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Strange thing, that–the fewer years you have to lose the more you fear the losing of ’em. Maybe a man just gets a stock of courage when he’s born, and wears it down with each scrape he gets into.
But fear’s a healthy thing, long as it makes you think.
Maybe there are only so many faces in the world. You get old enough, you start seeing ’em used again.
“Not killing don’t tend to weigh as heavy on my conscience as the alternative.”
“All I want is just for everyone to do what I tell them. Is that too much to ask?”
It’s an upside-down sham of a world in which men like these, if they can be called men at all, can look down on a man like me. I am worth twice the lot of you. And this is the best the Union has to offer? We deserve to lose.
“I’m a long way from sure he’s dead.” “If anyone can cheat the Great Leveller it was–or is–he.
“You have to be realistic about these things.”
“Damn windbags,” grunted Mitterick. Lending considerable support to the maxim that men always hate in others what is most hateful in themselves
I am a secretary in a uniform. A filthy uniform, as it happens. I am a dead man still twitching. Ha ha! Look at the big idiot with the silly voice! Make him dance! “Yes, sir.”
“I suspect you’re not being entirely honest with me.” “I never dissemble.” I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you…
It was quite the entrance, the room silent as he strode slowly to its centre except for the floor groaning under his every step. But then it’s easy to make the big entrance when you’re the size of a cliff. You just walk in and stand there.
Calder felt a little fear and a lot of contempt at the level of manliness on display.
“It’s the Union we’re watching for, ain’t it? Those bastards couldn’t creep up on a corpse. You worry too much, Chief.”
“Always crap in the proper place. This is a principle of soldiering of far greater importance than any rubbish about marching, or weapons, or ground.”
and a scar through one dark eyebrow. Probably just fell off a wall, but it made him look more dangerous than he’d any right to. Beck wished he had a scar.
What kind of a man would I be if I turned my back now you’ve got the world on your shoulders? No. You’re family.”
“And the bottomless respect we had for your father.” Shallow gave a little bow. “But, yes, mostly it’s the old goldy-woldy.”
Just keep in mind what Rudd Threetrees once told me. Let’s us get them killed, and not the other way round.” Wonderful grinned. “Best damn advice about war I ever heard.”
A good leader can’t dwell on the choices he’s made, Threetrees used to tell him, and a good leader can’t help dwelling on ’em.
I think you are a decent, honest, courageous man. And I think you are a fool.
“Did you ever think it might be the easier, cheaper, safer path just to do what you’re told?” “Thought about it, decided against.
Seemed as if the more dangerous things got the more clothes he liked to lose. Probably have his arse out by the time they were finished with this valley.
“You ever wonder if Shoglig might’ve been wrong?” “Every bloody fight I get into.”
Truly the spade is mightier than the sword. Perhaps, instead of blades, generals should wear gilded trowels as the badge of their vocation.
Apparently the engagement was over, and he was still alive. How strangely disappointing.
He surely should have felt some flicker of optimism at the simple pleasure of the sun on his face. But there was only the unbearable weight of his disgrace. The fool’s tasks lined up in crushingly tedious procession. Run. Practice. Shit a turd. Write a letter. Eat. Watch. Write a turd. Shit a letter. Eat. Bed.
“I regret to inform you that… one of the devices has exploded.” The Magus let them stand for a moment while, out of sight, a woman shrieked like a boiling kettle. “Do you suppose I missed that?”
“Guess I’ll have to stopsy wopsy, then.”
“Those are the times.” Craw paused, chewing at a flap of loose skin on his bottom lip. “Do I say that too much? Am I turning into my father? Am I turning into a boring old fool?” “All heroes do.” Craw snorted. “Those that live to hear their own songs.” “Terrible strain on a man, hearing his self sung about. Enough to make anyone a shit.”
“Faithful service, merit and heroism. Fine qualities in a soldier.” As though talking about fat on a pig. “But a lord governor is first a politician. Flexibility, ruthlessness and an eye for expediency are more his talents. How is your husband there?” “Weak, but perhaps someone close to him could supply those qualities.” She fancied Bayaz had the ghost of a smile about his lips. “I am beginning to suspect they could. You make an interesting suggestion.”
“Where’s Whirrun?” “Never fear!” And he came shouldering through the wet and unhappy throng. “Whirrun of Bligh stands among you!” For reasons known only to himself he’d taken his shirt off and was standing stripped to his waist, Father of Swords over one shoulder. “By the dead,” muttered Craw. “Every time we fight you’re bloody wearing less.”
For some reason a half-naked Northman stood facing him, with the biggest sword Gorst had ever seen.
“Every sword’s a weight to carry. Men don’t see that when they pick ’em up. But they get heavier with time.”
You have to be realistic, as the Bloody-Nine had been so bloody fond of saying.
Someone scrape them up and pack them in gilt coffins back to Adua so the king can stand to attention as they pass and the queen can leave glistening tear-tracks through her powder and the people can tear their hair and ask why, why, while they wonder what to have for dinner or whether they need a new pair of shoes or whatever the fuck.
“Ain’t it God’s sword, fell from the sky? I thought it had to be passed on. Is it cursed?” Craw took up the reins and turned back to the north. “Every sword’s a curse, boy.”
Caul Shivers stood glowering down in the midst of those gaping faces, the sword that had been the Bloody-Nine’s in his fist, the grey blade dashed and speckled with Black Dow’s blood. “I’m no dog,” he said.
“Well, I’m alive and Dow’s dead so… yes. It’s been a strange morning. They’ve taken to calling me Black Calder.” “Is that a fucking fact?”
“My husband goes away for a week and all he brings me is the North and everything in it?” “That’s just half your gift.”
It’s the winners sing the songs. And they can pick what tune they please.”
He was no hero, and never would be. He was made to chop logs, not to fight. And that made him lucky. Luckier’n Reft, or Stodder, or Brait. Luckier’n Drofd or Whirrun of Bligh. Luckier’n Black Dow, even. He worked the axe clear of the block and stood back. They don’t sing many songs about log-splitters, maybe, but the lambs were bleating, up on the fells out of sight, and that sounded like music. Sounded a sweeter song to him then than all the hero’s lays he knew.
Calder wiped his eyes on the back of his wildly trembling hand, not sure whether to believe the evidence of his senses. The man in the chair was the First of the Magi.
Now it came to him that all his life worth living had happened while he was holding a sword.
