Joe Abercrombie - Half a King

Yoverfell cleared his throat. “I have broken no law-”

“And nor will I when I call in your debts.”

The merchant’s face had drained of color. “I owe you nothing …”

Yarvi chuckled. “Me? No. But my mother, Laithlin, soon to be once again the Golden Queen of Gettland and holder of the key to the treasury … I understand you do owe her a trifling debt?”

The knobble on the merchant’s scrawny throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I am my queen’s most humble servant-”

“Her slave, I’d call you. If you sold all you own it wouldn’t come close to covering what you owe her.”

“Her slave, then, why not?” Yoverfell gave a bitter snort. “Since you concern yourself with my business, it was because of the interest on her loans that I had to squeeze what I could from Ankran. I did not want to do it-”

“But you put your wishes aside,” said Yarvi. “How noble.”

“What do you want?”

“Let us begin with the woman and her child.”

“Very well.” Eyes on the ground, the merchant scraped away into the shadows. Yarvi looked across at Rulf, and the old warrior raised his brows, and about them the slaves looked on in silence. Yarvi thought one might be smiling.

He was not sure what he had been expecting. Outstanding beauty, or stunning grace, or something that struck him instantly to the heart. But Ankran’s family were an ordinary-looking pair. Most people are, of course, to those that don’t know them. The mother was small and slight with a defiant set to her jaw. The son was sandy-headed, as his father had been, and kept his eyes down.

Yoverfell ushered them forward, then plucked nervously at one of his hands with the other. “Healthy and well cared for, as promised. They are yours, of course, gifts, with my compliments.”

“Your compliments you can keep,” said Yarvi. “Now you will pack up here, and move your business to Vulsgard.”

“Vulsgard?”

“Yes. They have many flesh-dealers there, you will feel very much at home.”

“But why?”

“So you can keep an eye on the business of Grom-gil-Gorm. Know your enemy’s house better than your own, I’ve heard it said.”

Rulf gave an approving grunt, puffed out his chest a little and shifted his thumbs in his sword-belt.

“It’s that,” said Yarvi, “or find yourself being sold in your own shop. What price would you fetch, do you think?”

Yoverfell cleared his throat. “I will make the arrangements.”

“Quickly,” said Yarvi, and strode from the stink of that place to stand in the air and breathe, eyes closed.

“You … are our new owner, then?”

Ankran’s wife stood beside him, one finger wedged inside her collar.

“No. My name is Yarvi, this is Rulf.”

“We were friends of your husband,” said Rulf, ruffling the boy’s hair and causing him some discomfort.

“Were?” she asked. “Where is Ankran?”

Yarvi swallowed, wondering how to break that news, searching for the proper words-

“Dead,” said Rulf, simply.

“I’m sorry,” added Yarvi. “He died saving my life, which strikes even me as a poor trade. But you are free.”

“Free?” she muttered.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to be free, I want to be safe.”

Yarvi blinked at that, then felt his mouth twitch into a sad smile. He had never wanted much more himself. “I daresay I could use a servant, if you’re willing to work.”

“I always have been that,” she said.

Yarvi stopped beside a smith’s shop, and flicked a coin over a trestle covered with boat-maker’s tools. One of the first coins of the new kind-round and perfect, and stamped on one side with his own mother’s frowning face.

“Strike their collars,” he said.

Ankran’s family gave no thanks for their freedom, but the ringing of hammer on chisel was thanks enough for Yarvi. Rulf watched with one foot up on a low wall and his forearms crossed upon his knee.

“I’m no high judge of righteousness.”

“Who is?”

“But I find this to be a good thing.”

“Don’t let anyone know, it might ruin my reputation.” Yarvi saw an old woman glaring at him from across the square, and he smiled back, and waved, and watched her scuttle muttering away. “It seems I’ve become the villain of this piece.”

“If life has taught me one thing, it’s that there are no villains. Only people, doing their best.”

“My best has proved disastrous.”

“Could’ve been far worse.” Rulf curled his tongue and spat. “And you’re young. Try again. Might be you’ll improve.”

Yarvi narrowed his eyes at the old warrior. “When did you become wise?”

“I’ve always been uncommonly insightful, but you were blinded by your own cleverness.”

“A common fault with kings. Hopefully I’m young enough to learn humility too.”

“It’s well one of us is.”

“And what will you do with your twilight years?” asked Yarvi.

“As it happens, the great King Uthil has offered me a place with his guard.”

“The stench of honor! You’ll accept?”

“I said no.”

“You did?”

“Honor’s a fool’s prize, and I’ve a feeling Uthil is the sort of master who’ll always have dead servants about him.”

“Wiser and wiser,” said Yarvi.

“Until recently I thought my life done, but now that it begins again I find I’ve no pressing desire to cut it short.” Yarvi looked sideways, and saw Rulf looking sideways back. “Thought maybe you could use an oarmate.”

“Me?”

“What could a one-handed minister and a rogue fifteen years past his best not achieve together?”

At a final blow the collar sprang open and Ankran’s son stood, blinking, and rubbing at his neck, and his mother took him in her arms and kissed his hair.

“I’m not alone,” murmured Yarvi.

Rulf put an arm around him and hugged him crushing tight. “Not while I’m alive, oarmate.”

IT WAS A GREAT AFFAIR.

Many powerful families in the far reaches of Gettland would be angered that news of King Uthil’s return had barely reached them before he was married, denying them the chance to have their importance noted at an event that would live so long in the memory.

No doubt the all-powerful High King on his high chair in Skekenhouse, not to mention the all-knowing Grandmother Wexen at his elbow, would be far from delighted at the news, as Mother Gundring was keen to point out.

But Yarvi’s mother brushed all objections away with an airy wave and said, “Their anger is dust to me.” She was the Golden Queen again. Once she had spoken it was as a thing already done.

And so in the Godshall the statues were garlanded with the first flowers of spring, and the wedding gifts were heaped about the Black Chair in gaudy abundance, and the people were packed beneath the dome tight as sheep in winter quarters until the very air was misty with their breath.

The blessed couple sang promises to one another in the sight of gods and men, shafts of light from the dome above striking fire from the king’s burnished armor and the queen’s daunting jewels, and all applauded though Uthil’s singing voice was, in Yarvi’s opinion, not up to much and his mother’s little better. Then Brinyolf droned out the most elaborate blessing even that hallowed place had ever witnessed, while beside him Mother Gundring slumped ever more impatiently around her staff and every bell in the city sent up a merry clangour from below.

Oh, happy day!

How could Uthil not be pleased? He had the Black Chair and the best wife any man could ask for, coveted by the High King himself. How could Laithlin not be delighted? She had the jewelled key to the treasury of Gettland once again upon her chain and the priests of the One God dragged from her mint and whipped through Thorlby into the sea. How could the people of Gettland not rejoice? They had a king of iron and a queen of gold, rulers to trust in and be proud of. Rulers with poor singing voices, possibly, but two hands each.