Joe Abercrombie - Half a War

‘Did you carve the scabbard too?’ Raith ran his thick fingertips down the wood. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I work the metal,’ said Rin. ‘Koll works the wood.’

Raith looked round at him. ‘You’ve a gift to be proud of, then. Wish I could make things.’ He winced as he made a fist. As if it hurt him to do it. ‘Always been better at breaking.’

‘That takes less effort,’ muttered Koll.

‘I need a sword,’ said Skara. ‘And mail that fits me.’

Rin gave the young queen a doubtful look up and down. She hardly looked strong enough to stand in armour, let alone fight in it. ‘Are you going into battle?’

Skara smiled. ‘Gods, no. But I want to look like I might.’

‘Mother Scaer, what a pleasure.’

One glance at Gorm’s minister told Skara her visit would not be much of a pleasure for anyone. She was always a woman of edges and angles, but now her face was as sharp as a chisel, and just as humourless.

‘I am sorry for the state of my chambers, we have had to start rather from scratch.’ The furniture had been scrounged up from anywhere, the hangings were captured battle-flags, and Blue Jenner would not say where the goose-feather mattress had come from. But these were the rooms Skara had been born in, the three great arched windows looking out over the yard of her own fortress. She was going nowhere.

‘Will you have some wine?’ She turned to beckon her thrall, but Mother Scaer stopped her dead.

‘I have not come for wine, my queen. I have come to discuss your vote for Father Yarvi.’

‘I vote in the interests of Throvenland.’

‘Will Throvenland benefit from a second Breaking of God?’ Scaer’s voice was sharp with anger. ‘What if Father Yarvi cannot control this magic? Or if he can control it, what then? Do you think he will give it up?’

‘Would it benefit Throvenland more to have the High King’s army ranging unchecked?’ Skara felt herself getting shrill, struggled to keep calm and failed. ‘To have Bright Yilling burn what little is left unburned?’

Mother Scaer’s eyes were narrowed to deadly slits. ‘You do not want to do this, my queen.’

‘It seems everyone but me knows what I want to do.’ Skara raised a brow at Sister Owd. ‘Has one queen ever been blessed with the advice of so many ministers?’

‘There at least I can lighten your burden,’ said Scaer. ‘If you mean to join in Father Yarvi’s madness I must keep a close eye upon him. My king must have a minister at his side in the meantime.’ She held out one long, tattooed arm, and beckoned with her crooked forefinger. ‘Playtime is over, Sister Owd. Get back to your place and look to my crows.’

Owd’s round face fell, and Skara had to make an effort to stop hers doing the same. She had not realized until that moment how much she had come to rely on her minister. How much she had come to trust her. To like her. ‘I am not minded to give her up-’

‘Not minded?’ Scaer snorted. ‘She is my apprentice, lent, not given, and in case you were too foolish to realize it, my queen , she has been telling me everything. Who you speak to and what you say. Your every request and desire. The size of each morning turd, for that matter. I understand that, like she that produces them, they are a little … thin .’

Owd was staring stricken at her feet, face turned redder than ever. Skara should have known. Perhaps she had. But it still cut her deep. She was speechless for a moment. But only a moment. Then she thought of how her grandfather might have answered, had he been treated with such scorn in his own land, his own fortress, his own chambers.

As Sister Owd took a reluctant step towards the door Skara put out an arm to stop her.

‘You misunderstand me! I am not minded to give her up because only this morning she swore her oath to me as Mother Kyre’s successor. Mother Owd is the new Minister of Throvenland, and her only place is beside me.’

She was pleased to see Scaer look suitably astonished at the news. The only person who looked more so was Owd herself.

She stared from her old mistress to her new, then back, eyes round as cups. But she was too sharp to stay off-balance long. ‘It is true.’ Owd pushed her shoulders back and stretched out her neck. A posture Mother Kyre would have thoroughly approved of. ‘I have sworn to serve Queen Skara as her minister. I was going to tell you-’

‘But you spoiled our surprise,’ said Skara, smiling sweetly. A smile costs nothing, after all.

‘Oh, there will be a price for this,’ said Mother Scaer, nodding slowly. ‘Of that I assure you.’

Skara was out of patience. ‘Wake me when it’s time to pay. Now are you walking from my chambers or shall I have Raith toss you from the window?’

Gorm’s minister gave one final hiss of disgust then stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her.

‘Well.’ Skara took a ragged breath and put one hand on her chest, trying to calm her hammering heart. ‘That was bracing.’

‘My queen,’ whispered Sister Owd, eyes turned mortified to the floor. ‘I know I do not deserve your forgiveness-’

‘You cannot have it.’ Skara put a calming hand on her shoulder. ‘Because you have done nothing wrong. I have always known you are loyal. But I have always known your loyalties were divided. Mother Scaer was your mistress. Now you have chosen me. For that I am grateful. Very grateful.’ And Skara squeezed her shoulder firmly, stepping closer. ‘But your loyalties must be divided no longer.’

Sister Owd stared back, and dashed a little wetness from her lashes. ‘I swear a sun-oath and a moon-oath, my queen. I shall be a loyal minister to you and to Throvenland. I shall have a greater care for your body than for my own. I shall have a greater care for your interests than for my own. I shall tell your secrets to no one and keep no secret from you. I am yours. I swear it.’

‘Thank you, Mother Owd.’ Skara let go of her with a parting pat. ‘The gods know I have never been in sorer need of good advice.’

Raith wove between the campfires, around the tents, among the gathered warriors of Vansterland. He’d done the same a hundred times, before duels, before raids, before battles. This was where he was happiest. This was home to him. Or it should’ve been. Things weren’t quite what they used to be.

The men were tired, and far from their fields and their families, and knew the odds they faced. Raith could see the doubt in their firelit faces. Could hear it in their voices, their laughter, their songs. Could smell their fear.

He wasn’t the only one wandering through the camp. Death walked here too, marking out the doomed, and every man felt the chill of her passing.

He struck away towards a low hill with a single fire on top, strode up towards the summit, the chatter fading behind him. Rakki knelt on a blanket by the fire, Gorm’s shield between his knees, frowning as he polished the bright rim with a rag. Gods, it was good to see him. Like a sight of home for a man a long time gone.

‘Hey, hey, brother,’ said Raith.

‘Hey, hey.’ When Rakki looked around it was like staring in a mirror. The magic mirror Horald brought back from his voyages, that showed a man the better part of himself.

Sitting down beside him was as comfortable as slipping on a favourite pair of boots. Raith watched his brother work in silence for a moment, then looked down at his own empty hands. ‘Something’s missing.’

‘If it’s your brains, your looks or your sense of humour, I’ve got ’em all.’

Raith snorted. ‘I was thinking of a sword for me to work on.’

‘Queen Skara’s scabbard doesn’t need a polish?’