There was a breathy cry and something came flying off the battlements.
“Oh,” muttered Rikke, before Shivers dragged her back and down and stuck his shield in front of her.
The Nail didn’t shift a hair. He was one of those rare men goes beyond bravery to a kind of madness where there’s no regard for danger at all. He just watched whatever it was plummet down, hands on hips, and didn’t even flinch as it crashed into the cobbles a stride or two in front, spotting him with blood.
He peered at the mess with his brow a little wrinkled. “Who’s that, then?”
Shivers slowly stood, gently let go of Rikke. “Brodd Silent, I expect.”
“Hold on!” someone called from the battlements. “We’re coming down!”
“They didn’t think about that for long,” said the Nail, wiping the blood from his cheek.
Rikke got up, frowning at Silent’s twisted corpse, the side of his face that wasn’t squashed into the cobbles gawping wide-eyed with surprise.
She thought of the first time she saw a man killed. Those three she and Isern ran into in the woods the day Uffrith burned. Was it really only a year or two back? The cold shock as she let go the bowstring. The hurt look in that boy’s eyes. Still gave her a shiver. Then she thought of all the death she’d seen since. The murders and the battles and the duels. The last expressions, the last words, the last breaths, all blurred into one. The blood rolled off her now, like milk off a greased pan. Isern always said you have to make of your heart a stone.
She took a breath, and kicked the casket closed.
Rikke’s father had been less than complimentary on the subject of Skarling’s Hall. A cold, hard, rock-carved room for cold, hard, rock-carved men. The place Bethod had seized the North. The place Black Dow betrayed the Bloody-Nine. The place Black Calder had ordered a hundred killings and thievings and petty backstabbings.
But Rikke was a firm believer that dark pasts don’t have to mean dark futures, and she was pleasantly surprised by the mood in there. She felt honesty in the light streaming through the high windows. She saw strength in its bare stone walls. She heard truth in the sound of the rushing river far below. The cold, though, she could not deny. Summer was well and truly gone.
“Someone get a fire lit, eh?” she called out as the Named Men tramped into the hall. “Before I shiver my tits off.”
“Such as they are,” said Isern, frowning down. “A clean floor is a thing the moon despises. A clean floor bespeaks a small mind.”
“Better’n a dirty one, isn’t it? Bespeaks an orderly mind, I reckon.”
“Same thing.” Isern curled her lip back, spat a long chagga stain across the stones and gave a nod of satisfaction, like she’d made a small improvement to the world. “You never know, that might be the spot where my daddy near killed the Bloody-Nine for killing my brother.”
Shivers gave a snort. “Ain’t far from the spot where I near killed the Bloody-Nine for killing my brother.”
“Maybe you should’ve done it,” said Isern.
“Maybe’s a game with no winners.” Shivers turned that ring on his little finger thoughtfully around. “I let go o’ my regrets. You’ll swim better without their weight.”
There was a clash and rattle from the corner of the hall. The Nail had stalked up to the iron cage hanging in the back corner and now his knuckles were white at the bars like he’d rip it apart with his big bare hands.
“Doubt you’ll pull it down without some tongs or something,” said Rikke, strolling up.
“I’ll pull it down one way or another,” he snarled as he wrenched it about, chains jingling.
“I say leave it up.”
The Nail turned on her, holding one fist up under her nose, close enough she had to look at it a little cross-eyed. “My father died in this fucking cage!”
“Aye.” She soaked his rage up with a smile, like a bundle of fresh-shorn fleece might soak up punches. “And we might need it to hold the folk who killed him.” And she put her forefinger on that great scarred mass of fist and gently pushed it down.
The Nail blinked, like he was puzzling that through. Then he started to smile. “I could get to like you.”
“I’m likeable. Known for it. Likeable Rikke, they call me.”
“Who’s they?”
“Just, you know, they.”
“Would My Lady of the Long Eye care to bring her vision to pass?” Isern flicked dust from the seat of Skarling’s chair, standing on its dais in the light of the great windows, polished by the arses of the great men of yesteryear.
“Guess someone’s got to sit in it,” said Rikke. “And I did come all this way, and in mixed weather, too.” And she spun about and dumped herself down. She shifted one way. She shifted the other.
“Well?” asked Shivers.
“Bit hard on the arse.”
“Was there a cushion in your vision?” asked Isern. “You might think of finding one if you plan to perch there long.”
The Nail stretched his chin a long way forward to scratch at his throat. “Do you plan to perch there long?”
Rikke looked up at Shivers. He raised his brow. She looked up at Isern. She raised hers. “Well,” she said, and noisily spat again, “I daresay none o’ Crummock-i-Phail’s children would disagree with my considered opinion that…” She left an unnaturally long pause before finishing. “We could do worse.”
“My thanks for that ringing endorsement,” said Rikke.
“They’ll be back, you know,” said the Nail. “Stour and all his warriors.” And he jerked his thumb towards the door as if he expected ’em to troop in any moment.
“Some will be,” said Rikke. “But if King Orso took any notice of the letter I sent him, they’ll have a much harder fight than they were expecting. So Stour’ll come back with a lot fewer warriors than you were expecting. If he comes back at all.”
The Nail stared at her, mouth slightly open.
“Spent a year in Ostenhorm,” she explained, “with what they call a governess.”
“What’s that? Some kind o’ witch?”
“A particularly boring kind o’ one. But to be fair, it turns out learning to write has its uses.”
“So…” The Nail narrowed his eyes, counting off the points on his fingers. “You promised the Young Lion you were going with him, then not only did you not go, you stole his ally’s land while he was gone, and warned his enemies he was coming.”
Rikke stretched her chin a long way forward to scratch at her throat, the way he’d done a moment ago. “Sounds somewhat underhand put that way. But once you’ve stabbed a man in the back, you’re best off stabbing him a few more times, don’t you reckon? Make sure of the job.”
“There’s my girl,” grunted Shivers.
“She was listening after all,” said Isern, stretching up on her tiptoes.
The Nail gave a disbelieving little titter, staring at her with something close to admiration. “I could really get to like you,” he said, and he whipped the black fur he wore off his shoulders. “You said something about a cushion?”