“Please.” Stour’s scabbed fingers crept across the floor and plucked at the gold-embroidered hem of her new cloak. “Please.”

By the dead, he stank. When he fought Leo in the Circle she’d felt her hatred for him had no bottom. Now the well ran suddenly dry and all she had left was disgust for the whole business. But she knew what the lads wanted to see. You have to make of your heart a stone, if you want to sit in Skarling’s Chair.

“You dare touch me?” she barked and kicked him in the face. Since he was on his knees she caught him right under the jaw, snapped his head up and sent him sprawling over backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, curling up on his side, broken hand trembling over his bloody face. “Don’t hurt me.”

This hadn’t been the plan. In the plan he’d stood up, for one thing, and sneered and spat insults, and she’d burned bright with righteous fury and cut him down with the cleverest stuff you ever heard. But how can you cut down what already can’t stand?

She curled her lip and looked over at the Nail. “You want to put him in the cage?”

“The one he put my father in?”

“Have I got another?”

He grinned, and a fine grin he had. She was quite pleased to have it aimed at her. Then he caught Stour by the hair and dragged him whimpering over towards the cage, his ruined legs flopping after.

“Not killing him?” asked Clover, the slightest frown about his grey-flecked brows. “He comes through this alive, I doubt he’ll forgive.”

“Not really the forgiving sort,” said Isern, pulling out a lump of chagga and starting to cut a little piece off.

“Black Calder even less so.” Clover watched the Nail manhandling Stour across the floor. “Just can’t see any future where this bastard breathing is a good thing for us.”

“Don’t worry about seeing the future.” Rikke nodded towards the sign of the Long Eye and tapped at the runes that matched it on her own face. “That’s my business.” And she plucked the chagga out of Isern’s fingers ’fore it got to her mouth and stuck it behind her own lip. “I can trust you, can’t I, Clover? My father once said that if he ever needed a dependable man… it wouldn’t be you.”

“Your father was a straight edge and a fine judge of character.” Clover gave a little shrug. “In my humble opinion, it’d be a mistake to trust anyone too much.”

“Specially someone already betrayed one master,” said Isern, cutting another little piece of chagga from the lump and rolling it into a pellet.

“Don’t be too generous to me, Isern-i-Phail, I’ve betrayed about five o’ the bastards.” And Clover nabbed the pellet from Isern’s fingers with surprising dexterity and squinted to the rafters as he stuck it behind his lip, as though bringing to mind the full catalogue of his faithlessness was quite the challenge. “There was Bethod, and Glama Golden, and Cairm Ironhead, and I reckon I betrayed Black Calder at the same time as I betrayed his son. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s one or two I’ve forgotten about besides.” And he patted thoughtfully at his belly. “I don’t think I flatter myself to say I’ve betrayed some o’ the greatest names in the North. But the thing they had in common?”