‘Good one,’ said Clover, with a sigh. ‘Good one.’
‘What’s so fucking funny?’
Wonderful waved a finger at Magweer’s collection of weapons. ‘My friend, if you’d run into Caul Shivers, you’d be wearing all those axes up your arse. You should take care charging at fights. Sooner or later, you’ll trip over a bigger one than you wanted.’
‘There’s no fight too big for me,’ he growled back.
‘Really?’ asked Wonderful. ‘What if it’s just you and nineteen o’ them?’
Magweer opened his mouth, strained, but couldn’t find a reply. He was a child’s notion of what a warrior should be, all scowl and muscle and carrying half a blacksmith’s shop around. Clover gave a sigh. ‘You need to calm down, my friend.’
‘Or else what, old man?’
‘Or else you’ll make yourself sad, and ain’t the world a grim enough place without another frown? Everyone stomping around like the Bloody-Nine, like they’d murder the whole world if they got the chance.’
Stour narrowed his eyes. ‘The Bloody-Nine was the greatest warrior the North ever saw.’
‘I know,’ said Clover. ‘I watched him beat Fenris the Feared in the Circle.’
Silence. ‘You saw that?’ A hint of respect suddenly crept into Stour’s whining voice.
Wonderful laughed again and thumped that fist down on Clover’s shoulder. ‘He held a shield.’
‘You held a shield? When the Bloody-Nine fought the Feared?’
‘On behalf of your grandfather, Bethod,’ said Clover. ‘Eighteen years old and knowing half o’ nothing and thinking myself quite the hard bastard.’
‘Everyone says that was a great duel,’ breathed Stour, a faraway look in his wet eyes.
‘It was a bloody one. Sadly, I walked away with the wrong lessons. Enough that I ended up taking a challenge or two myself …’ Clover found he was scratching at his scar, and made himself leave it alone. ‘If you want my advice, stay out of the Circle.’
‘The Circle is where names are made!’ barked Stour, thumping his chest with a fist. ‘I beat Stranger-Come-Knocking there! Carved him all to hell.’
‘And from what I heard, it was a fight for the songs.’ Though what Clover actually heard was that Stranger-Come-Knocking got old and slow and lived past his reputation, a tragedy that befalls every great fighter not killed in his prime. ‘But each time you step into the Circle, you balance your life on a sword’s edge. Sooner or later, it won’t fall your way.’
Stour’s young warriors scoffed like they never heard aught so contemptible as this eminent good sense. ‘Did Black Dow fear the Circle?’ sneered Greenway.
‘Or Whirrun of Bligh, or Shama Heartless, or Rudd Threetrees?’ asked Magweer.
Wonderful rolled her eyes. No doubt she was about to point out that all four of those heroes died bloody deaths, and half of them in the Circle, too. Stour got in first, though. ‘The Bloody-Nine fought eleven duels and won ’em all.’
‘He beat the odds, that’s true,’ said Clover. ‘For a time. He beat the Feared and he stole your grandfather’s chain. But what did it get him? He lost everything, made nothing, and time’ll just hand that chain to you. Who’d want to be like that bastard?’
Stour opened his arms wide, opened his eyes wide, put on the big act. ‘The only chain I want is a chain of blood!’ Made not the slightest sense. How could you make a chain out of blood anyway? Terrible metaphor. But Magweer and Greenway and the rest of the arse-lickers gave a chorus of warlike growls and shaken fists. ‘I don’t want to be like the Bloody-Nine. I want to be the Bloody-Nine!’ Stour hitched his crazed smile a little wider in a reasonable impression of the Bloody-Nine in his worse moments. ‘No man more famed. No man more feared.’
‘He wants to be the Bloody-Nine,’ said Wonderful, deadpan, as the Great Wolf stalked off out of earshot, always hurrying to nowhere.
‘To have women spit at the mention of your name. To sow death for years and reap naught but hate at the end. To walk all your days in a circle of blood.’ Clover could only shake his head. ‘I never will unpick the riddle of why men want what they want.’
‘You going to let that fool Magweer talk to you that way?’ asked Wonderful.
Clover looked at her. ‘What’s it to you how he talks?’
‘Confirms these young idiots in their opinion they know best.’
‘We can’t correct the misapprehensions of every idiot any more’n we can correct the tide.’ Clover frowned off into the damp undergrowth where Stour had slapped that bottle, wondering if there was enough left in it to justify the search. He decided most likely not, strolled to the nearest tree instead and slowly lowered himself beside it. ‘Words leave no wounds and I’ve run at feuds enough. I try to run the other way these days.’
‘Very wise. But like you said, you ain’t much of a runner.’
‘True. If someone’s fixed on feuding, I’ve come to realise there’s only two realistic options.’ Clover wriggled back against the trunk until he found a comfortable position. ‘First, you just float over it, like dandelion seeds on a stiff breeze, and pay it no mind at all.’
‘Second?’
‘Murder the bastard.’ Clover grinned up at the blue sky, where the sun was starting to finally show some warmth. ‘But I wouldn’t want to spoil such a wonderful afternoon with murder, would you?’
‘It’d be a shame, I’ll admit.’ Wonderful watched Clover as he stretched out and crossed his legs. ‘What are you doing?’
‘What we should all be doing.’ Clover closed his eyes. ‘Biding my time.’
‘What’s the difference between biding it and wasting it?’
Clover saw no need to open his eyes. ‘Results, woman. Results.’
The Bigger They Are
Glaward peeled his shirt off and tossed it over to Barniva, then growled as he brought his fists together, woody muscle flexing in his outsize chest. An appreciative mutter rose from the onlookers gathered at the fence, a few numbers tossed out. Leo’s steadily lengthening odds, no doubt.
‘I swear he’s got bigger,’ murmured Jurand, eyes wide.
‘So have I,’ growled Leo, trying to sound as big as he could.
‘No doubt. Your legs are nearly as thick as his arms now.’
‘I can beat him.’
‘Easily. With a sword. So why fight him with your hands?’
Leo started unbuttoning his own shirt. ‘When I lived in Uffrith, the Dogman used to tell me stories about the Bloody-Nine. The duels he won in the Circle. I loved those stories. Used to dance around the garden behind his hall with a stick, pretending I was Ninefingers and the laundry post was Rudd Threetrees, or Black Dow, or Fenris the Feared.’ There was still a thrill in saying the names. Like they were magic words.
Jurand watched Glaward loose a few brutal practice punches. ‘The laundry post won’t knock your teeth out.’
Leo tossed his shirt over Jurand’s head. ‘A champion never knows what he’ll have to fight with. That’s why I always let you bastards pick the weapons.’ It was a cold morning, so he started bouncing on his toes to get the blood moving. ‘That’s why I beat Barniva with a heavy sword, and Antaup with a spear. Why I beat Whitewater Jin with a mace and you with long and short steels. That’s why I test my archery against Ritter. Used to, that is.’ The poor dead fool. ‘But I never yet beat Glaward with my bare hands.’
‘Well, no,’ said Jurand, that worried crease between his brows. ‘He’s built like a barn.’
‘The bigger they are—’
‘The harder they hit?’
‘Your defeats teach you more than your victories,’ muttered Leo, trying to slap some warmth into his muscles.
‘They hurt more, too.’ Jurand dropped his voice a little. ‘At least tell me you’ll fight dirty.’