Prince of Fools (The Red Queen's War 1)

I stood up—not without effort, for healing Hakon’s bite wound had taken a lot out of me. I towered over the man, which is always unfortunate if you want an excuse to duck out of a fight. In any event, standing was a necessary part of the process since I intended to vacate the chair rather than get cut into chunks over the issue. I puffed out my cheeks even so and blustered a piece—you can’t let the weakness show or you’re dead.

“Men of my standing don’t cross the seas to brawl in taverns. Damned if I care which chair I’m in.” The weight of my sword tugged at me and I wished Snorri hadn’t forced the thing on me. It’s always easier to back out of such confrontations if you can claim to have left your sharp iron at home.

“Dirty bastard, aren’t you?” The Norseman looked up at me with a sneer. “I hope you’ve not left any of that stain on my chair.” He frowned in pantomime. “Or doesn’t that stain come off however you scrub?”

To be fair we were probably equally dirty, with his grime smeared over skin so fish-belly white you could see the veins snaking blue paths underneath, and mine the proud olive hue that a man of Red March retains however long it’s been since he saw the sun, darkened still further with Mother’s heritage from the Indus.

“Your chair.” I stepped aside, indicating the free seat. My whole attention focused on the man, every muscle I owned ready for action.

The tavern held quiet now, anticipating violence and waiting for the show. Sometimes such things can’t be avoided—unless you’re a true professional. Most, for example, wouldn’t think to just run like hell.

“It is dirty!” The Viking pointed to the chair, as filthy as any other in the place. “Suppose you get down there and clean it. Right now.” More men pressed through the street door, not that he needed the backup.

“I’m sure a cleaner chair can be found for you.” I puffed up, pretending I thought he was joking and hoping the size of me would intimidate the man.

Just as cowards often have an instinct for trouble, many bullies have a nose for fear. Some small clue hidden in the way I carried myself told him I wouldn’t be a problem. “I said, you do it, foreigner.” He raised a fist to menace me.

Snorri loomed behind the man, caught his wrist, broke it, and tossed him into the corner. “We’ve no time for games, Jal. There’s three boatloads of Maladon sailors headed up here—something about Lord Hakon being set upon . . . anyway, we don’t want to get caught up in it.”

And with that he bundled me through the room, with Arne, Tuttugu, and the quins in tow, and out the back door.

“We’ll make camp in the hills,” he said, hefting open a gate in the wall of the enclosed yard.

And like that my dreams of a warm bed and warmer company blew away in a cold wind.

TWENTY-SIX

I trailed along at the back of the party, bent double under my pack. It felt as though Snorri had decided it was important we each took several large rocks with us to the Bitter Ice. Tuttugu laboured along beside me, short of breath and walking awkwardly.

“You ‘applied’ the paste, then?”

He nodded, striding on with the gait of a man who didn’t make it to the dunghole in time. “It really stings.”

“That’ll be the mustard seed.” On reflection it had probably been fennel seed the recipe called for, but I decided not to mention it now.

I shifted my pack to what turned out to be a less comfortable position. “So, Tuttugu, looking forwards to wetting your axe in the blood of your enemies?” I needed some insight into the Viking mind-set. My only escape route lay through understanding what made these men tick.

“Honestly?” Tuttugu glanced ahead at the others, the first pair of quins some twenty yards farther up the slope.

“Let’s try honesty first and move on to lies if it proves too upsetting.”

“Honestly . . . I’d much rather be back in Trond with a big plate of liver and onions. I could settle there, do a spot of fishing, find a wife.”

“And the axe-wetting?”

“Scares me shitless. The only thing that stops me from running away in battle is knowing everyone else is faster than me and I’d get cut down from behind. The best chance lies in facing the enemy head-on. If the gods had given me longer legs . . . well, I’d be gone.”

“Hmmm.” I shifted the pack to the least comfortable position so far. The thing was already making my lungs ache. “So why are you trekking up this mountain?”

Tuttugu shrugged. “I’m not brave like you. But I’ve got nothing else. These are my people. I can’t leave them. And if the Undoreth really have all been slaughtered . . . someone has to pay. Even if I don’t want to be the one to make them—someone has to pay.”