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“I saw a wolf eat the sun. Then a lion ate the wolf. Then a lamb ate the lion. Then an owl ate the lamb.”
“If killing folk ever starts to feel right, you’ve a worse kind of problem. Guilt can sting, but you should be thankful for it.”
“Guilt is a luxury reserved for those still breathing and with no unbearable pain, cold or hunger demanding all their fickle attention. Long as guilt’s your big problem, girl…” Rikke saw the faint gleam of Isern’s teeth in the gathering darkness. “Things can’t be that bad.”
She had long ago learned that at least half of everything is presentation. Seem a victim, soon become one. Seem in charge, people fall over themselves to obey.
But that’s what growing up is, maybe. Realising what a fucking arse you’ve been.
Men with no name of their own, drawn to the big name like moths to a bonfire. Clover had seen the wretched pattern a dozen times before. Glama Golden had a crew very similar, and the Bloody-Nine, too, and more than likely Skarling Hoodless had a glowering gaggle however many hundred years before. Times change, but that crowd of cunts stays much the same.
It is healthy to be disabused of our self-deceptions every now and then, even if it hurts.”
“You are not fucking carrying me,” she growled. “Ain’t high on my list o’ wants, believe it or not.” Shivers slid his sword through the clasp at his belt. “But once you’ve a task to do, it’s better to do it—” “Than live with the fear of it,” Rikke finished for him. It was one of her father’s favourites.
The goal of government, you see,” and the Arch Lector prodded at the air with his bony forefinger, “is to load the unhappiness onto those least able to make you suffer for it.”
“Misjudgement is as much a part of life as unhappiness. It is nice to hold the power and make the choices for everyone. But the risk of making any choice is always that you might make the wrong one. We must make our choices nonetheless. Fear of being a grown-up is a poor reason to remain a child.”
“You’re drunk,” she said. “I am drunk,” said Rikke, proudly. She’d hit the chagga pipe as well and everything had a lovely glow. Faces all shiny and smeary and happy in the candlelight. “You’re proper shitted,” said Isern.
Her father gave a sad smile at that. “Believe it or not, we all want what’s best. The root o’ the world’s ills is that no one can agree on what it is.”
“Why were you never scared of me?” “You just never seemed all that scary. Always found your eye sort of pretty. Shiny.” Rikke patted his scarred cheek. “You always just seemed… lost. Like you lost yourself and didn’t know where to look.” She put her hand on his chest. “But you’re in there, still. You’re in there.” He looked as shocked as if she’d slapped him, and there was a gleam of damp in his real eye, or maybe it was just her own sight that was smeary, as Caul Shivers wasn’t really known as a big weeper, except when his bad eye dribbled, which was a different thing.
“That is a leg.” Isern gestured at it proudly, sinews standing from her white thigh. “That, d’you see, is all a leg should be and more.” Shivers gave the leg in question a careful examination. “No doubt.” “The other one,” said Isern, “is even better.” Shivers’ eyes, or his eye, at any rate, shifted from Isern’s leg to her face. “You don’t say?” “I do.” She leaned down towards him. “And as for what’s betwixt the two…”
“I can hardly deny it. I fear I want everyone to like me, Master Sulfur.” “We all do, Your Highness, but he who tries to please everyone pleases no one at all.”
Always the ones quickest to insults got the thinnest skin, for some reason.
“Mother.” He put one hand gently on her shoulder. “Wars may be won by the clever, but battles have to be fought by the brave. It’s time.” She opened her eyes, and took a hard breath, and puffed it out. “Go,” she said.
So epic
“Leo?” He turned back. His mother stood there against the grey sky, fists clenched tight. “Give those bastards hell,” she snarled.
LFG!!!
