Mark Lawrence - Prince of Fools

“And you are?” I aimed for a level of disdain with enough edge to cut but not to make me look bad whilst doing it.

“Hakon of Maladon. Duke Alaric is my uncle. Perhaps you know him? My longships are the green-sailed ones in the harbour.” He knocked back the brandy. “Ah, a mandolin!” He spied the troubadour. “May I?”

Hakon took the instrument, strumming with his injured hand, and immediately music began to flow like liquid gold. “I’m better on the harp, but I’ve tried these a few times.”

“Oh, would you sing for us?” Astrid, pressing her gifts against him.

And that was that. I slunk back to my table while Golden Boy held the tavern spellbound with a gloriously rich tenor, running through all their favourite songs. I chewed my lukewarm roast and found it hard to swallow, my ale sour rather than salt. I glowered through narrowed eyes as Hakon stood bracketed by Edda, Astrid, and various other wenches drawn from the shadows by his cheap show.

At last I could take it no longer and got up to go out back for a piss. A final resentful glance at Hakon saw him disentangling from Astrid to follow me out. I pretended not to notice. Once in the blustery yard, rather than making immediately for the latrine I waited, leaving the door ajar and listening for his approach.

The wind had picked up something fierce and put me in mind to play a trick I’d used a time or two back in Red March. On hearing him take the handle I gave the door a hearty kick, slamming it shut. A meaty thud and an oath rewarded me. I counted to three and hauled the door open.

“Hell! Are you all right, man?” He was on his backside, clutching his face. “The wind must have caught the door. Terrible thing.”

“. . be okay.” Both hands still clasped over his nose, the injured one atop the good.

I crouched beside him. “Best have a look.” And pulled back his bad hand. Immediately that familiar warmth built, and with it came an idea both despicable and delicious in equal parts. I gripped his bitten hand tight. The day went dim around me.

“Ow! What the-” Hakon pulled away.

“You’re fine.” I hauled him to his feet. Fortunately he helped, because I could barely lift myself.

“But what-”

“You’re just a bit dazed.” I steered him back into the tavern room. “You got hit by a door.”

Astrid and Edda converged on Golden Boy and I stepped away, letting them at their prey. As I left I tugged the loose end of the bloodstained cloth about his hand and pulled it away with me.

“What-” Hakon lifted his uncovered hand.

“How many babies did you save?” I said it quiet enough over my shoulder as I returned to my table, but too loud to miss.

“There’s no bite there!” Astrid exclaimed.

“Not even a scratch.” Edda stepped back as if Hakon’s lies might be contagious.

“But I-” Hakon stared at his hand, holding it up even higher, turning it this way and that in astonishment.

“He can pay for his own damn brandy!” The warrior at the bar.

“A cheap trick.” The thickset woman, slamming down her tankard of ale.

“He’s no kin of Alaric!” Anger starting to colour the complaints.

“I doubt he’s spoke a true word since he came in.”

“Liar!”

“Thief!”

“Wife-beater!” That last one was me.

The crowd folded about poor Hakon, their shouts drowning him out, punches flying. Somehow he made it through them, half-running through the street door, half-thrown. He sprawled in the mud, slipped, fell, scrambled up, and was gone, the door slamming behind him.

I leaned back in my chair and took the last chunk of pork off my knife. It tasted sweet. I can’t say I was entirely proud about using the healing gift of angels to screw over the better man just for being more handsome, taller, and more talented than me, but then again I couldn’t bring myself to feel too bad about it either. I looked out over the crowd and wondered which of the girls to reel back in.

“You, boy.” A stout ginger-haired man blocked my view of Astrid.

“I’m-”

“I don’t care who you are, you’re in my seat.” The fellow had the kind of aggressive red face that makes you want to slap it, his bulk girded in thick leathers set with black iron studs, knife and hatchet at his hips.

I stood up-not without effort, for healing Hakon’s bite wound had taken a lot out of me. I towered over the man, which is always unfortunate if you want an excuse to duck out of a fight. In any event, standing was a necessary part of the process since I intended to vacate the chair rather than get cut into chunks over the issue. I puffed out my cheeks even so and blustered a piece-you can’t let the weakness show or you’re dead.

“Men of my standing don’t cross the seas to brawl in taverns. Damned if I care which chair I’m in.” The weight of my sword tugged at me and I wished Snorri hadn’t forced the thing on me. It’s always easier to back out of such confrontations if you can claim to have left your sharp iron at home.

“Dirty bastard, aren’t you?” The Norseman looked up at me with a sneer. “I hope you’ve not left any of that stain on my chair.” He frowned in pantomime. “Or doesn’t that stain come off however you scrub?”

To be fair we were probably equally dirty, with his grime smeared over skin so fish-belly white you could see the veins snaking blue paths underneath, and mine the proud olive hue that a man of Red March retains however long it’s been since he saw the sun, darkened still further with Mother’s heritage from the Indus.

“Your chair.” I stepped aside, indicating the free seat. My whole attention focused on the man, every muscle I owned ready for action.

The tavern held quiet now, anticipating violence and waiting for the show. Sometimes such things can’t be avoided-unless you’re a true professional. Most, for example, wouldn’t think to just run like hell.

“It is dirty!” The Viking pointed to the chair, as filthy as any other in the place. “Suppose you get down there and clean it. Right now.” More men pressed through the street door, not that he needed the backup.

“I’m sure a cleaner chair can be found for you.” I puffed up, pretending I thought he was joking and hoping the size of me would intimidate the man.

Just as cowards often have an instinct for trouble, many bullies have a nose for fear. Some small clue hidden in the way I carried myself told him I wouldn’t be a problem. “I said, you do it, foreigner.” He raised a fist to menace me.

Snorri loomed behind the man, caught his wrist, broke it, and tossed him into the corner. “We’ve no time for games, Jal. There’s three boatloads of Maladon sailors headed up here-something about Lord Hakon being set upon. . anyway, we don’t want to get caught up in it.”

And with that he bundled me through the room, with Arne, Tuttugu, and the quins in tow, and out the back door.

“We’ll make camp in the hills,” he said, hefting open a gate in the wall of the enclosed yard.

And like that my dreams of a warm bed and warmer company blew away in a cold wind.

I trailed along at the back of the party, bent double under my pack. It felt as though Snorri had decided it was important we each took several large rocks with us to the Bitter Ice. Tuttugu laboured along beside me, short of breath and walking awkwardly.

“You ‘applied’ the paste, then?”

He nodded, striding on with the gait of a man who didn’t make it to the dunghole in time. “It really stings.”

“That’ll be the mustard seed.” On reflection it had probably been fennel seed the recipe called for, but I decided not to mention it now.

I shifted my pack to what turned out to be a less comfortable position. “So, Tuttugu, looking forwards to wetting your axe in the blood of your enemies?” I needed some insight into the Viking mind-set. My only escape route lay through understanding what made these men tick.