Shivers frowned down at the grey hilt of his sword, then over at Isern. “Calder seemed the better choice, then.”

“And now?”

“And now,” said Rikke, “there’s no unpicking the warp and weft of all the things said and done since that day. It’s not a right choice or a wrong, any more than wind blown or snow fallen.” And gingerly, as if she was laying her hand on a sleeping dog, she put her palm to one of the stones. Maybe she’d hoped for her Long Eye to pop open and show her hidden truths, but if there’d been high magic here it was long faded, or at any rate she hadn’t the key to unlock it. It was just a stone.

Corleth pulled out a flask, took a little nip and offered it around. “Seems your friend’s not here yet.”

“He’s no friend,” said Rikke, taking a nip of her own.

“Then we can trot off ’fore he arrives,” said Isern. “You took Uffrith without his help, and you took Carleon without his help, and you’ve took half the North without his help, and now he slinks up, sniffing about like a badger at the henhouse. You don’t need his help getting your hands on the other half.”

“Might need his help keeping the half I’ve got, the way things are going.”

“’Twas your own cockiness set things going that way, d’you see. Did I not say cockiness was the grave you’d trip into if you didn’t mind your step?”

“Only about a thousand times. Can’t hurt to hear the man out.”

Isern turned her head, spat chagga juice and left a brown streak down her chin. “You’ll be telling me next it can’t hurt putting a crab down your trousers.”

“Aye, well,” grunted Rikke, handing the flask to Shivers, “my trousers, my choice to make.”

“No doubt, ’tis only that the choice you’re making is a very poor one, as most of your choices have been since your skinny arse touched Skarling’s Chair.”

Rikke ground her teeth. “I could tire of your slighting references to my arse.”

“And I could tire of your way of managing the North.”

“Oh, you’ve made that very clear. I think what first gave it away is how you keep saying it, straight to my face, in front of anyone who’ll listen.”

“A wise leader sups well upon the wisdom of their advisors.”

“It’s a shame my advisors don’t have any, then, isn’t it?”

“Oy,” said Shivers, lowering the flask. “I’ve a lifetime o’ defeats to draw on.” Rikke ignored him.

“There was a time your lessons smacked of wisdom, Isern-i-Phail. Now they smack of mad witterings summoned on the spot. Or worse yet, the maddest bits picked out from your father’s mad witterings, like a drunk squirrel picking nuts from a turd. I could do without the constant whittling down of my authority.”

“One cannot much whittle what is hardly there,” snapped Isern. “First you shat yourself with the Nail, now you think Jonas Clover’s the jug to hold all our hopes?”