Glokta blinked. “I fear the metaphor has lost its relevance.”

“Or…” Ardee squinted at the ceiling, then snapped her fingers. “I might use my subtle feminine wiles…” thrusting back her shoulders and hitching up her bust, “to entrap a third man, still more powerful and wealthy. Young, and handsome, and smooth of limb as well, I suppose, since this is a metaphor. I would marry him and with his help destroy those other two, and abandon them penniless and disappointed. Ha! What think you?”

Glokta felt his eyelid twitching, and he pressed one hand against it. Interesting. “A third suitor,” he murmured. “The idea had never even occurred.”

Skarlings Chair

Far below, the water frothed and surged. It had rained hard in the night, and now the river ran high with it, an angry flood chewing mindlessly at the base of the cliff. Cold black water and cold white spray against the cold black rock. Tiny shapes—golden yellow, burning orange, vivid purple, all the colours of fire, whisked and wandered with the mad currents, whatever way the rain washed them.

Leaves on the water, just like him.

And now it looked as if the rain would wash him south. To fight some more. To kill men who’d never heard of him. The idea of it made him want to be sick. But he’d given his word, and a man who doesn’t keep his word isn’t much of a man at all. That’s what Logen’s father used to tell him.

He’d spent a lot of long years not keeping to much of anything. His word, and the words of his father, and other men’s lives, all meaning less than nothing. All the promises he’d made to his wife and to his children he’d let rot. He’d broken his word to his people, and his friends, and himself, more times than he could count. The Bloody-Nine. The most feared man in the North. A man who’d walked all his days in a circle of blood. A man who’d done nothing in all his life but evil. And all the while he’d looked at the sky and shrugged his shoulders. Blamed whoever was nearest, and told himself he’d had no choices.

Bethod was gone. Logen had vengeance, at last, but the world wasn’t suddenly a better place. The world was the same, and so was he. He spread out the fingers of his left hand on the damp stone, bent and wonky from a dozen old breaks, knuckles scratched and scabbing, nails cracked and wedged under with dirt. He stared down at the familiar stump for a moment.

“Still alive,” he whispered, hardly able to believe it.

He winced at the pain in his battered ribs, groaned as he turned away from the window and back into the great hall. Bethod’s throne room, and now his. The thought tugged a meagre belch of laughter out of his gut, but even that stabbed at the mass of stitches through his cheek and up the side of his face. He limped out across the wide floor, every step an ordeal. The sound of his scraping boots echoed in the high rafters, over the whispering of the river down below. Shafts of blurred light, heavy with floating dust, shone down and made criss-cross patterns across the boards. Near to Logen, on a raised-up dais, stood Skarling’s Chair.

The hall, and the city, and the land around it had all changed far beyond recognition, but Logen reckoned the chair itself was much the same as it had been when Skarling lived. Skarling Hoodless, greatest hero of the North. The man who’d united the clans to fight against the Union, long ago. The man who’d drawn the North together with words and gestures, for a few brief years, at least.

A simple seat for a simple man—big, honest chunks of old wood, faded paint around the edges, polished smooth by Skarling’s sons, and grandsons, and the men who’d led his clan since. Until the Bloody-Nine came knocking at the gates of Carleon. Until Bethod took the chair for his own, and pretended that he was all that Skarling had been, while he forced the North together with fire, and fear, and steel.

“Well then?” Logen jerked his head round, saw Black Dow leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. “Ain’t you going to sit in it?”

Logen shook his head, even though his legs were aching so bad he could hardly bear to stand a moment longer. “Mud always did for me to sit on. I’m no hero, and Skarling was no king.”

“Turned down a crown, as I heard it told.”

“Crowns.” Logen spat onto the straw, spit still pink from the cuts in his mouth. “Kings. The whole notion’s shit, and me the worst choice there could be.”

“You ain’t saying no, though, eh?”

Logen frowned up at him. “So some other bastard even worse’n Bethod can sit in that chair, make the North bleed some more? Maybe I can do some good with it.”

“Maybe.” Dow looked straight back. “But some men aren’t made for doing good.”

“You talking ’bout me again?” chuckled Crummock, striding in through the doorway, Dogman and Grim at his shoulder.

“Not all talk’s about you, Crummock,” said Dogman. “You sleep alright, Logen?”

“Aye,” he lied. “Like the dead.”

“What now?”

Logen stared at that chair. “South, I reckon.”

“South,” grunted Grim, giving no clue whether he thought it was a good idea or a bad.

Logen licked at the ragged flesh at the side of his mouth, checking again, for no reason that made any sense, just how much it hurt. “Calder and Scale are still out there, somewhere. No doubt Bethod sent ’em to find some help. From out past the Crinna, or up in the high valleys, or wherever.”

Crummock chuckled softly. “Ah, the good work’s never done.”

“They’ll be causing mischief sooner or later,” said Dogman, “small doubt o’ that.”

“Someone needs to stay back here and keep a watch on things. Hunt those two bastards out if they can.”

“I’ll do it,” said Black Dow.

“You sure?”

Dow shrugged. “I don’t like boats and I don’t like the Union. Don’t need to take no voyage to work that out. And I’ve got scores enough to settle with Calder and Scale. I’ll pick me some Carls out o’ what’s left, and I’ll pay ’em a visit.” He flashed his nasty grin, and clapped Dogman on the arm. “Good luck to the rest o’ you down there with the Southerners, eh? Try not to get yourselves killed.” He narrowed his eyes at Logen. “You especially, eh, Bloody-Nine? Wouldn’t want to lose us another King o’ the Northmen, now, would we?” And he sauntered out, arms folded.

“How many men we got left over?”

“Might be three hundred, now, if Dow takes a few.”

Logen gave a long sigh. “Best get ’em ready to leave then. Wouldn’t want Furious to go without us.”

“Who’ll want to go?” asked Dogman. “After what they been through these past months? Who’ll want more killing now?”

“Men who don’t know how to do much else, I guess.” Logen shrugged. “Bethod had gold down there, didn’t he?”

“Aye, some.”

“Then share it out. Plenty for each man comes with us. Some now, some when we get back. Reckon a good few’ll take the offer.”

“Maybe. Men’ll talk hard for gold. Not sure they’ll fight hard for it, when the time comes.”

“I reckon we’ll see.”

Dogman stared at him for a long moment. Stared him right in the eye. “Why?”

“Because I gave my word.”

“And? Never bothered you before, did it?”

“Can’t say it did, and there’s the problem.” Logen swallowed, and his mouth tasted bad. “What else can you do, but try and do better?”

Dogman nodded, slow, his eyes not leaving Logen’s face. “Right you are then, chief. South it is.”

“Uh,” said Grim, and the two of them walked out the doorway, leaving just Crummock behind.

“Off to the Union for you is it, your Majesty? South and kill you some brown men in the sun?”

“South.” Logen worked one sore shoulder beside his sore neck, and then the other. “You coming?”

Crummock pushed himself away from the wall and walked forward, finger bones clicking round his thick neck. “No, no, no, not me. I’ve relished our time together, so I have, but everything’s got an end, don’t it. I’ve been away from my mountains for far too long, and my wives’ll be missing me.” The chief of the hillmen held his arms out wide, took a step forward, and hugged Logen tight. A little too tight for comfort, if he was being honest.