“Deal,” Bram said.
Before the word had faded from the air, Tisis had pushed an inkwet quill in his hand and a parchment before him.
“What does it say?” he asked, his eyes imploring Kip.
“Does it matter?” Kip asked.
He signed it and affixed his seal.
Conn Arthur—no, High Lord Satrap Ruadhán Arthur, legitimately now—launched into a speech. He hated speeches, and hadn’t known that Kip was about to make him a satrap, either, until the moment Sibéal had forced him to wear the laurel crown, so maybe it was no wonder he’d let the applause go on longer than he would have otherwise.
“Ten years ago,” Satrap Arthur said, “there was a bump in the silver mines at Laurion—you know the term? It’s a major collapse underground—and whenever it happens, everyone comes running to try to dig out those poor bastards who are trapped inside.”
Kip’s brow furrowed. He’d just used this little story this morning on Conn Arthur himself as he was convincing him to lead most of the army to Green Haven.
“To rescue their friends, the miners had to squeeze into areas that were so tight you couldn’t swing a pick. So they cut half the handles off. You ever work with a tool with half the handle? Makes it exhausting, right? But it was all they could do. No choice. They had to take turns of just a few minutes. But each did what he or she could. They pulled together, and they did the job. They saved whoever could be saved. Now, on an ordinary day, you’d call a pickax with half a handle broken. You’d either throw it out or wait until it was repaired before you’d use it for work. But on that day, that broken tool was the only thing that could save lives.
“This job ain’t what I want. But we got no time. So we don’t get the choice of having the fight on the terms we’d like. We only get to choose if we’re going to go help and save those who can be saved, or if we’re going to give up. There’s some days I feel broken, like I should be thrown out. Maybe you do, too. Guess what? I don’t need you to be whole. I need you to be here. I need you to be willing to do what you can. Because in this fight, in this satrapy, you’re exactly, exactly what I need. So will you serve?”
They shouted.
“Will you join me?”
Now they shouted again, louder. For a guy who said he didn’t know how to give a speech, Satrap Arthur wasn’t mucking it up too badly. He drew his sword.
“Will you fight?!” Arthur demanded, and he thrust the sword at the sky.
Weapons raised, they roared together, and Tallach roared with them, and it was a sound that shook the heavens.
A minute later, General Antonius took the platform, and began splitting the joyful army, the men bragging to one another about how they were going to plant their regimental flags in various unlikely or even anatomically impossible places of the Blood Robes’ anatomy. Attending to all the logistics were Tisis and Ferkudi, feeding General Antonius all the necessary details. The Great River was utterly blocked, so Kip would be heading overland with less than two thousand of his most elite Nightbringer raiders, with two horses for everyone, the fastest of the wagons, and the best gear possible. But they wouldn’t be taking any Night Mares, except for whatever of the Cwn y Wawr they could reach with messages to ask to join them.
Arthur made his way over to Kip. “So,” he said, “how’d it go on your end with the ambassador?”
“You did exactly what we needed,” Kip said.
“That mean I’m . . .”
“Legitimate?” Kip asked. The word had always been bladed for him, the bastard, but now it rolled out easily. “Yes, you are. They’ll need to see the treaty, of course, and there is the matter of making sure there’s a satrapy to be satrap of . . . but, yeah.”
“This is, um”—Arthur adjusted the laurel crown on his head—“really weird. With where I was just a couple days ago.”
“Uh-huh,” Kip said.
“Say, you had me and Tallach jump up out of a pit on purpose, didn’t you? Wait. You made me climb out of a pit—literally! You bastard.”
“Maybe it was just good staging for the speech,” Kip said. But he smiled.
“Maybe.”
“Also, I don’t know how you’re calling me a bastard. You used my story.”
Arthur grinned back. “Hell, like I know how to write a speech! Anyway, something something, imitation, flattery, something?”
“I should’ve been way harder on you,” Kip said. “But there’s no worse punishment I could think of than making you a satrap. Every boring meeting you have to sit through in the future, I want you to think if maybe you should’ve been nicer to me.”
“Yeah, thanks!” Arthur said with a rueful grin.
Orholam but it was good to have him back, and have him back with some of his old spirit animating him.
The big man said, “You know, I just thought of something. The thing about using a pickax with half a handle: it’s exhausting.”
“Yeah?”
“So was that your subtle way of telling me it’s exhausting to work with me?” Arthur asked.
“Dammit,” Kip said, “I was planning to hit you with that some other day when you were being a pain in the ass.”
Conn Arthur laughed.
Kip thought it was the first time he’d heard the man laugh, ever. It was a magical sound.
And for the first time in a long time, Kip thought that maybe, just maybe, they were gonna be all right.
Chapter 46
Before Teia could move, Halfcock doubled back suddenly at some sound she hadn’t heard. Teia froze from old instinct, though she was invisible and hadn’t made a sound.
A woman in her shift came to the door to say goodbye.
Probably not a prostitute, then.
Halfcock gave the woman a kiss, on the lips.
Probably not his sister, then.
And squeezed her butt.
Teia really hoped it wasn’t his sister.
Playfully, the woman tried to pull him back inside.
Teia looked away. She didn’t want to see anything approaching tenderness. She reminded herself that it was in this woman’s economic interests to feign feelings for Halfcock. A mistress is more a mummer than a lover. This woman was interested in Halfcock’s coin stick, not his meat stick.
Better?
Better, that derisive part of her that reminded her too much of Murder Sharp admitted.
Teia didn’t know what she’d expected, but the woman was neither very pretty nor very young, both of which were things Teia associated with kept women. But then again, maybe if this woman were very pretty or very young, she wouldn’t live in this neighborhood, nor be a mistress to a man like Halfcock, who had a terrible personality and—despite his skills—wasn’t wealthy. The lowest level of Blackguards were expected to be young, and their elders didn’t want them to have too much money on their hands lest they be corrupted by all those vices that the poor avoided.
Or so the old ones said, as they kept the money and the vices both for themselves.
After some words about how she’d hoped he would stay all night this time, and whispered promises Teia couldn’t overhear, Halfcock pulled away.
Teia had made the right choice. This wasn’ t—thank Orholam—a meeting of Halfcock’s cell of the Order, with this dingy house a front for a secret temple.