Terms

‘They’re late,’ grumbled Mitterick.

The table had six chairs around it. His Majesty’s new lord marshal occupied one, stuffed into a dress uniform swaddled with braid and too tight about his neck. Bayaz occupied another, drumming his thick fingers upon the tabletop. The Dogman slumped in the third, frowning up towards the Heroes, a muscle on the side of his head occasionally twitching.

Gorst stood a pace behind Mitterick’s chair, arms folded. Beside him was Bayaz’ servant, a map of the north rolled up in his hands. Behind them, posed stiffly within the ring of stones but out of earshot, were a handful of the most senior remaining officers of the army. A sadly denuded complement. Meed, and Wetterlant, and Vinkler, and plenty more beside could not be with us. Jalenhorm too. Gorst frowned up towards the Heroes. Standing on first name terms with me is as good as a death sentence, it seems. His Majesty’s Twelfth Regiment were all in attendance, though, arrayed in parade ground order just outside the Children on the south side, their forest of shouldered halberds glittering in the chilly sun. A little reminder that we seek peace today, but are more than prepared for the alternative.

In spite of his battered head, burning cheek, a score of other cuts and scrapes and the countless bruises outside and in, Gorst was more than prepared for the alternative as well. Itching for it, in fact. What employment would I find in peacetime, after all? Teach swordsmanship to sneering young officers? Lurk about the court like a lame dog, hoping for scraps? Sent as royal observer to the sewers of Keln? Or give up training, and run to fat, and become an embarrassing drunk trading on old stories of almost-glory. You know that’s Bremer dan Gorst, who was once the king’s First Guard? Let’s buy the squeaking joke a drink! Let’s buy him ten so we can watch him piss himself!

Gorst felt his frown grow deeper. Or … should I take up Black Dow’s offer? Should I go where they sing songs about men like me instead of sniggering at their disgrace? Where peace need never come at all? Bremer dan Gorst, hero, champion, the most feared man in the North—

‘Finally,’ grunted Bayaz, bringing a sharp end to the fantasy.

There was the unmistakable sound of soldiers on the move and a body of Northmen began to tramp down the long slope from the Heroes, the rims of their painted shields catching the light. It seems the enemy are prepared for the alternative, too. Gorst gently loosened his spare long steel in its sheath, watchful for any sign of an ambush. Itching for it, in fact. A single Northern toe too close and he would draw. And peace would simply be one more thing in my life that failed to happen.

But to his disappointment the great majority halted on the gently sloping ground outside the Children, no nearer to the centre than the soldiers of the Twelfth. Several more stopped just inside the stones, balancing out the officers on the Union side. A truly vast man, black hair shifting in the breeze, was conspicuous among them. So was the one in gilded armour whose face Gorst had so enthusiastically beaten on the first day of the battle. He clenched his fist at the memory, fervently hoping for the chance to do it again.

Four men approached the table, but of Black Dow there was no sign. The foremost among them had a fine cloak, a very handsome face and the slightest mocking smile. In spite of a bandaged hand and a fresh scar down the middle of his chin, no one had ever looked more carelessly, confidently in charge. And I hate him already.

‘Who is that?’ muttered Mitterick.

‘Calder.’ The Dogman’s frown had grown deeper than ever. ‘Bethod’s youngest son. And a snake.’

‘More of a worm,’ said Bayaz, ‘but it is Calder.’

Two old warriors flanked him, one pale-skinned, pale-haired, a pale fur around his shoulders, the other heavyset with a broad, weathered face. A fourth followed, axe at his belt, terribly scarred on one cheek. His eye gleamed as if made of metal, but that was not what made Gorst blink. He felt a creeping sense of recognition. Did I see him in the battle yesterday? Or the day before? Or was it somewhere before that…

‘You must be Marshal Kroy.’ Calder spoke the common tongue with only a trace of the North.

‘Marshal Mitterick.’

‘Ah!’ Calder’s smile widened. ‘How nice to finally meet you! We faced each other yesterday, across the barley on the right of the battlefield.’ He waved his bandaged hand to the west. ‘Your left, I should say, I really am no soldier. That charge of yours was … magnificent.’

Mitterick swallowed, his pink neck bulging over his stiff collar.

‘In fact, do you know, I think…’ Calder rooted through an inside pocket, then positively beamed as he produced a scrap of crumpled, muddied paper. ‘I have something of yours!’ He tossed it across the table. Gorst saw writing over Mitterick’s shoulder as he opened it up. An order, perhaps. Then Mitterick crumpled it again, so tightly his knuckles went white.

