“You understand we’ve got to be watchful,” said Rikke. “Black Calder’s a crafty one. Could have spies anywhere.”

“You thought my Corleth was spying?” The old woman lowered her broom, lip all a-wobble, poor thing. “All she talks about is how clever you are. How proud she is to be serving you. How you’ll change the North. Folk come to me for advice and I’m always telling ’em what a good thing—”

“All right, Granny,” said Corleth, waving her down. “We have to be watchful, it’s true. Just a misunderstanding, is all.”

“Aye,” said Rikke, giving Isern a hard side-eye. “It’s easy to stuff the blame in the wrong places.”

“And it’s true Black Calder’s crafty.” The old woman took a step towards Rikke, lowering her voice. “Between you and me, there’s this old bitch lives two doors down I’ve never trusted. You should keep an eye on her.”

“Might be we’ll do that.”

“Now.” Corleth’s granny stared sternly around. “Who’s for soup?”

The cold rain was flitting down harder when they made it back into the street, and Rikke pulled her hood up again and twitched it tight against the cold. “Thank the dead we smoked out that nest o’ vipers,” she said.

Isern was not amused. “You can’t let your guard down. Now, with your arse in Skarling’s Chair, less than ever. You have to be hard. Have to make of your heart a—”

“Yes, yes. I’ll have Corleth cut with the bloody cross for taking those kitchen scraps, soon as I get back.” Rikke shook her head. “I like the girl. She has sturdy hips.”

“Where do her hips come into it? Planning to sire children upon her?”

“No, I mean, she’s solid. Steady. Not likely to suddenly catch fire.” Rikke raised a brow at Isern. “Unlike some I could mention.”

“My narrow hips did not offend when I saved your life out in the wasteland.”

“Eh. They did a little.”

“I’m telling you there’s something off about that girl.” Isern spat over her shoulder towards the house. “And her granny, too.”

“Oh, aye, the granny especially. Never saw such a terrifying presence.” Rikke puffed out her cheeks as she strolled back up the steep way towards Skarling’s Hall. “Must be the Bloody-Nine in disguise.”

Lines of Communication

They spread out around the farm. Clover counted ten, but he kept sitting on his stump all the while so he wouldn’t spook ’em, only moving to give the carcass over the fire a prod, and that very slowly. The sun was getting low beyond the hills and the valley full of shadows, so he couldn’t really tell the faces, but there was one old-timer with a grey beard, one with a leather hood, one who wore a dented helmet, one young lad. Friends, enemies, the longer Clover lasted, the more they all looked the same. The more they bloody were the same.

Finally, one strolled up to the fire and held his palms out to it. Clover knew his face as it came into the light. Trapper. One of Black Calder’s boys.