Joe Abercrombie - Half a King

Yarvi had come home.

It was some time before his mother let him go, and held him at arm’s length, and carefully wiped her cheeks. He realized he looked up into her face no longer. He had grown, then. Grown in many ways.

“It seems your friend spoke the truth,” she said.

Yarvi slowly nodded. “I am alive.”

“And have learned to fasten your cloak-buckle,” she said, giving it a searching tug and finding it secure.

IN SILENCE SHE LISTENED to his story.

In silence she heard of the raid and the burning of Amwend. Of Odem’s betrayal and Yarvi’s long fall into the bitter sea.

Shall Gettland have half a king?

In silence she heard him made a slave, and sold a slave, only her eyes moving to the faint scars on his neck.

These are some wretched leavings.

In silence he made his escape, endured the long ordeal in the ice, fought for his life in the elf-ruin, and all the while Yarvi thought what a song it would make if he lived to have it set to music.

You cannot expect all the heroes to survive a good song.

And when it came to Ankran’s death and then to Shadikshirram’s, Yarvi thought of the red knife in his hand, and his grunting and hers, and his throat closed, and he shut his eyes and could not speak.

You may need two hands to fight someone, but only one to stab them in the back.

Then he felt his mother’s hand on his. “I am proud. Your father would have been proud. All that matters is that you have come back to me.”

“Thanks to these four,” said Yarvi, swallowing sour spit.

Yarvi’s mother swept his companions with her searching gaze. “You all have my thanks.”

“It was nothing,” grunted Nothing, eyes locked to the floor, face hidden behind his tangle of hair.

“My honor,” said Jaud, bowing his head.

“We couldn’t have made it without him,” muttered Rulf.

“He was a sore pain in my arse every mile,” said Sumael. “If I had it to do again I’d leave him in the sea.”

“And then where would you find a ship to take you home?” asked Yarvi, grinning at her.

“Oh, I would think of something else,” she said, grinning back.

Yarvi’s mother did not join them. She took in every detail of the look they gave each other, and her eyes narrowed. “What is my son to you, girl?”

Sumael blinked, and her dark cheek colored. “I …” Yarvi had never seen her at a loss for words before.

“She is my friend,” he said. “She risked her life for mine. She is my oarmate.” He paused for a moment. “She is my family.”

“Is that so?” Yarvi’s mother still glared at Sumael, who was now studying the floor with minute interest. “Then she must be mine also.”

In truth Yarvi was far from sure what they were to each other, and less than keen to put it to the test before his mother. “Things have changed here.” He nodded towards the window, the entreaties of the One God’s priest coming faint from outside.

“Things lie in ruins here.” His mother’s eyes came back to his, and angrier than ever. “I had only just taken off my black for your death when an eagle came to Mother Gundring. An invitation to the High King’s wedding in Skekenhouse.”

“Did you go?”

She snorted. “I was, and am, reluctant to attend.”

“Why?”

“Because Grandmother Wexen has me in mind for the bride, Yarvi.”

Yarvi’s eyes went wide. “Oh.”

“Yes. Oh. They think to chain me to the key of that withered old remnant and have me spin them gold out of straw. Meanwhile your snake of an uncle and his worm of a daughter frustrate me at every turn, and do their damndest to destroy all I have built here.”

“Isriun?” muttered Yarvi, with the slightest croak in his throat. He almost added, “my betrothed,” but with a glance at Sumael thought it best to stop short.

“I know her name,” growled his mother. “I choose not to use it. They break agreements years in the making, turn hard-won friends to enemies in a moment, seize the goods of foreign merchants and drive them from the market. If their aim was to ruin Gettland they could not have done a finer job. They have given my mint over as a temple to the High King’s false god, you saw that?”

“Something of the kind-”

“One God standing above all others, just as one High King sits above all others.” She barked a joyless laugh that made Yarvi jump. “I fight them, but I am losing ground. They do not understand the battlefield, but they have the Black Chair. They have the key to the treasury. I have fought them every day, with every weapon and strategy-”

“Except the sword,” grunted Nothing, without looking up.

Yarvi’s mother turned her dagger gaze on him. “That will be next. But Odem takes no chances with his safety, and has all the warriors of Gettland behind him. I have no more than two score men in my household. There is Hurik-”

“No,” said Yarvi. “Hurik is Odem’s man. He tried to kill me.”

His mother’s eyes widened. “Hurik is my Chosen Shield. He would never betray me-”

“He betrayed me easily enough.” Yarvi remembered Keimdal’s blood speckling his face. “Believe me. It is a moment I am not likely to forget.”

She bared her teeth and placed one trembling fist upon the table. “I will see him drowned in the mire. But to beat Odem we will need an army.”

Yarvi licked his lips. “I have one on the way.”

“Did I lose a son and gain a magician? From where?”

“Vansterland,” said Nothing.

There was a stony pause then. “I see.” Yarvi’s mother turned her glare on Sister Owd, who ventured an apologetic smile, then cleared her throat and looked down at the floor. Few looked elsewhere when his mother was in the room. “You forged an alliance with the Grom-gil-Gorm? The man who killed your father and sold you as a slave?”

“He did not kill my father. I am sure of that.” Three-quarters sure, at least. “Odem killed your husband and your son, his own brother and nephew. And we must seize the allies the wind blows us.”

“What was Gorm’s price?”

Yarvi worked his tongue around his dry mouth. He should have known the Golden Queen would miss no detail of a deal. “That I would kneel before him and be his vassal.” And from the corner of the room Nothing gave an angry grunt.

His mother’s eye twitched. “Their king kneeling before their most hated enemy? What will our people think of such a devil’s bargain?”

“Once Odem is sunk in the midden they can think what they will. Better a king on my knees than a beggar on my feet. I can stand later.”

A smile touched the corner of her mouth. “You are far more my son than your father’s.”

“And proud to be so.”

“Still. Would you unleash that butcher in Thorlby? Make our city a slaughter-yard?”

“He’ll only act as bait for the city’s warriors,” said Yarvi. “Lure them out so the citadel is lightly manned. We’ll enter by the tunnels beneath the rock, seal the Screaming Gate, and take Odem while he’s unguarded. Can you find enough good men for that?”

“Perhaps. I think so. But your uncle is no fool. What if he will not spring your trap? What if he keeps his men in the citadel and bides his time in safety?”

“And seem a coward while the Breaker of Swords mocks him from his very doorstep?” Yarvi sat forward, staring into his mother’s eyes. “No. I have sat where he sits and I know his mind. Odem is new to the Black Chair. He has no great victories to sing of. And he has the memory of my father, and the legend of my Uncle Uthil to contend with.” And Yarvi smiled, for he knew how it felt to lurk always in the shadow of a better brother. “Odem will not give up a golden chance to do what his brothers never could. Defeat Grom-gil-Gorm and prove himself a mighty war leader.”