‘And the First of the Magi! The last time we spoke was a humbling experience for me. Don’t worry, though, I’ve had many others since. You won’t find a more humbled man anywhere.’ Calder’s smirk said otherwise, though, as he pointed out the grizzled old men at his back. ‘This is Caul Reachey, my wife’s father. And Pale-as-Snow, my Second. Not forgetting my respected champion—’

‘Caul Shivers.’ The Dogman gave the man with the metal eye a solemn nod. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Aye,’ he whispered back, simply.

‘The Dogman, we all know, of course!’ said Calder. ‘The Bloody-Nine’s bosom companion, in all those songs along with him! Are you well?’

The Dogman ignored the question with a masterpiece of slouching disdain. ‘Where’s Dow?’

‘Ah.’ Calder grimaced, though it looked feigned. Everything about him looks feigned. ‘I’m sorry to say he won’t be coming. Black Dow is … back to the mud.’

There was a silence that Calder gave every indication of greatly enjoying. ‘Dead?’ The Dogman slumped back in his chair. As if he had been informed of the loss of a dear friend rather than a bitter enemy. Truly, the two can sometimes be hard to separate.

‘The Protector of the North and I had … a disagreement. We settled it in the traditional way. With a duel.’

‘And you won?’ asked the Dogman.

Calder raised his brows and rubbed gently at the stitches on his chin with a fingertip, as if he could not quite believe it either. ‘Well, I’m alive and Dow’s dead so … yes. It’s been a strange morning. They’ve taken to calling me Black Calder.’

‘Is that a fucking fact?’

‘Don’t worry, it’s just a name. I’m all for peace.’ Though Gorst fancied the Carls ranged on the long slope had different feelings. ‘This was Dow’s battle, and a waste of everyone’s time, money and lives as far as I’m concerned. Peace is the best part of any war, if you’re asking me.’

‘I heartily concur.’ Mitterick might have had the new uniform, but it was Bayaz who did the talking now. ‘The settlement I propose is simple.’

‘My father always said that simple things stick best. You remember my father?’

The Magus hesitated for the slightest moment. ‘Of course.’ He snapped his fingers and his servant slipped forward, unrolling the map across the table with faultless dexterity. Bayaz pointed out the curl of a river. ‘The Whiteflow shall remain the northern boundary of Angland. The northern frontier of the Union, as it has for hundreds of years.’

‘Things change,’ said Calder.

‘This one will not.’ The Magus’ thick finger sketched another river, north of the first. ‘The land between the Whiteflow and the Cusk, including the city of Uffrith, shall come under the governorship of the Dogman. It shall become a protectorate of the Union, with six representatives on the Open Council.’

‘All the way to the Cusk?’ Calder gave a sharp little in-breath. ‘Some of the best land in the North.’ He gave the Dogman a pointed look. ‘Sitting on the Open Council? Protected by the Union? What would Skarling Hoodless have said to that? What would my father have said?’

‘Who cares a shit what dead men might have said?’ The Dogman stared evenly back. ‘Things change.’

‘Stabbed with my own knife!’ Calder clutched at his chest, then gave a resigned shrug. ‘But the North needs peace. I am content.’

‘Good.’ Bayaz beckoned to his servant. ‘Then we can sign the articles—’

‘You misunderstand me.’ There was an uneasy pause as Calder shuffled forwards in his chair, as if they at the table were all friends together and the real enemy was at his back, and straining to hear their plans. ‘I am content, but I am not alone in this. Dow’s War Chiefs are … a jealous set.’ Calder gave a helpless laugh. ‘And they have all the swords. I can’t just agree to anything or …’ He drew a finger across his bruised throat with a squelching of his tongue. ‘Next time you want to talk you might find some stubborn blowhard like Cairm Ironhead, or some tower of vanity like Glama Golden in this chair. Good luck finding terms then.’ He tapped the map with a fingertip. ‘I’m all for this myself. All for it. But let me take it away and convince my surly brood, then we can meet again to sign the whatevers.’

Bayaz frowned, ever so sourly, at the Northmen standing just inside the Children. ‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘The day after would be better.’

‘Don’t push me, Calder.’

Calder was the picture of injured helplessness. ‘I don’t want to push at all! But I’m not Black Dow. I’m more … spokesman than tyrant.’

‘Spokesman,’ muttered the Dogman, as though the word tasted of piss.

‘That will not be good enough.’

But Calder’s smirk was made of steel. Bayaz’ every effort bounced right off. ‘If only you knew how hard I’ve worked for peace, all this time. The risks I’ve taken for it.’ Calder pressed his injured hand against his heart. ‘Help me! Help me to help us all.’ Help you to help yourself, more likely.

As Calder stood he reached across the map and offered his good hand to the Dogman. ‘I know we’ve been on different sides for a long time, one way or another, but if we’re to be neighbours there should be no chill between us.’

