parlour tricks. “Bandaged bitch.” Well, they would all see. “Oh yes.” He had got the better of the nurses at the orphanage, in the end, for all the whippings. “We’ll see who whips who now.” He peered over his shoulder to make sure he was unobserved. “Magic!” he sneered. “I’ll show you a trick or-”
“Eeee!” His boot squelched, slid, and he went over on his back in a patch of mud. “Bah! Damn it to your bastard arse!” So much for heroic efforts, and new beginnings too.
The Traitor
Shivers reckoned it was an hour or two short of dawn. The rain had slacked right off but water still drip- dripped from the new leaves, pattering in the dirt. The air was weighty with chill damp. A swollen stream gurgled near the track, smothering the muddy falls of his horse’s hooves. He knew he was close, could see the faintest ruddy campfire glow at the edges of the slick tree-trunks.
Dark times are the best for dark business, Black Dow always used to say, and he should’ve known.
Shivers nudged his horse through the wet night, hoping some drunk sentry didn’t get nervous and serve him up an arrow through the guts. One of those might hurt less than having your eye burned out, but it was nought to look forward to. Luckily, he saw the first guard before the guard saw him, pressed up against a tree, spear resting on his shoulder. He had an oilskin draped right over his head, couldn’t have seen a thing, even if he’d been awake.
“Oy!” The man jerked round, dropped his spear in the muck. Shivers grinned as he watched him fumbling for it in the dark, arms crossed loose on his saddle-bow. “You want to give me a challenge, or shall I just head on and leave you to it?”
“Who goes there?” he growled, tearing his spear up along with a clump of wet grass.
“My name’s Caul Shivers, and Faithful Carpi’s going to want to talk to me.”
The Thousand Swords’ camp looked pretty much like camps always do. Men, canvas, metal and mud. Mud in particular. Tents scattered every which way. Horses tethered to trees, breath smoking in the darkness. Spears stacked up one against the other. Campfires, some burning, some down to fizzling embers, the air sharp with their smoke. A few men still awake, wrapped in blankets mostly, on guard or still drinking, frowning as they watched Shivers pass.
Reminded him of all the cold, wet nights he’d spent in camps across the North and back. Huddled around fires, hoping to the dead the rain didn’t get heavier. Roasting meat, spitted on dead men’s spears. Curled up shivering in the snow under every blanket he could find. Sharpening blades for dark work on the morrow. He saw faces of men dead and gone back to the mud, that he’d shared drink and laughter with. His brother. His father. Tul Duru, that they’d called the Thunderhead. Rudd Threetrees, the Rock of Uffrith. Harding Grim, quieter than the night. Brought up a swell of unexpected pride, those memories. Then a swell of unexpected shame at the work he was about now. More feeling than he’d had since he lost his eye, or he’d expected to have again.
He sniffed, and his face stung underneath the bandages, and the soft moment slipped away and left him cold again. They stopped at a tent big as a house, lamplight leaking out into the night round the edges of its flap.
“Now you’d best behave yourself in here, you Northern bastard.” The guard jabbed at Shivers with his own axe. “Or I’ll-”
“Fuck yourself, idiot.” Shivers brushed him out of the way with one arm and pushed on through. Inside it smelled of stale wine, mouldy cloth, unwashed men. Ill-lit by flickering lamps, hung round the edges with slashed and tattered flags, trophies from old battlefields.
A chair of dark wood set with ivory, stained, scarred and polished with hard use, stood on a pair of crates up at the far end. The captain general’s chair, he guessed. The one that had been Cosca’s, then Monza’s, and now was Faithful Carpi’s. Didn’t look much more than some battered rich man’s dining chair. Surely didn’t look like much to kill folk over, but then small reasons often serve for that.
