‘Shoot near ’em, maybe. Let’s not kill anyone we don’t have to, eh? They might be nice enough folks under different circumstances.’
Never sent up a dubious eyebrow. ‘You reckon?’
Craw didn’t, particularly, but he’d no desire to weight his conscience down any further. It didn’t float too well as it was. ‘Just lead ’em a little dance, that’s all.’
Wonderful clapped a hand to her chest. ‘I’m so sorry I’ll miss it. No one dances prettier than our Never when the music gets going.’
Never grinned at her. ‘Don’t worry, sweetness, I’ll dance for you later.’
‘Promises, promises.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Craw shut the pair of ’em up with another wave. ‘You can make us all laugh when this fool job’s done with, if we’re still breathing.’
‘Maybe we’ll make you laugh, too, eh, Whirrun?’ said Wonderful.
The valley-man sat cross-legged, sword across his knees, and shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘We’re a tight little group, us lot, we like things friendly.’
Whirrun’s eyes slid across to Jolly Yon’s black frown, and back. ‘I see that.’
‘We’re like brothers,’ said Brack, grinning all over his tattooed face. ‘We share the risks, we share the food, we share the rewards, and from time to time we even share a laugh.’
‘Never got on too well with my brothers,’ said Whirrun.
Wonderful snorted. ‘Well, aren’t you blessed, boy? You’ve been given a second chance at a loving family. You last long enough, you’ll learn how it works.’
The shadow of Whirrun’s hood crept up and down his face as he slowly nodded. ‘Every day should be a new lesson.’
‘Good advice,’ said Craw. ‘Ears open, then, one and all. Soon as Never’s drawn a few off, we creep in at the south gate.’ And he put a cross in the dirt to show where it was. ‘Two groups, one each side o’ the main hall there, where the thing is. Where the thing’s meant to be, leastways. Me, Yon and Whirrun on the left.’ Yon spat again, Whirrun gave the slightest nod. ‘Wonderful, take Brack and Scorry down the right.’
‘Right y’are, Chief,’ said Wonderful.
‘Right for us,’ sang Brack.
‘So, so, so,’ said Scorry, which Craw took for a yes.
He stabbed at each of ’em with one chewed-to-bugger fingernail. ‘And all on your best behaviour, you hear? Quiet as a spring breeze. No tripping over the pots this time, eh, Brack?’
‘I’ll mind my boots, Chief.’
‘Good enough.’
‘We got a backup plan?’ asked Wonderful. ‘In case the impossible happens and things don’t work out quite according to the scheme?’
‘The usual. Grab the thing if we can, then run like fuck. You,’ and Craw gave Raubin a look.
His eyes went wide as two cook-pots. ‘What, me?’
‘Stay here and mind the gear.’ Raubin gave a long sigh of relief and Craw felt his lip curl. He didn’t blame the man for being a hell of a coward, most men were. Craw was one himself. But he blamed him for letting it show. ‘Don’t get too comfortable, though, eh? If the rest of us come to grief these Fox fuckers’ll track you down before our blood’s dry and more’n likely cut your fruits off.’
Raubin’s sigh rattled to a quick stop.
‘Cut your head off,’ whispered Never, eyes all scary-wide.
‘Pull your guts out and cook ’em,’ growled Jolly Yon.
‘Skin your face off and wear it as a mask,’ rumbled Brack.
‘Use your cock for a spoon,’ said Wonderful.
They all thought about that for a moment.
‘Right, then,’ said Craw. ‘Nice and careful, and let’s get in that hall without no one noticing and find us that thing. Above all …’ And he swept the lot of ’em with his sternest look, a half-circle of dirt-smeared, scar-pocked, bright-eyed, beard-fuzzed faces. His crew. His family. ‘Nobody die, eh? Weapons.’
Quick sharp, and with no grumbling now the work was at their feet, Craw’s crew got ready for action, each one smooth and practised with their gear as a weaver with his loom, weapons neat as their clothes were ragged, bright and clean as their faces were dirty. Belts, straps and bootlaces hissed tight, metal scraped, rattled and rang, and all the while Scorry’s song floated out soft and high.
Craw’s hands moved by themselves through the old routines, mind wandering across the years to other times he’d done it, other places, other faces around him, a lot of ’em gone back to the mud long ago. A few he’d buried with his own hands. He hoped none of these folk died today, and became nothing but dirt and worn-out memories. He checked his shield, grip bound in leather all tight and sturdy, straps firm. He checked his knife, his backup knife, and his backup backup knife, all tight in their sheaths. You can never have too many knives, someone once told him, and it was solid advice, provided you were careful how you stowed ’em and didn’t fall over and get your own blade in your fruits.
Everyone had their work to be about. Except Whirrun. He just bowed his head as he lifted his sword gently from the tree-trunk, holding it under the crosspiece by its stained leather scabbard, sheathed blade longer’n one of his own long legs. Then he pushed his hood back, scrubbed his dirty fingernails through his flattened hair and stood watching the others, head on one side.
‘That the only blade you carry?’ asked Craw as he stowed his own sword at his hip, hoping to draw the tall man in, start to build some trust with him. Tight crew like this was, a bit of trust might save your life. Might save everyone’s.
Whirrun’s eyes swivelled to him. ‘This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it. Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue, which means the Splitting of the World, the Battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end.’ For a moment he had Craw wondering if he’d list the whole bloody hundred but thankfully he stopped there, frowning at the hilt, wound with dull grey wire. ‘This is my reward and my punishment both. This is the only blade I need.’
‘Bit long for eating with, no?’ asked Wonderful, strutting up from the other side.
Whirrun bared his teeth at her. ‘That’s what these are for.’
‘Don’t you ever sharpen it?’ asked Craw.
‘It sharpens me.’
‘Right. Right y’are.’ He hoped Whirrun was as good with that great big blade as he was supposed to be, ’cause he surely brought nothing to the table as a conversationalist.
‘Besides, to sharpen it you’d have to draw it,’ said Wonderful, winking at Craw with the eye Whirrun couldn’t see.
‘True.’ Whirrun’s eyes slid up to her face. ‘And once the Father of Swords is drawn, it cannot be sheathed without-’
‘Being blooded?’ she finished for him. Didn’t take skill with the runes to see that coming, Whirrun must’ve said the same words a dozen times since they left Carleon. Enough for everyone to get somewhat tired of it.
‘Blooded,’ echoed Whirrun, voice full of portent.
Wonderful gave Craw a look. ‘You ever think, Whirrun of Bligh, you might take yourself a touch too serious?’
He tipped his head back and stared up into the sky. ‘I’ll laugh when I hear something funny.’
Craw felt Yon’s hand on his shoulder. ‘A word, Chief?’
‘Course,’ with a grin that took some effort.
He guided Craw away from the others a few steps and spoke soft, the same words he always did before a fight. ‘If I die down there-’
‘No one’s dying today,’ snapped Craw, the same words he always used in reply.
‘So you said last time, ’fore we buried Jutlan.’ That drove Craw’s mood another rung down the ladder into the bog. ‘No one’s fault, we do a dangerous style o’ work and all know it. Chances are good I’ll live through, but all I’m saying is, if I don’t-’
‘I’ll stop by your children, and take ’em your share, and tell them what you were.’
‘That’s right. And?’
‘And I won’t dress it up any.’
‘Right, then.’ Jolly Yon didn’t smile, of course. Craw had known him years and hadn’t seen him smile more’n a dozen times, and even then when it was least expected. But he nodded, satisfied. ‘Right. No man I’d rather give the task to.’