“There are some tasks trustworthy men aren’t suited to,” growled Rikke. “You catch rabbits with weasels, not with bulls.”

“That’s one weasel might end up down your trousers.”

“What is this obsession with animals down my trousers?”

“I don’t get it, either,” muttered Corleth.

“You can shut your face, girl!” snarled Isern, rounding on her and shaking her spear in her face. “’Fore I give it a shutting from which it will not soon open.”

“Don’t carp at her!” Rikke stepped between the two of them. “You’ve had it in for her from the start and all she’s tried to do is help. By the dead, your bloody carping! Have you ever heard of a woman with such a tongue for carping as this one, Corleth?”

Corleth blinked at Isern, then at Rikke, and swallowed. “Honestly, I’d rather not get stuck between the two o’ you.”

“There’s wisdom,” said Shivers, frowning at the worsening row.

Rikke talked over him. “You’re too generous, Corleth! See how generous she is? You couldn’t carp any more if you were a carp.”

Isern’s knuckles were white on the haft of her spear. “Saved you, didn’t I? In the woods? In the winter? Not bad for a fish.”

“You did save me, and my ears are sore from being reminded, and my throat’s raw from thanking you for it. If I was planning to get lost in the woods again you’d be my first pick for a companion. But since I’m planning to sit in Skarling’s Chair, I’m beginning to doubt you’re fitted for the role.” She waved her hand towards Corleth. “There are folk with leveller heads and sweeter tempers one could have at one’s elbow.”

Isern narrowed her eyes. “That a fact?”

“It is! And if it’s a hard one to swallow, you can take yourself back into the hills whence you came and make houses out o’ shit or whatever it is your lot do up there. You made a promise to my father, but my father’s back to the mud and as far as I’m concerned your promise went with him, d’you see.” And Rikke made a mocking imitation of Isern’s hillwoman accent on the d’you see which she was rather pleased with.

Isern was less pleased. Indeed, she’d had a look of gathering fury during that last speech which was slightly troubling and made Rikke wonder whether she might’ve taken at least one step too far. “Well, have a shit, then, you little ingrate maggot!” she snarled, spraying chagga juice and making Rikke flinch back. “You little painted piss-smear! You fucking one-eyed wanker!”

“There’s some very pleasant one-eyed folk,” grunted Shivers.

“My arse to you!” hissed Isern in Rikke’s face. “And the moon’s curse to you and the dead drip on your Long Eye. You can roll your own chagga!” And she stalked off in high dudgeon, the very highest, indeed, shouldering Corleth aside, between the stones and away to the north the way they’d come.

“I’ve a fear…” said Shivers, his scarred brow furrowed in a frown. “That was a mistake.”