“It makes the meat,” muttered Calder, watching the girl scramble back to the rest of the slaves.

“Do you like mutton, Black Calder? Will you join me for mutton and gravy later?”

“Other business, sadly. Have to get the men ready.”

“You’re all work! A man must make time for fun. But still.” Stand-i’-the-

Barrows laughed a high, good-humoured laugh. “More mutton for me!” And he snapped his reins, and sent his wagon o’ nightmares rattling on.

“Y’ever feel,” murmured Flick as he watched the slaves dragged after, bouncing off each other, clutching at their collars, sending up a chorus of sobs, “that you’re on the wrong side o’ the question?”

“Increasingly.” Clover scratched gently at his scar. “Whichever side I pick.”

“I mean…” Flick was looking down at himself, patting his chest as if picturing a costume like Stand-i’-the-Barrows wore. “Why cover yourself with bones?”

“’Cause being feared is a heady brew,” muttered Downside, who was bringing out his whetstone for his favourite hobby of sharpening his axe. “Men get drunk on it.”

“First fear’s their weapon.” Clover remembered winning a few fights before they began, using just a hard stare and the weight of his name. “Then it becomes their shield. Only thing that’ll stop their enemies trying to kill ’em. Only thing that’ll stop their friends trying to kill ’em. They get scared o’ not being feared enough, so they pile horror on horror. Turn ’emselves into monsters. And since memory tends to make the past look bigger, today’s bastards are always hunting for ways to out-bastard the bastards o’ yesteryear.”

“It’s sort of… an atrocity contest,” mused Sholla, tapping her lip with one finger as she watched Downside grinding at his axe-blade.

“Aye,” said Clover, sighing, “and the winner gets the same prize as the losers. An early grave.”

“Enough to make you miss the Bloody-Nine. He might’ve killed more men than winter, but he never made some fucking travelling show out of it.”

“The sad truth is, men love to follow a man other men fear,” said Clover. “Makes them feel fearsome, too. We tell the odd fond story of the good men. The straight edges. Your Rudd Threetrees, your Dogmen. But it’s the butchers men love to sing of. The burners and the blood-spillers. Your Cracknut Whirruns and your Black Dows. Your Bloody-Nines. Men don’t dream of doing the right thing, but of ripping what they want from the world with their strength and their will.”

“And that’s what we’ll do tomorrow!” Downside gave his axe one last lick with the stone and held it up to the light to admire its edge. “Something to look forward to, eh?”

Clover watched him, grinning in the sunlight at the idea of mayhem. By the dead, had he once been that way?

“Why hasn’t she run?” he muttered, frowning towards the hills. He thought of Rikke, perched in Skarling’s Chair with that knowing smile. That big black eye with the runes around it, the pupil yawning like a pit full of secrets. “What’s she seen, with that Long Eye of hers?”