Savine felt a chill creeping up her back, then. As though, in spite of all her long preparations, because no one had actually said the words, she had not realised quite what they were about. That chill became colder yet as she recognised another familiar face. Yoru Sulfur, that humble representative of the Order of Magi, slipping through the crowds towards Lady Finree’s side.
“This is patriotism!” snapped Leo.
“By the Fates, listen to yourself. You don’t understand!” Finree dropped her voice, eyes darting nervously over to Sulfur and back. “Undertakings were made, to get us where we are. To get you where you are.” She dropped her voice further. “I made promises to Bayaz—”
“Bayaz? What the bloody hell does he have to do with anything?”
“Everything,” said Sulfur, looking very directly up at Savine. She remembered the First of the Magi offering her a statue on the Kingsway. Mentioning profitable partnerships and healthy competition. Telling her that knowing one’s own ignorance was the first step towards enlightenment. And she remembered promising her father she would have nothing to do with the man.
“It’s not too late!” Finree was pleading. “I can write to the king, we can appeal for his mercy—”
Leo gave a disgusted hiss and turned his horse, making his mother scramble back almost into Sulfur’s arms. “I’ve grovelled enough to that fool. It’s high time we switched places.”
Lady Finree stared at the marching men, clutching at her chest with a thin hand, then edged close to Leo’s horse again. “Leo, please, listen to me. You’re a great fighter. You’re a great leader. Of course you are, but…”
“But what, Mother?”
“You’re not a general!”
“I seem to remember a battle at Red Hill!” he snapped, cheeks flushed red with anger. “I turned the tide there when no one else could!”
“You led a charge!” She caught hold of his horse’s reins near the bit. “Managing an army is a very different thing! Let me come with you, at least. Let me—”
“No!” He tore his reins from her hand. “You’ve kept me in your shadow long enough. It’s my time now!” And he spurred his horse savagely away.
“I wonder how long his time will last,” murmured Sulfur, gently shaking his head.
Finree stared from him to Savine. She looked so utterly distraught that it was hard to meet her eye. “Have you thought about what you’re risking? Have you thought about what happens if you lose?”
“There is nothing I have thought about more,” said Savine. Except what would happen if she won, of course. She already had most of the details of her coronation planned.
“People will be hurt.” Savine was disappointed to see there were tears in Finree’s eyes. She really was throwing away all the respect anyone used to have for her. “People will die!”
“And my master,” added Sulfur, “will be seriously displeased.”
Savine looked down her nose at him. “As my father once said, if you want to change the world, sometimes you have to burn it down.”
“But Bayaz,” pleaded Finree, “our arrangement—”
“Shit on Bayaz. I did not reach my place in life by paying the interest on other people’s debts.” Savine snapped her fingers at one of Leo’s aides. “Escort Lady Finree and her friend back to the Lord Governor’s residence. And see that they do not interfere.”
“Your Grace.”
“Leo, please!” Finree shrieked as she was hustled away. “Savine!”
But Savine had already turned her horse towards the ships and clicked her tongue to move him on.
She couldn’t have been much over sixteen, this girl, but she strode up bold as you like. She had broad, solid shoulders and broad, solid hips and a broad, solid jaw she was intent on aiming at Shivers however far he towered above her, which was quite the distance as she wasn’t tall. She planted the butt of an old spear on the ground in front of him, her broad, solid knuckles white about the time-darkened haft.
He looked down mildly at her. “Hello?”
“I want to talk to Rikke,” she growled.
Shivers held out his hand. “There she is.”
“What, her?”
“No,” said Isern-i-Phail. “Rikke is the other one-eyed woman with runes tattooed on her face. Yes, her, girl, who the bloody hell else would she be?”
“Huh,” grunted the girl, walking up to Rikke. “You’re younger’n I thought you’d be.”
“Give it time,” said Rikke. “I’ll get older.”
“Or you’ll get killed,” said Isern.
Rikke sighed. “She’s always trying to cheer me up. You’re a well of good cheer, Isern.”
“You’re Isern-i-Phail?” asked the girl, lip even more wrinkled.
“No,” said Rikke. “Isern is the other gap-toothed, tattoo-handed, fingerbone-wearing hillwoman. Yes, her, girl, who the bloody hell else would she be?”
“You three are quite the jesters, ain’t you?”
“Have a smile at breakfast,” droned Shivers, stony-faced, “you’ll be shitting joy by lunch.”
“Now who might you be and what might you be after?” asked Rikke.
“I’m Corleth.” The girl frowned at Rikke, then Isern, then Shivers, like she was daring them to call her a liar. “And I want to fight.” She snarled the last word like a curse. Reminded Rikke of one o’ those mean little dogs that’ll take on anything, no matter how big.
“Then fight you shall. We can use every spear. Get this girl a shield!” she called to one of the smiths, and Corleth strutted off with her broad jaw in the air, much pleased to be a warrior.
“Don’t like her looks,” said Isern, eyes narrowed.
“You don’t like anyone’s looks,” said Rikke. “You’re just jealous of her youth and strong hips.”
Isern propped her hands on her own hips, such as they were. “I’m the way the moon wants me and naught wrong about it from where I stand.”
Rikke snorted. “You’re straight down like a sausage, and a gristly one at that.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, Skinny Rikke. Every pinch o’ meat fell off you when you went to see the witch. You’re like a head stuck on a spear these days, but without the flies. Most o’ the flies, at least.” And she burst out laughing.
“Harsh,” said Rikke, but by a poor stroke of luck she was obliged to wave off a fly at that very moment. She chose to rise above it as a leader should, turning away to take in the gathering.
Rikke had called, half-expecting she’d be ignored, but folk had answered and then some. They’d come in a trickle, then a flow, then a flood, from every village, farmstead and woodsman’s hut in the Protectorate. The smiths and fletchers of Uffrith had worked their hands raw the past few weeks arming folk, then they’d stuck on helmets themselves and joined the throng. Some of the town’s women had even took a break from nattering at the well to stitch Rikke a standard of her own. A big eye, with runes around it like the ones tattooed into her face. The Long Eye, on a red field, looking into what comes. It slapped and flapped against its pole behind her now, looking down on the greatest weapontake Uffrith ever saw.