There were three of them. Thin, wild-eyed men with shaggy hair and beards. He could barely tell them apart. Only one of them spoke, which meant he didn’t need to remember three names.
“Hargrove, is it?” Malden asked, falling down into a chair at the head of the table. He threw one leg over the arm of the chair and studied his nails. “I’ll ask you to be plain and not waste much of my time. I have a war to fight, you know.”
Hargrove scowled and made a complicated gesture before his face. Most likely some exhortation to Sadu. “Milord, we have not come here to condemn you, nor to censure you. You are His chosen instrument in this world,” he said. “That much has been made plain to us. Yet questions do remain.”
Malden rolled his eyes. “Of what sort?”
“Lord Mayor, you’ve never shown any sign of true piety. At least not since you resanctified the Godstone. You don’t come to our services. You’ve made no sacrifice since then. The people wish to know you believe as they do.”
“The people would be better occupied helping me break this siege,” Malden said.
“But that is exactly the point! The barbarians cannot be repelled by strength of arms. Not any such strength as we possess. Our only chance of turning them away is through divine assistance.”
“Mmm. My mother was a good woman,” Malden said.
Hargrove’s face crawled all over itself. It was known everywhere, of course, that Malden’s mother had been a whore. “May I inquire what that has to do with-”
“It was she who taught me about religion. About Sadu.”
All three priests lowered their heads at the mention of the Bloodgod’s name. They clasped their hands together and said something quick and formulaic.
“At that time the Bloodgod had no priests, nor any church in the city. Yet people still worshipped Him in their hearts. They kept that flame alive, no matter what the Burgraves did to try to snuff it out. My mother taught me that was all that was necessary. That we thank Him every day for the justice He brings to this world-the only kind of justice the impoverished will ever see.”
“Things have changed,” Hargrove said. “Now we have a better way to approach Him. A more effective method of beseeching His aid.”
Malden nodded. He knew what this was really about. “A more visible, more-pragmatic way. A way to show our faith in public, and to share it with each other.”
Hargrove actually smiled. “Exactly! A living church, for the first time in centuries. But that church cannot exist on private faith alone. If you were to make an appearance at one of our services, or-”
“Or if I were to grant you some kind of official commission?” Malden asked.
“Well, ah, that would be most useful in bringing the fire of belief to those not as-as firm in their faith, here in Ness.”
“Very good. Let’s see. The first time you came to me, you asked to be allowed to distribute the city’s food supply.”
“It was always the province of the church to do so, in olden days. Grain was gathered by the church in autumn, and portioned out over the winter by the priests. It was the only way to make sure the poor received enough to eat. This tradition of charity kept Ness alive through many a hard winter.”
“None so hard as this one,” Malden said. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of charity and compassion.” Or graft, he thought, or hoarding, or making sure the priests get to eat first, before all those less righteous people who come demanding a bit of bread to keep their families alive. “I’m of a mind to give you exactly what you want. In exchange, I wish only your blessing-and that you not question my piety anymore.”
“I can assure you,” Hargrove said, bowing low, “such questions have fled altogether from our minds.”
Malden saw the priests out of the moothall. He found Velmont standing by the door, having already rounded up enough thieves to clear out the cellars.
Malden waved the others on, toward the regalia in the cellars, but he grabbed Velmont’s sleeve as the others filed cheerfully in. “How much of my audience did you hear?” he asked the Helstrovian thief. “Did you hear what the priests asked for?”
“I heard you givin’ ’em what they hankered for this whole time, e’en after you turned ’em down before.” Velmont looked confused.
“Ah, but back then there was an actual stock of food to be considered. How much is left now?”
“A mite,” Velmont confessed. “A few days, if everyone sticks to one meal a day, and a paltry one at that. What kind o’ fool gives up his last crust o’ bread to folk that’d spit on his shadow?”
“The kind who doesn’t want to be in charge of foodstuffs tomorrow. Tomorrow, when there is no more. When the bread runs out, the starving people will have to ask the priests for food, not me. I’ll be able to say I gave over responsibility for that to the most trustworthy men in Ness. Furthermore, there may be a few head of livestock still tucked away somewhere. How likely are the priests to waste those animals in sacrifices, if they know they’ll have no other source of meat?”
Velmont laughed, long and loud. “Ye’re gettin’ good at this, boss.”
“I’ve had a good teacher,” Malden told him. “All right, send in the next beggar who wants something I can’t afford to give away. I’m ready.” He went back to perching himself on a carved wooden chair, one leg over its arm in a pose of carefully studied insouciance. The image he presented was half his power. Cutbill had taught him that, too.
Chapter One Hundred One
The wailing of Morgain’s female warriors set Morget’s teeth on edge. For six hours they had sat outside the dead Great Chieftain’s tent, tearing their hair and howling at the sky. They followed an ancient custom that hadn’t been practiced in a hundred years, making that horrible noise to drive away the hungry ghosts that might come and snatch Morg’s soul before Death could claim it. Some of them beat on tabrets, while others clashed swords together to add to the din.
Alone among them Morgain was silent. She sat in the snow outside the blood-splashed tent, Fangbreaker naked across her knees. She kept her eyes closed-everyone knew you couldn’t see the ghosts when they came, you had to hear them dragging their bloody feet along the ground-and the paint on her face had never looked more like a real skull.
“She thinks to sway the chieftains by this show of loyalty to a dead man,” Morget said, brooding in his tent. He got up frequently to peek through an opening in the flap and see if his sister had moved at all. She had not.
“She’s trying to make you look bad,” Balint agreed. “Stop letting the cold in, will you? I could cut my meat with these nipples already.”
“You think she does this to shame me? I did nothing wrong. I acted on the will of the clans,” Morget insisted.
“You told me this ritual is never used for warriors who die in battle.”
“No, of course not. Everyone knows Death comes directly for such. After all, she’s already on the battlefield, walking with her children.”
Balint sighed. “You easterners are so transparent, yet you always think your motives are so well hidden. What she’s doing is as plain as your mother’s face. Your sister’s claiming you cheated Morg out of a proper death, by slaughtering him when he wasn’t ready for you. She’s trying to ruin your chances of being chosen as the next Great Chieftain by insinuation.” The dwarf shook her head. “You just don’t understand women at all, do you?” She got up and put another knot of wood on the stove. It was one of the last pieces on the pile-fuel was getting scarce. If Morget didn’t take the city soon, frostbite would start mutilating the clans camped outside.
He stared at his dwarven scold for a while. “Shouldn’t you be digging a tunnel right now?”
“I have a team of twenty of your best men doing it for me. They had nothing else to do.”
Morget’s blood surged in his veins. He jumped up and grabbed Dawnbringer and his axe. “Damn you. And damn her. If she thinks she’ll be chosen instead of me-”
“She has a chance at it,” Balint interrupted. “Half the clans are loyal to her, and she’ll have all the chieftains who remained loyal to Morg.”
