No one did a thing. No one said a thing. Just a long silence as the wash of blood from Oxel’s corpse became a stream, then a trickle, a great slick of it joining with Red Hat’s and slowly spreading.
Rikke put her hand on Shivers’ shoulder and slipped past him, padding into the centre of the Circle.
“Any more ideas need testing?” she asked, turning all the way around so everyone got the chance to speak.
She’d no idea what she’d have done if someone spoke up. But no one did a thing. No one said a thing.
“Anyone else want to go their own way?”
Her mouth was dry and her pulse thumped in her skull. But there was silence like winter. Silence like death.
“No more opinions? No one?”
The Named Men shuffled meek out of her path, shields limp on their arms, as Rikke wandered back to her bench, bare feet leaving a trail of bloody footprints across the floor of her father’s hall.
“What happens now?” muttered Hardbread, staring at the two corpses and clutching at his sparse white hair.
“I know exactly what’ll happen,” said Rikke, even if a lot of it was a sea of doubts, and she sat back down and dragged that sheepskin around her shoulders. “I’ve seen it.”
“What have you seen?” asked one of Red Hat’s men. Angry at what had happened, maybe, but with a touch of curiosity in his voice, too. A needy little whine. In the end, no matter what they say, most folk want a path to follow. Someone to tell ’em it’ll all be fine. Someone to tell ’em what to do.
“I know you lot love to worry, but you can stop now.” Rikke tipped her head on one side and smiled. She didn’t have to put any threat in it. The runes on her face did that for her. Well, the runes and the two corpses and Shivers standing speckled with their blood. “All you have to do is what I tell you. You can do that, can’t you?”
Like Rikke’s father used to say, you want things right, you have to put ’em right yourself. She took up her scissors, and brought her knee up to her chin, and set to trimming her toenails again. The big one on her left foot had this funny little spike of skin at the corner. Always took a while to shape it nicely.
Fire with Fire
“You’re a magus, then?” asked Stour.
“The Magus Radierus, at your service!” No doubt he sounded the part, making quite the meal from every “r” passed through his mouth, and he looked the part, too. Robe with all sorts of gold thread in it, and a big long beard forked and streaked with white, and a twisted staff with a sort of crystal on the end.
“So you can do magic?” Stour had his sword drawn. He loved to keep it drawn, which seemed folly to Clover. The big advantage of a sword over an axe, after all, is that you can sheathe the bastard thing and not make everyone nervous. But making everyone nervous was one o’ the Great Wolf’s favourite pastimes, sword’s point resting on the flagstones beside Skarling’s chair, toying with the pommel, turning it so the blade flashed and flickered. Sometimes when the sun hit the windows right, he’d catch it on his sword and shine it in people’s eyes, just because.
“Not only magic.” The old man sounded pretty confident as he wafted his staff about. “But the High Art of Juvens!” There was quite the sheen of sweat across his forehead, though.
“Show me,” said Stour. Clover didn’t much like the way this was going.
The old man closed his eyes, muttering some words Clover couldn’t understand, waved his free hand with much to-do, then flung something into the air in a puff of glittering dust. It was a little bird, which flapped about a bit and ended up sitting puzzled on one of the rafters.
“That’s nice,” said Clover.
Beside him, Black Calder took another swig of ale and disgustedly shook his head. “By all the fucking dead.”
“I thought it was nice.”
Stour, it seemed, did not agree. He narrowed his eyes the way he did when someone was about to get hurt, which wasn’t rarely. “I heard tell you could disappear.”
“Well… er…” The eyes of the magus darted nervously about. “Only under certain conditions, my king. Auspicious moments in the moon’s cycle, you understand, when the stars align, and—”
“Hit him,” said Stour.
Greenway’s fist smacked into the old man’s cheek and knocked him flat on his back, robes flapping and his staff clattering down, the crystal on the end jolting loose and skittering away into a corner.
“I just do tricks!” he squealed as Greenway dragged him up again, his magnificence somewhat spoiled by a bloody mouth. “In a travelling show! It’s not magic. Not really.” His “r” sounds weren’t too clever any more. None of his sounds were. “I’m not a magus! I can disappear, but… it’s a box with a fake bottom—”
Stour’s lip curled. “Get this old halfhead out o’ my sight.”
Greenway caught the would-be magus around the neck and hauled him towards the door, heels helplessly kicking. Turned out he could disappear after all. Clover felt the twitch of a smile, almost turned around to toss the joke at Wonderful. Then he remembered he’d killed her.
Black Calder gave a great scornful snort as Radierus was dragged out, making Stour frown over. “Something tickling you, Father?”
“Aye, rounding up magicians.” Calder snorted again. “Quite the bloody joke.”
“You could skip to the punchline right now. Head to the Great Northern Library and bring your friend the First of the Magi to see me.”
The scorn slipped from Calder’s face and left him grim. “Bayaz is no friend of mine. No friend of anyone’s. His help’ll cost far more than it’s worth. Cost you everything. Better off shaking hands with the plague.”
“The Dogman’s daughter has the Long Eye,” said Stour, and a few of his warriors muttered and grumbled unhappily. “I have to fight fire with fire.”
“That’ll win you naught but ashes,” said Calder. “There’s not much magic left in the world, and what there is ain’t worth the price. You’d best hope all you find is tricks and liars.” And he sank further into his seat and took another swig of ale. Seemed with his brother back to the mud, he was set on keeping the breweries in business himself.
Greenway was marching the next magician in, and she looked a lot less promising than the last. A sturdy woman with a ragged dress and dirty bare feet who couldn’t tear her big round eyes away from the cage in the corner. Gregun Hollowhead wasn’t in it any more. His head was rotting on a spike over the gates of Carleon. But one of his Named Men had come to complain about it so the cage had a new guest, starved and battered, one scabbed leg dangling from the bottom and nearly scraping the sticky stones underneath.
“Who’s this one?” asked Stour, rubbing at his chin. He’d grown himself a little bit of beard, just under his mouth, while he shaved the rest. Clover couldn’t understand it. Grow it or don’t, but why leave bits? It was like leaving your wife half-fucked. But then, Clover had given up on trying to work out why anyone did anything, especially Stour.
“She’s from a village up near Yaws,” said Greenway.