‘Yes. You called for no peace then, if I remember right. You felt …’ Ninefingers’s eyes were fever-bright, his hands clutching at the air as he searched for the word. ‘You felt … the joy of it, didn’t you! Better’n love. Better’n fucking. Better’n anything. Don’t deny it!’
Bethod swallowed. ‘Yes.’ He could still feel the joy of it.
‘You showed me the way.’ And Ninefingers raised his forefinger and touched it gently to Bethod’s chest. So gentle a touch, but his whole body turned cold at it. ‘You. And I’ve walked the path you pointed, haven’t I? Wherever it led. No matter how far or how dark or how long the odds, I’ve walked your path. Now let me show you the way.’
‘And where will you lead us?’
Ninefingers raised his arms and tipped his head back towards the stained canvas above them, flapping gently with the breeze. ‘The whole North! The whole world!’
‘I don’t want the whole North. I want peace.’
‘What does peace mean?’
‘Anything you want it to.’
‘What if what I want is to kill Rattleneck’s son?’
By the dead, it was worse than speaking to Scale. It was like speaking to an infant. A terribly dangerous infant standing four-square in the way of everything Bethod wanted. ‘Listen to me, Logen.’ Carefully. Patiently. ‘If you kill Rattleneck’s son, there’ll be no end to the feuds. No end to the blood. Everyone in the North will be against us.’
‘What do I care to that? Let ’em come! He’s my prisoner. I took him, and I’ll say what’s done with him.’ His voice grew louder, wilder, more cracked. ‘I’ll say! I’ll decide!’ He stabbed at his chest with a finger, spit flecking from his teeth and his eyes popping. ‘Easier to stop the Whiteflow than to stop the Bloody-Nine!’
Bethod stood staring. Blood-drunk and murder-proud, just like Ursi had said. The selfishness of a baby, the savagery of a wolf, the vanity of a hero. Could this truly be the same man he once counted his closest friend? Who he used to ride beside, laughing, for hours at a time? Pointing at the landscape and saying how they’d site an army on it. How they’d make fortresses, or traps, or weapons from the ground. He hardly recognised him any more.
For a moment, he wanted to ask, What happened to you?
But Bethod knew what had happened. He’d been there, hadn’t he? He’d pointed the way, just like Ninefingers said. He’d been a willing companion on the road. He’d swept up the rewards and smiled while he did it. He’d made a monster, and he had to make things right. Had to try, at least. For everyone’s sake. For Logen’s. For his own.
He lowered his voice and spoke softly, calmly. He did not attack, but he did not retreat. He was a rock.
‘He’s your prisoner. Of course he is. You’ll decide. Of course you will. But I’m asking you, Logen. As your Chief. As your friend. Let me use him. Do you know what my father used to say?’
Logen blinked, frowning like a spiteful child now. And like a spiteful child, his curiosity won out. ‘What did he say?’
And Bethod tried to pour all his conviction into the words. The way his father had, each one heavy as a mountain. ‘Before you make a man into mud, make sure he’s no use to you alive. Some men will smash a thing just because they can. They’re too stupid to see that nothing shows more power than mercy.’
Ninefingers frowned. ‘You saying I’m stupid?’
Bethod looked into the black pits of his eyes, the faintest reflection of his own face at the corners, and said, ‘Prove you’re not.’
They stared at each other then, for what felt like an age, close enough that Bethod could feel Ninefingers’s breath on his face. He did not know what would happen. Did not know whether Ninefingers would agree. Did not know whether he would kill him where he stood. Did not know anything.
Then, like a leaf of steel bent and suddenly released, Logen’s mouth snapped into a grin. ‘You’re right. Course you’re right. I’m just funning.’ And he slapped Bethod on the arm with the back of his hand.
Bethod wasn’t sure he’d ever had less fun than in the last few moments.
‘Peace is what we need now.’ Logen capered to the table, all good humour, and sloshed out more wine, spilling some down his leg and barely noticing. ‘I mean, I’ve no use for the bastard’s corpse, have I? What good is he dead? Just meat. Just mud. Give him back to Rattleneck. Send him back to Daddy. Best all round. Let’s get done with this and go home. Breed some fucking pigs or some shit. He’s yours.’
‘Thank the dead,’ muttered Bethod, hardly able to speak for his hammering heart. ‘You’ve made the right choice. Trust me.’ He took a long breath, then walked on wobbly legs to the tent-flap. But he stopped before he got there and turned back.
A man should pay his dues, his father always told him.
‘Thanks, Logen,’ he said. ‘Truly. I couldn’t have got here without you. That much I know.’
Logen laughed. ‘That’s what friends are for, ain’t it?’ And he smiled that easy smile he used to have – the smile of a man who’d never entertained a dark purpose – and the fresh cut on his cheek twisted, and the stitches wept a streak of blood. ‘Now where’d that girl get to?’
It was bright outside, and Bethod closed his eyes and took a steadying breath, wiped his sweating forehead on the back of his hand.
He could do it. He could taste it.
Freedom.
Peace.
The scythes in the fields, the men building instead of breaking, the forest cleared for his great road, and a nation rising from the dust and ashes. A nation that would make all the sacrifices worthwhile …
And all he had to do was make a man who hated him beyond all else see things his way. He took another breath and puffed out his cheeks.
‘He giving up Rattleneck’s son?’ asked Craw, taking a pause from nibbling at his thumbnail to spit out the bitings.
‘He is.’
The Dogman closed his eyes and gave his own sigh of relief. ‘Thank the dead. I tried to tell him. Tried to, but …’
‘He’s not an easy man to talk to, these days.’
‘No, he isn’t.’
‘Just keep him here until Rattleneck’s gone,’ said Bethod. ‘The last thing I need is the Bloody-Nine wandering into my negotiations with his wet cock hanging out. And by the dead, make sure he does nothing stupid!’
‘He’s not stupid.’
Bethod looked back to the shadowy mouth of the tent, Logen’s happy humming floating from it. ‘Then make sure he does nothing mad.’
‘You can stop right there,’ said Craw, putting his shoulder in front of Bethod and drawing a length of steel as a warning.
‘Of course.’ The stranger didn’t look much of a threat, even to Bethod, who was well used to seeing threats everywhere. He was an unassuming little fellow in travel-stained clothes, leaning on a staff. ‘I only want a moment of your time, Lord Bethod.’
‘I’m no lord,’ said Bethod.
The man just smiled. There was something odd about him. A knowing glint in his eyes. Different-coloured eyes, Bethod noticed. ‘Treat every man like an emperor, you’ll offend no one.’
‘Walk with me, then.’ Bethod set off through the tents and the mud towards the holdfast. ‘And I can spare you a moment.’
‘Sulfur is my name.’ And the man bowed humbly, even while hurrying after. A touch of fancy Southern manners, which Bethod quite liked to see. ‘I am an emissary.’
Bethod snorted. Emissaries rarely brought good news. New challenges, new insults, new threats, new feuds, but rarely good news. ‘From what clan?’
‘From no clan, my Lord. I come from Bayaz, the First of the Magi.’
‘Huh,’ grunted Craw, unhappily, sword still halfway drawn.
And Bethod realised what most bothered him about this man. He carried no weapon. As strange as to be travelling without a head in these bloody times.
‘What does a wizard want with me?’ asked Bethod, frowning. He did not care for magic in the least. He liked what could be touched, and predicted, and relied upon.