lightning could have struck me no more forcefully than when she said no,” mused Orso, chopping at his fish with the side of his fork. “But… perhaps she found another way to make herself queen? I hear she is with you on campaign. She always did like to keep a close eye on her investments.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong!” growled Leo, wondering if he actually had it all right. His chair shrieked on the stone-flagged floor as he stood, and he had to smother a gasp at the stab of pain in his leg. “We’ve nothing more to discuss!”

  “But we’ve still got the main course!”

  “It’s liver,” said Hildi.

  “Ah! Bernille does it so it just…” and Orso closed his eyes, touched his lips and let his fingers flutter gently off, “melts away to nothing. You know.” He opened his eyes and smiled. “Like excuses for rebellion.”

  “You mind if I…?” Hildi was already poised over Leo’s half-eaten fish with a fork in her hand.

  “Have at it,” he snarled as he turned for the door. “I’ll see you on the battlefield.”

  Orso almost choked on his wine. “Bloody hell, I hope not.”

  Doubts and Desires

  “Are you awake?” whispered Leo.

  Of course she was. How could she sleep with the endless kicking of her baby, the endless noise of soldiers on the move outside the window, the endless doubts, fears, hopes chasing each other around her mind like stray dogs after the butcher’s cart?

  Savine had to slide her arm under her belly and half-lift it so she could wriggle over to face him. The first light was touching the sky outside, a faint gleam in the corners of his eyes, a glow on his cheek, shifting as his jaw nervously worked.

  “You should go back to Ostenhorm,” he said. “It’s not safe here—”

  “We’re together in this, Leo.” She tried to make her voice the essence of calm. Like a mother soothing her child. Like a lion tamer trying to keep his beast on the stool. “We have to be together in this.” She took his hand and slid it onto her belly. She wasn’t sure which of them the trembling came from. “All our futures are at stake.”

  “By the dead, Savine…” His voice was the essence of panic. “Have I made a terrible mistake?”

  She felt a stab of anger, then. Everyone has doubts. The Fates knew she did. But leaders have to crush their doubts down deep inside where they cannot leak out and stain the entire enterprise. It was far too late for second thoughts. The dice were out of their hands and already rolling.

  She felt a stab of anger, but losing her temper was a luxury she could not afford. “You’ve done the right thing.” She made h
erself meet his eye, made herself sound sure. “You’ve done what you had to.”

  “Can I trust Isher?”

  Savine would not have trusted him to carry her night-pot. “Of course you can, he’s bound to us, Leo, he has no—”

  “Can I trust Stour?”

  To call Stour a wild dog was unfair. Wild dogs were at least capable of loyalty. “He respects you. And it’s a little late to be—”

  “Can I trust you?”

  Silence. Faint cries and clatters outside as they moved up supplies by torchlight. “How can you ask me that?” she snarled. She wanted to slap him. “You’re the one who chose this! All I’ve done is everything I can to make sure it succeeds!” And promised Uffrith to Stour, and promised the Closed Council to Isher, and promised the throne to herself. “Orso stuffed your head with doubts, didn’t he? Damn it, I told you not to underestimate him!”

  Another silence. She could hear his quick breathing. She could hear her own. “You’re right,” he said grudgingly. “You’re always bloody right.” He even managed to make that sound like an accusation. “I just don’t even know where half my friends are, let alone my enemies. Rikke, and Jurand—”

  “Leo—”

  “What if my mother was right? What if I’m a warrior but no general? What if—”

  She wished she did not always have to be the strong one. The Fates knew, she could have used some comfort. But some people need to be held up. Which means some people need to do the holding.

  She clapped a hand to his head, twisted her fingers in his hair and dragged his face towards her. “Stop. You’re not just a warrior, or a leader, or a general, you’re a hero.” Heroes are defined not by what they do, after all, or why, but by what people think they have done. “The cause is just.” She would be a wonderful queen. “We have strong allies beside us.” A circle of self-serving snakes. “We are going to win.” They had fucking better. “And the people of the Union will win with us. They need us. They need you.” It did not matter whether she believed it, only that she made him believe. She had to blow him up with hot air until he towered over the battlefield. “I need you,” and she pulled him close, and gave him the softest kiss.