“His worth is his girth,” said Scenn, combing his fingers through his riot of red beard.

“There’s been bad blood between the clans of the North and the people of the hills for far too long,” said Rikke. “Since the time of Crummock-i-Phail and Bethod and since times long before. But that’s all washed away. You were there when I needed you, and I’ll be there if you need me, that’s my promise. But since promises are cheap, you can take the land we discussed as well.”

“Truth is, you’ve already done us a service beyond reckoning by taking our sister off our hands,” said Scenn.

“Every moment her tongue is stabbing at you is a moment it’s not stabbing at us,” said Scofen.

Isern blew some chagga spit which spattered on Scofen’s shirt and made him grin. “Mind you don’t get stabbed with something sharper,” she said.

“I think of her as a sister myself,” said Rikke. “An older, tougher, wiser sister, at that. Reckon that makes you my brothers. And family should keep in touch.” Rikke sat forward. “I say we open up the ways into the hills. Build better roads and set to trading more than wounds. I’ve fond memories of that ale I sampled last time I was with you. Coal in the hills, too, I hear, and copper. No doubt we’ve got things of iron and steel and cloth you might find useful.”

“No doubt,” said Scenn, reaching out to rub thoughtfully at the sleeve of Hardbread’s mail coat between big finger and thumb.

“A couple of you should take the voyage to Adua with me. See the world. Sample the pleasures of civilisation. Take some ideas with you and bring a few back. Show folk down there the North’s united. Together we’ll make worse enemies, and better friends, and it’ll be a thing we can all profit from.”

“Ah, enemies and profits.” Scofen’s eyes lit up. “Things our father loved almost as much as the moon.” And there was laughter, and back-slapping, and trading of well-meaning insults and overblown tales of the battle.

But being a leader can’t all be grinning at friends. Sooner or later you’ll have to frown on your foes. Calder’s man Flatstone was marched in next, battered and bandaged. His hands were bound, but he stood as if he meant to die with his pride intact, which was a thing Rikke supposed she could admire.

Lurking at his shoulder, Shivers pulled out that bright little knife. Might be he didn’t catch the light on the blade on purpose and flash it in Flatstone’s face. But Rikke wouldn’t have bet on it.

“You’re Brodd Flatstone,” she said.

“I am.”

“One of Black Calder’s War Chiefs.”

“I was.”

“How many of my folk did you kill in the battle?”

Flatstone gave Shivers’ blade a glance, then set his jaw and lifted his chin. “Many as I could.”

“Huh. How long did you serve Black Calder?”

“More’n twenty years. Since I won my name at the battle on the Heroes. Joined Calder then. A lot o’ folk were doing it.” Flatstone took a breath through his broad nose, and let it puff away. “And I’d do the same again. He was a great leader, in his time.”