‘If you could just’ve got your sword free from your fancy-arsed cloak you’d have cut those bastards up every which way.’ Shallow was coming down the slope and dragging something after him. ‘We caught this one. He was holding their horses.’ And he shoved a shape down in the mud in front of Calder. A young lad, pale face dirt-speckled in the half-light.

‘That’s some good work.’ Calder wiped his sour mouth on the back of his sleeve. ‘My father always said you were two of the best men he knew.’

‘Funny.’ He could see Shallow’s teeth as he grinned. ‘He used to tell us we were the worst.’

‘Either way, don’t know how I’ll thank you.’

‘Gold,’ said Shallow.

‘Aye,’ said Deep. ‘Gold will go most of the way.’

‘You’ll have it.’

‘I know we will. That’s why we love you, Calder.’

‘Well, that and the winning sense of humour,’ said Shallow.

‘And that beautiful face, and those beautiful clothes, and the smirk that makes you want to punch it.’

‘And the bottomless respect we had for your father.’ Shallow gave a little bow. ‘But, yes, mostly it’s the old goldy-woldy.’

‘What rites for the dead?’ asked Deep, poking one of the corpses with the toe of his boot.

Now that Calder’s head was settling, the surging of blood in his ears was quieting, the pounding in his face was dulling to a throb, he was starting to think. To wonder what could be gained. He could show these boys to Reachey, try and get him riled up. Murdering his daughter’s husband in his own camp, it was an insult. Especially to an honourable man. Or he could have them dragged before Black Dow, fling them at his feet and demand justice. But both options held risks, especially when he didn’t know for a fact who was behind it. When you’re planning what to do, always think of doing nothing first, see where that gets you. It was better to let these bastards wash away, pretend it never happened, and keep his enemies guessing.

‘In the river,’ he said.

‘And this one?’ Shallow waved his knife at the lad.

Calder stood over him, lips pursed. ‘Who sent you?’

‘I just mind the horses,’ whispered the boy.

‘Come on, now,’ said Deep, ‘we don’t want to cut you up.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Shallow.

‘No?’

‘Not bothered.’ He grabbed the boy around the throat and stuck his knife up his nose.

‘No! No!’ he squeaked. ‘Tenways, they said! They said Brodd Tenways!’ Shallow let him drop back in the mud, and Calder gave a sigh.

‘That flaking old fuck.’ How toweringly unsurprising. Maybe Dow had asked him to get it done, or maybe he’d taken his own initiative. Either way, this lad wouldn’t know enough to help.

Shallow spun his knife around, blade flashing moonlight as it turned. ‘And for young master I-just-mind-the-horsey-boy?’

Calder’s instinct was just to say, ‘Kill him,’ and be done. Quicker, simpler, safer. But these days, he tried always to think about mercy. A long time ago when he’d been a young idiot, or perhaps a younger idiot, he’d ordered a man killed on a whim. Because he’d thought it would make him look strong. Because he’d thought it might make his father proud. It hadn’t. ‘Before you make a man into mud,’ his father had told him afterwards in his disappointed voice, ‘make sure he’s no use to you alive. Some men will smash a thing just because they can. They’re too stupid to see that nothing shows more power than mercy.’