“Clover.” Shivers stood there, in the doorway of Skarling’s Hall. You never could tell what that man was thinking. No more feeling showed in his living eye than his dead one. No sign of what the judgement would be. But from those coming and going, Black Rikke was proving a tougher judge than folk had guessed. Girl had iron in her, that was plain, and sharpened, too.

“Can I bring my people?” asked Clover.

Shivers looked at Flick and Sholla. “Why not?” And he stood aside to offer them all the way. So he’d be at their backs, o’ course. A bad man to have behind you with a sword, Caul Shivers. Just ask Black Dow. But if Clover wasn’t used to having bad men with swords about, he never would be.

Rikke sat in Skarling’s Chair, an old sheepskin draped over the back and onto the seat, red cloak around her shoulders and green stones around her neck, the tattoos black on her pale face. She looked comfortable, in that uncomfortable-looking chair, one leg crossed over the other with the worn boot gently swinging. There were some big names in the room, but everyone faced a bit towards her, like flowers turning their petals towards the sun. No doubt who had the say in that room.

“Jonas Clover,” she said, tapping a thoughtful fingernail against the arm of Skarling’s Chair as he traipsed up nervously to stand before her. “Here’s a riddle.”

“Well.” He gave an apologetic little grin. “No one wants to be thought of as simple.”

“There are folk who’ve done me favours and folk who’ve done me wrongs.” She sat forwards, those troubling eyes full upon him as if she could see into his head, see into his heart. “But there’s none I can think of that are such a half-baked loaf as you.”

Clover scratched at the back of his head. “I’ll admit I’ve been called worse and deserved it.”

“You were one of Calder’s men. One of Nightfall’s. One of those that invaded the Protectorate all those months ago.”

“I mostly ambled along at the back, to be fair.” He squinted up towards the shadowy rafters, a cobweb fluttering in the breeze through the windows. “In that war, if I recall, I killed more men on my side than on yours.”

“That’s naught to be proud of,” grunted Hardbread.

“No.” Clover gave a sorry shrug. “You’ll find few men less proud o’ themselves than me.”

“And once I had Skarling’s Chair,” said Rikke, “you gave every sign of going back over to Calder’s side soon as the chance was offered.”

“When you let Stour live, then tossed all your friends away, I started worrying you might not have the bones for the task. In my defence, you did act the part o’ someone shitting themselves very nicely.”

“Plenty o’ practice,” grunted Rikke. “And after all, I could only spare Stour ’cause you handed him to me in the first place.”

“That was less a service to you, though, and more about settling a score between me and him.”