There was a long table set up in the midst, men sat down each side. Captains of the Thousand Swords. Rough-looking men, scarred, stained and battered as the chair, and with quite a collection of weapons too, between ’em. But Shivers had smiled in harder company, and he smiled now. Strange thing was, he felt more at home with these lot than he had in months. He knew the rules here, he reckoned, better’n he did with Monza. Seemed as if they’d started out doing some planning, by the maps that were spread across the wood, but some time in the middle of the night the strategy had turned to dice. Now the maps were weighted down with scattered coins, with half-full bottles, with old cups, chipped glasses. One great chart was soaked red with spilled wine.
A big man stood at the head of the table-a faceful of scars, short hair grey and balding. He had a bushy moustache, the rest of his thick jaw covered in white stubble. Faithful Carpi himself, from what Monza had said. He was shaking the dice in one chunk of fist. “Come on, you shits, come on and give me nine!” They came up one and three, to a few sighs and some laughter. “Damn it!” He tossed some coins down the table to a tall, pock-faced bastard with a hook-nose and the ugly mix of long black hair and a big bald patch. “One of these days I’ll work your trick out, Andiche.”
“No trick. I was born under a lucky star.” Andiche scowled at Shivers, about as friendly a look as a fox spares for a chicken. “Who the hell’s this bandaged arsehole?”
The guard pushed in past Shivers, giving him a dirty look sideways. “General Carpi, sir, this Northman says he needs to speak to you.”
“That a fact?” Faithful spared Shivers a quick glance, then went back to stacking up his coins. “And why would I want to speak to the likes of him? Toss me the dice there, Victus, I ain’t done.”
“That’s the problem with generals.” Victus was bald as an egg and gaunt as famine, bunches of rings on his fingers and chains round his neck doing nothing to make him look prettier. “They never do know when they’re done.” And he tossed the dice back down the table, couple of his fellows chuckling.
The guard swallowed. “He says he knows who killed Prince Ario!”
“Oh, you do, do you? And who was that?”
“Monzcarro Murcatto.” Every hard face in the tent turned sharp towards Shivers. Faithful carefully set the dice down, eyes narrowed. “Looks like you know the name.”
“Should we hire him for a jester or hang him for a liar?” Victus grated out.
“Murcatto’s dead,” another.
“That so? I wonder who it is I been fucking for the past month, then?”
“If you’ve been fucking Murcatto I’d advise you to get back to it.” Andiche grinned around him. “From what her brother told me, no one here can suck a cock as well as she could.”
A good few chuckles at that. Shivers wasn’t sure what he meant about her brother, but it didn’t matter none. He’d already undone the bandages, and now he dragged the lot off in one go, turned his face towards the lamplight. Such laughter as there was mostly sputtered out. He had the kind of face now put a sharp end to mirth. “Here’s what she’s cost me so far. For a handful of silver? Shit on that, I ain’t half the fool she takes me for, and I’ve got my pride, still. I’m done with the bitch.”
Faithful Carpi was frowning at him. “Describe her.”
“Tall, lean, black hair, blue eyes, frowns a lot. Sharp tongue on her.”
Victus waved one jewel-crusted hand at him. “Common knowledge!”
“She’s got a broken right hand, and marks all over. From falling down a mountain, she says.” Shivers pushed his finger into his stomach, keeping his eyes on Faithful. “Got a scar just here, and one matching in her back. Says a friend of hers gave it to her. Stabbed her through with her own dagger.”
Carpi’s face had turned grim as a gravedigger’s. “You know where she is?”
“Hold up just a trice, there.” Victus looked even less happy than his chief. “You saying Murcatto’s alive?”
“I’d heard a rumour,” said Faithful.
A huge black-skinned man with long ropes of iron-grey hair stood up sharp from the table. “I’d heard all kinds of rumours,” voice slow and deep as the sea. “Rumours and facts are two different things. When were you planning to fucking tell us?”
“When you fucking needed to know, Sesaria. Where is she?”
“At a farm,” said Shivers. “Maybe an hour’s hard ride distant.”