‘Different sides. That happens. Time comes you got to bury it.’ The Dogman stood, looking Calder in the eye all the way. ‘But you killed Forley the Weakest. Never did no harm to no one, that lad. Came to give you a warning, and you killed him for it.’

Calder’s smile had turned, for the first time, slightly lopsided. ‘There isn’t a morning comes I don’t regret it.’

‘Then here’s another.’ The Dogman leaned forward, extended his forefinger, pressed one nostril closed with it and blew snot out of the other straight into Calder’s open palm. ‘Set foot south o’ the Cusk, I’ll cut the bloody cross in you. Then there’ll be no chill.’ And he gave a scornful sniff, and stalked past Gorst and away.

Mitterick nervously cleared his throat. ‘We will reconvene soon, then?’ Looking to Bayaz for support that did not arrive.

‘Absolutely.’ Calder regained most of his grin as he wiped the Dogman’s snot off on the edge of the table. ‘In three days.’ And he turned his back and went to talk to the man with the metal eye. The one called Shivers.

‘This Calder seems a slippery bastard,’ Mitterick muttered to Bayaz as they left the table. ‘I’d rather have dealt with Black Dow. At least with him you knew what you were getting.’ Gorst was hardly listening. He was too busy staring at Calder and his scarred henchman. I know him. I know that face. But from where … ?

‘Dow was a fighter,’ Bayaz was murmuring. ‘Calder is a politician. He realises we are keen to leave, and that when the troops go home we will have nothing to bargain with. He knows he can win far more by sitting still and smirking than Dow ever did with all the steel and fury in the North…’

Shivers turned the ruined side of his face away as he spoke to Calder, the unburned side moving into the sun … and Gorst’s skin prickled with recognition, and his mouth came open.

Sipani.

That face, in the smoke, before he was sent tumbling down the stairs. That face. How could it be the same man? And yet he was almost sure.

Bayaz’ voice faded behind him as Gorst strode around the table, jaw clenched, and onto the Northmen’s side of the Children. One of Calder’s old retainers grunted as Gorst shouldered him out of the way. Probably this was extremely poor, if not potentially fatal, etiquette for peace negotiations. And I could not care less. Calder glanced up, and took a worried step back. Shivers turned to look. Not angry. Not afraid.

‘Colonel Gorst!’ someone shouted, but Gorst ignored it, his hand closing around Shivers’ arm and pulling him close. The War Chiefs about the edge of the Children were all frowning. The giant took a huge step forwards. The man with the golden armour was calling out to the body of Carls. Another had put his hand to the hilt of his sword.

‘Calm, everyone!’ Calder shouted in Northern, one restraining palm up behind him. ‘Calm!’ But he looked nervous. As well he should. All our lives are balanced on a razor’s edge. And I could not care less.

Shivers did not look as if he cared overmuch himself. He glanced down at Gorst’s gripping hand, then back up at his face, and raised the brow over his good eye.

‘Can I help you?’ His voice was the very opposite of Gorst’s. A gravelly whisper, harsh as millstones grinding. Gorst looked at him. Really looked. As though he could drill into his head with his eyes. That face, in the smoke. He had glimpsed it only for a moment, and masked, and without the scar. But still. He had seen it every night since, in his dreams, and in his waking, and in the twisted space between, every detail stamped into his memory. And I am almost sure.

He could hear movement behind him. Excited voices. The officers and men of his Majesty’s Twelfth. Probably upset to have missed out on the battle. Probably almost as keen to become involved in a new chapter of it as I am myself.

‘Colonel Gorst!’ came Bayaz’ warning growl.

Gorst ignored him. ‘Have you ever been …’ he hissed, ‘to Styria?’ Every part of him tingling with the desire to do violence.

‘Styria?’

‘Yes,’ snarled Gorst, gripping even harder. Calder’s two old men were creeping back in fighting crouches. ‘To Sipani.’

‘Sipani?’

‘Yes.’ The giant had taken another immense step, looming taller than the tallest of the Children. And I could not care less. ‘To Cardotti’s House of Leisure.’

‘Cardotti’s?’ Shivers’ good eye narrowed as he studied Gorst’s face. Time stretched out. All around them tongues licked nervously at lips, hands hovered ready to give their fatal signals, fingertips tickled at the grips of weapons. Then Shivers leaned close. Close enough almost for Gorst to kiss. Closer even than they had been to each other four years ago, in the smoke.

If they had been.

‘Never heard of it.’ And he slipped his arm out of Gorst’s slack grip and strode out of the Children without a backward glance. Calder swiftly followed, and the two old men, and the War Chiefs. All letting their hands drop from their weapons with some relief or, in the case of the giant, great reluctance.

They left Gorst standing there, in front of the table, alone. Frowning up towards the Heroes.

Almost sure.