She frowned as she watched him go. He’d always been thin, but wiry-strong like a bent bow. Now he looked crooked, brittle. She caught herself wondering how long he had left. Wondering what would become of her when he was gone. What would become of them all. If they were counting on her bones and her brains, they were in bigger trouble than she’d thought.
Shivers sat frowning into the room, bit of a space around him. He had a reputation made most folk keep their distance, even drunk. There were too many bad men in the North and Caul Shivers, by most accounts, was one of the very worst. Bad men are a terrible curse, no doubt, right up until you’re in bad trouble and there’s one on your side. Then they’re the best thing ever.
‘Hey, hey, Shivers!’ She slapped him on the shoulder and nearly missed. Lucky thing it was a big shoulder. ‘Not sure you’re really getting this whole feast thing. We are rejoicing in my heroic return. You’re meant to smile.’ She looked at his ruined face, the lid sagging around his metal eye and the great burn across his cheek. ‘You can smile, can’t you?’
He looked at her hand on his shoulder, then up at her, and didn’t smile at all. ‘Why were you never scared of me?’
‘You just never seemed all that scary. Always found your eye sort of pretty. Shiny.’ Rikke patted his scarred cheek. ‘You always just seemed … lost. Like you lost yourself and didn’t know where to look.’ She put her hand on his chest. ‘But you’re in there, still. You’re in there.’
He looked as shocked as if she’d slapped him, and there was a gleam of damp in his real eye, or maybe it was just her own sight that was smeary, as Caul Shivers wasn’t really known as a big weeper, except when his bad eye dribbled, which was a different thing.
‘Lot o’ teary old men about today,’ she muttered, pushing herself away from the table. ‘I need another drink.’ Probably another drink wasn’t a good idea, but for some reason she’d always found bad ideas the more appealling kind. She was sloshing ale into her cup, tongue pressed into the dent in her lip where the chagga usually sat with the effort of not spilling, when she caught sight of Leo dan Brock.
He usually had a few of his friends with him, and the one with all the teeth wasn’t far away, grinning at a serving woman like his smile was a gift she was lucky to get, but it looked like the rest had been scared off by his mother. To be fair, Lady Finree was a pretty fearsome woman, and she was delivering a pretty fearsome lecture to her son, if her wagging finger and his screwed-up face were a guide.
‘… but I shan’t cramp you any longer,’ Rikke heard her say as she came closer. ‘Someone has to manage this retreat, after all.’
Leo glared daggers at his mother as she strode away, then tossed his head back and drained his cup, then threw the cup across the rubbish-strewn table and started drinking straight from the jug, little rivulets running down his hard-working throat.
‘I sometimes think more ale gets spilled than drunk at these things,’ said Rikke in the Union tongue, both hands on the table beside him with her shoulders up around her ears.
He lowered the jug and peered at her over the rim, answered in Northern. ‘If it isn’t the Dogman’s missing daughter. Glad to be back?’
‘I’d prefer to be back in Uffrith, but Uffrith’s burned, and the people scattered. The lucky ones, anyway. Always thought I hated the place, but now it’s gone I miss it …’ She had to swallow another lump of sadness. ‘Still, this is an awful lot better’n being hunted through a freezing forest by a crowd of horrible cunts, so there’s that. Lot o’ bastards in the North, but that Stour Nightfall.’ And she bared her teeth at a sudden stab of hate. ‘By the dead, he’s a bastard for the songs.’
‘You Northmen love to make songs about bastards.’
‘I’m a Northwoman,’ she said, poking at her chest with a thumb.
‘I noticed,’ he said, raising his brows at it. Her thumb, not her chest. Though maybe he was taking a sly look at that, too. She somewhat hoped so but was too drunk to tell. Seemed every word between them had an edge to it. A little danger, like the jabs in a duel. A little thrill, like each breath was a gamble.
‘Not easy,’ she grunted, dropping on the empty stool where his mother had been sitting, thumping her boot down on the table and rocking carelessly back. ‘Being in the shadow of a famous parent.’
‘No. I miss my father.’ Leo frowned into his ale-jug. ‘Three years, he’s been gone. Still feels like yesterday. Didn’t get nearly so much of my mother’s attention when he was alive.’
‘You should be glad of your mother’s attention. Never knew mine.’
‘I’ll be lord governor soon,’ said Leo, trying and largely failing to sound lord governor-ish, though it was a failure Rikke found endearing. She was finding everything about him endearing right then. Specially his collarbones, for some reason. Strong, bold collarbones, he had, with a hard dimple between she reckoned her nose would nuzzle into just right. ‘The king’ll send an edict, and I’ll be able to do whatever I want.’
Rikke opened her eyes very wide. ‘So … you only have to do what your mama tells you till a man with a golden hat gives you permission?’ She puffed out her cheeks. ‘That’s impressive. That is really quite fucking something.’
He’d been frowning at first, but she was pleased to see it crumble into a sheepish smile. ‘You’re right. I’m being a prick.’
She was thinking that sometimes a prick is the very thing you need, but she just about stopped herself saying it. A girl should maintain some mystery, even when drunk.
Leo leaned close and she felt a guilty flush of heat on the side facing him, like he was made of hot coal and she was sitting too close to the fire. ‘They say you were raised by witches.’
Rikke snorted as she glanced over at Isern-i-Phail. ‘Bitches, maybe.’
‘They say you’ve got the Long Eye.’
She took the chance to lean a bit closer, turning her left eye towards him. ‘That’s right.’ Their faces couldn’t have been more than a few inches apart, and the space between felt hot as an open oven. ‘I can see your future.’
‘What’s there?’ Doubt, and laughter, and curiosity in his voice, and did she catch just a husky hint of desire as well? By the dead, she hoped so.
‘Trouble with seeing the future is you don’t want to spoil the surprise.’ She stood up, nearly tripping over her own stool, but steadying herself masterfully by clutching at the edge of the table. ‘I’ll show you.’
She caught him by the arm, started trying to drag him up, but got distracted halfway and ended up just thoughtfully feeling it. All hard in his sleeve. Like it was made of wood.
‘That’s a lot of arm,’ she murmured, and pulled him towards the big barn doors, open wide now men were filtering off to their tents and their bedrolls. Leo’s cautious friend, Jurand or whatever, was watching them from a place near the wall with this disapproving expression, but she couldn’t be arsed to be disapproved of right then. Isern-i-Phail was stood next to Shivers, her bare, bandaged leg propped up on a stool.
‘That is a leg.’ Isern gestured at it proudly, sinews standing from her white thigh. ‘That, d’you see, is all a leg should be and more.’
Shivers gave the leg in question a careful examination. ‘No doubt.’
‘The other one,’ said Isern, ‘is even better.’
Shivers’ eyes, or his eye, at any rate, shifted from Isern’s leg to her face. ‘You don’t say?’
‘I do.’ She leaned down towards him. ‘And as for what’s betwixt the two …’
‘Excuse us,’ said Rikke, slipping past and dragging Leo after, both trying to stifle their giggles. The night air was like a slap after the warmth inside, and it pinched her nose and made her head spin. Fires pricked at the night, hint of tents in the darkness, snatch of someone singing some old song about some dead hero. She led Leo by the elbow, heading nowhere, both of them laughing whenever they took a wobble.