“The North is ruled from Skarling’s Chair.”

“Same thing goes for great men’s arses as great men’s feet. It’s just a chair.”

“The North is ruled from Carleon,” grumbled Isern, jutting her lip out in a mighty frown.

“It was. Now it’ll be ruled from Uffrith. Close to the sea where we can reach out to other lands and I can take a paddle when I’m in the mood.”

“Paddle, by the dead. Shivers, tell her.”

But all Shivers did was shrug. “Great folk are great ’cause they plant new footsteps. Not ’cause they blunder through the same mistakes some other bastards made.”

Isern made a long hiss of disgust. “Folk won’t like it. Won’t understand it.”

“That’s their lookout,” said Rikke, waving it angrily away.

“It’s a mistake.”

“It’s mine to make.”

“You don’t know what you—”

“Enough!” snarled Rikke, standing up tall and facing Isern, fists clenched. “I’m Black Rikke and I’m the one with the Long Eye! I’m the one killed Stour Nightfall. I’m the one beat Black Calder. I make the choices. Not you. Me!” She snarled it in Isern’s face and stabbed at her chest with a finger. “If I choose to rule the North from a midden sitting on a piss-bucket, that’s how it’ll be. If I choose to follow the footsteps my father left in this garden, that’s how it’ll be. If I choose to make o’ my heart a bleeding fucking sponge, then, by all the dead, Isern-i-Phail, that,” and she spat the word like a curse, “is how it will be!”

There was a long silence, then. Just the gulls calling, and the sea rolling in, and the faint pulse of angry blood in Rikke’s head. The smile started as a crinkle at the corners of Isern’s eyes, then it spread to her mouth, to her cheeks, till it was right across her face. “Finally! I’d a worry you’d never get there.”

Rikke closed her eyes. “So that was a bloody lesson, too, was it?”

“Aye, a little bit.” Isern grinned as she offered out a chagga pellet. “With any luck the last you’ll need.”

Shivers slapped his thighs and stood with a grunt. “You really going to rule sitting on a piss-bucket?”

“Maybe I will,” said Rikke, taking a breath and looking out to sea. “But tell Hardbread to bring Skarling’s Chair down here, just in case.”

The Moment

Clover took a deep breath and thumped on the damp green copper with his fist. He waited. He knocked again. He became wetter and wetter in the mist from the river. He raised his arm to knock again. A narrow hatch snapped open, and a pair of rheumy eyes stared at him coldly from between thick bars.

“Who’s this now?”

“Jonas Clover’s my name.”

“Jona-you-what?”

“Clover!” called Clover over the noise of rushing water. “I was sent for.”

“Why?”

Clover wondered if he might’ve somehow come to the wrong place. “To teach sword-work, I was told. That’s what I do. Teach sword-work.” Well, that and betray employers, but that probably wasn’t something a potential employer needed to hear.