Thick black hair was stuck to the lad’s face with sweat, and every time he outfoxed the big man, or slipped around one of his efforts, or brought a gasp from the onlookers, he noticeably didn’t smile, or shout, or throw his arms up in triumph. It was like his face was sculpted from pale clay and could make no expression at all. Wasn’t so much a lack of fear as a hole where his fear should’ve been. There was a scar between his mouth and his nose. A cleft lip.

“I know this lad,” said Clover, fumbling off his hat and scrubbing at the sweaty wisps stuck to his pate. “He was with you that day I offered you an apple.”

“He was.”

The boy darted around a lunge, flicked his sword out and nicked the big man’s hand. He gasped through clenched teeth, blade dropping to the straw. The lad stepped in, sword raised.

“Stop!” called Calder. “I don’t have so many warriors you can go carving ’em up for your amusement. You remember Jonas Clover? Used to be Steepfield? Won some duels?”

“And lost one,” muttered Clover, under his breath.

“I remember,” said the lad, watching from behind that curtain of black hair. Showed no sign of respect. Showed no sign of scorn. Just took it all in.

“Don’t say much, does he?” said Clover.

“No, but he can make a sword sing.” A thickset old bald bastard with a short grey beard had stepped up beside them. Clover didn’t know his face, which was odd, since he thought he knew everyone in the North with a big enough name to start spilling his thoughts to Black Calder. “He reminds me of a young Skarling, in that regard.”

“Really?” asked Clover, brows high, since Skarling Hoodless was back in the mud lifetimes ago.

“This is Bayaz.” Calder had acquired the grin of a man keen to please, which by no means fit him well. “The First of the Magi.”

Clover raised his brows even higher. That explained a few things. His being on intimate terms with long-dead heroes for one. The way Black Calder scraped around him for another. He hadn’t the look of a legendary wizard, truth be told. Thicker in the neck and quicker to smile. But there was something in Bayaz’s eyes as he took Clover’s measure. Something that made him think this would be a bad enemy to have.

“Steepfield was the name?” he asked.

Clover had a policy of never setting magi right. “It was.”

“Come to Currahome as I have, no doubt, to make sure the proper person sits in Skarling’s Chair.”

Since opinions might differ on the best arse to fill that uncomfortable piece of furniture, it was easy for Clover to give a hearty, “That’s right.”

“We cannot have our plans for the North wrecked by some over-clever girl with a magic eye.”

Clover cleared his throat. “Without wishing offence, seems she’s knocked ’em a bit crooked already.”

Bayaz’s eyes glittered in the light of the fire-pit. “Nothing that cannot be straightened out again, with the right knowledge and the right friends.” All in good fun, it seemed, but there was a threat in there somewhere.