“Yield.” It sounded as if he was calling from the far end of a long tunnel.

“Fuck that.” More blood, possibly some bits of tooth.

“Last chance, Jorg,” he said. The edge of his sword lay cold against my neck.

“He yields.” Makin at the far end of the same tunnel. “He yields.”

“Like hell I do.” The difference between sky and ground had started to reassert itself. I focused on a dark blob that could well be Orrin.

“Yield,” he said again. Warmth down my neck where blood trickled from his shallow cut.

I managed a laugh. “You’ve already said you won’t kill me, Prince of Arrow. It’s not in your interest. So why would I yield?” I spat again. “If you ever get to my borders with an army, I’ll decide what to do then.”

He turned away with a look of disgust.

“The High Pass,” I said. “I’ll give you free passage to the High Pass and you can bother the earl with your moralizing. You earned that much.” I tried to stand and failed. Makin helped me to my feet.

We watched them ride on. The brother, Prince Egan, gave me an evil stare as he passed. Orrin didn’t even turn his head.

We watched until the last horse vanished over the rise.

“We’re going to need a bigger army,” I said.

Sir Makin is almost the handsome knight of legend, dark locks curling, tall, a swordsman’s build, darkest eyes, his armour always polished, blade keen. Only the thickness of his lips and the sharpness of his nose leave him shy of a maiden’s dream. His mouth too expressive, his look too hawkish. In other matters too Sir Makin is “almost.” Almost honourable, almost honest. About his friendship, though, there is no almost.

7

Four years earlier

We’d ridden for two hours since the Prince of Arrow left for the High Pass. Two hours in a very different kind of silence to the one that kept us company for the first part of our journey. I had the sort of headache that makes decapitation seem like a good option. Any idiot could tell that it wouldn’t take much for me to make their neck the practice run.

“Ouch.”

Well, not every idiot.

“Yes, Maical,” I said. “Ouch.” I watched him through slitted eyes, teeth tight against the throb in my skull. Sometimes you couldn’t tell old Maical was broken. Whatever piece was missing from him, it didn’t always show. For whole moments at a time he could look ready for anything, tough, dependable, even cunning. And then it came, that weakness about the mouth, the furrowing of the brow, and the empty eyes.

Maical had found his way back to the Brotherhood within weeks of our victory in the Highlands. Lord knows how, but I suppose even pigeons can find their way home with nothing but a drop of brain in their tiny skulls. In the months since I made the Haunt my home he’d served as stable-boy or assistant to the stable-boy, or dung-collector, or some such. I made it clear I wanted him fed and given a place to sleep. I’d killed his brother after all. Gemt hadn’t cared much for him. He beat him and set him to both their tasks on the road. But he made sure Maical ate and he made sure he had a place to sleep. “He banged you up, Jorg,” Maical said. He looked stupid when he spoke, lips always wet and glistening.

I saw Makin wince, Row exchange a bet with Grumlow.

“Yes, Maical, he surely did.”

I didn’t feel bad for knifing Gemt. Not for a heartbeat. But it hurt me to think of Maical too broken to hate me, caught in whatever hooks snagged his mind, seeing but trapped. I thought of the watch a tick tick ticking on my wrist. All that cleverness, those wheels within wheels, turning, being turned, teeth biting, and yet one tiny piece of grit, one human hair in the wrong place, and it would seize, ruined, worthless. I wondered what had got into Maical way back when. What had it been that stole his wits away?

“Tell Makin to get himself up here,” I said.

Maical pulled on his reins and the grey slowed. I saw Row’s scowl. He’d lost his bet.

The mountains pulsed from red to green as the pain washed from front to back, from behind my eyes to the base of my skull.

“Sometimes I think you keep him around just to keep the grey happy,” Makin said. I hadn’t noticed him draw level.

“I want you to teach me how to use a sword,” I said.

“You know how—”

“I thought I did,” I said. “But now I’m going to take it seriously. What just happened…” I put my hand to my head and my fingers came away bloody. “…is not going to happen again.”

“Well, at least it’s a kingly way to pass the time,” he said. “Help to keep your edge too. Have you even swung a sword since we took the Haunt?”

I shrugged and wished I hadn’t. My teeth made a nasty squeaking as they ground over each other.

“I’m told you’ve been attempting to father a bastard on pretty much every serving girl in the castle.” He grinned.

It’s good to be the king.

Except when you get hit in the head with a sword.

“It’s an effort at repopulation,” I said. “Quality and quantity.” I clapped a hand to my head. “Arrrgh, damn and fuck it.” Some pain you can distance yourself from, but a headache sits right where you live.

Makin kept grinning. I think he quite liked seeing me knocked down.

He reached into his saddlebag, dug deep, pulled out a tight wrap of leather and tossed it over. I almost missed it. Double vision will do that for you.

“Clove-spice,” he said.

“Been hoarding that one, Sir Makin.” You could trade a good horse and not get enough clove-spice to fill your hand. Wonderful stuff for pain. Too much and you die of course, but it’s like floating to your death, carried by a warm river. I almost opened the wrap. “Take it.” I threw it back. Giving in to things becomes a habit. I made an enemy of the ache in my head and started to fight.

We rode on. I filled my mind with old venom, brought out the hate I kept for the Count of Renar. I’d had little to exercise it on since he passed out of reach. The throb throb throb behind my eyes made the ache from my broken tooth feel like a tingle.

Rike caught up on that monster horse of his and kept pace. He watched me for a while. Makin might have enjoyed seeing me knocked on my arse; but Rike thought all his festival days had come at once.

“You know why I keep you around, Rike?” I asked.

“Why?”

“You’re like the worst part of me.” That squeak of enamel on enamel again as I ground my teeth. “Damn.” It slackened off. “I don’t have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. I got me a devil on both. But you’re like the bad one. Like I’d be if I lost my charm, and my good looks.” I realized I was babbling and tried to grin.

“Lose yourself, Rike.” Makin again. I hadn’t seen him come back.

“My father was right, Makin,” I said. “Right to take his brother’s money, for William and Mother. He would have lost half his army just getting to the Haunt.”

Makin frowned. He held the clove-spice out again. “Take it.”

“My father knew about sacrifice. Corion too. The path he set me on. The right one. I just didn’t like being pushed.”