The Wisdom of Crowds (The Age of Madness #3)

by Joe Abercrombie

And Ettenbeck realised that ordinary people can be utterly terrifying.

“Master Sulfur, would it be possible…?” He was sure the magus had been right beside him, but when Orso turned, Sulfur was nowhere to be seen. It appeared there would be no spectacular magical rescue today.

“The people will decide,” said Pike. Orso glanced about him. At the people. “Really?” He gave a puzzled smile. “Are they equipped for that?”

“Maybe they’ll get you a fur, too.” “I’ve no use for one.” Isern gave a haughty sniff and whipped a shred of her ragged shawl over one shoulder. “Perfection cannot be improved upon.”

“Not for its own sake. I want to hit once, and that so hard I never have to hit again.”

“Future generations might never believe that it happened.” She blew some yellow hair out of her face with a smoky breath and went back to sketching, charcoal hissing on paper. “Then it might happen again.”

“And now,” said Rikke, “there’s no unpicking the warp and weft of all the things said and done since that day. It’s not a right choice or a wrong, any more than wind blown or snow fallen.”

There was a time of stones before you. And there will be a time of cannons after. And the time before was, and the time after will be, so vasty and so deep that the age of your mastery will seem like the snapping of a child’s fingers.

“As a man who’s been cast as both hero and villain, you should know better’n anyone, Jonas Steepfield—the hero’s whoever wins.”

There were fewer folk come out to watch the executions than when Judge first took charge. Maybe they were tiring of the blood. No doubt they were tiring of the cold.

She thought about that, as if for the first time. The people she’d tricked, betrayed, left behind, and she wondered—is a life that leaves no marks a life at all?

Being a parent means always being afraid. Afraid for your children. Afraid of your children.

“Love can bring folk together in fair weather, but it won’t bind ’em when the chill sets in. Hate’s better, in my experience. A common enemy gets folk moving together.

“Love and hate, they’re luxuries. Poets might say they’re from the heart, but I say no. They’re lies we tell ourselves. They’re choices made. But fear,” and she lifted her trembling fist, “that’s an instinct.

“Bones is the theme, I reckon,” muttered Sholla.

“First fear’s their weapon.” Clover remembered winning a few fights before they began, using just a hard stare and the weight of his name. “Then it becomes their shield. Only thing that’ll stop their enemies trying to kill ’em. Only thing that’ll stop their friends trying to kill ’em.

They get scared o’ not being feared enough, so they pile horror on horror. Turn ’emselves into monsters. And since memory tends to make the past look bigger, today’s bastards are always hunting for ways to out-bastard the bastards o’ yesteryear.”

Men don’t dream of doing the right thing, but of ripping what they want from the world with their strength and their will.”

It would’ve taken no effort at all to lean forwards and kiss him. It was almost more effort not to do it. Leo wondered what the roughness of his fresh-shaved jaw would feel like against Leo’s cheek. What his hair would feel like between Leo’s fingers. What his mouth would taste like

“Well, who wants to die at the hands of a man with no hobbies?”

One feud growing from another, blood flowing from blood, all settled today. Or maybe it was folly to think so. Maybe it’d just be new feuds started.

She forced herself to grin back. “Oh, me, too.” And she stabbed him in the throat. The blade hardly made a sound as it punched into the crosspiece where his neck met his shoulder, and straight out again along with a spurt of blood that soaked her hand. Shocked her, how hot it was. He flinched, first, with a little gasp, like he’d been bee-stung. He stared at her, wet eyes wide, slack face all red-speckled from the bubbling wound. “Blith,” he said, drooling blood down his dirty shirt. Rikke looked up at Shivers, and her hand was shaking but her voice was steady. “Send him down, then.”

He’d watched Bethod flung from the walls. Now he watched Bethod’s grandson flung from about the same place, and crash down in about the same place, crumpled in the wet grass where the Circle had been marked out that day.

“Your granny gets a lot o’ visitors,” she said. “What?” “Isern-i-Phail’s a suspicious sort. Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve a madman for a father and no mother but the moon. She took against you right off. So she set some folk to watch your granny and, phew.” Rikke puffed out her cheeks. “They’re in and out of her house like it’s a brothel.”

fallen out with who. What I’m saying. What I’m thinking. Or what you think I’m thinking, anyway, which might not be quite the same thing.

She was honest and wise and beautiful and strange and knew things no one else knew and said things no one else would’ve dared to and made him laugh

At the front was a tall, lean bastard with an axe and a sword and a shock of pale hair, his snarling devil’s face all dashed with red. By the dead, the Nail. That mad bastard was supposed to be miles away. Trapper dropped his shield. There was nowhere to run to. He ran anyway.

Maybe the years hadn’t dulled Clover’s instinct as much as he’d always thought, because somehow he felt it coming. He threw himself sideways, the wind of the axe kissing his scalp. He rolled clumsily, scrambled back fast enough that Downside’s second swing thudded into the turf right between his legs.

Not very dignified, but then Clover long ago decided he’d rather have his life than his dignity.

“Killing you. Ain’t that obvious?” “’Cause Calder paid you to?” Downside looked confused. “’Course.”

The truth was, a stubborn splinter of Jonas Steepfield was still buried in him. Buried so deep it could never be worked free. Buried so deep that it stung at him whenever he backed down, whenever he ran away, whenever he changed sides. And now it worked its way up to the surface. Worked its way up and came out in a long, low growl. “All right, fucker,” he snarled, fist tightening around the grip of his sword. “Let’s have you.” “Have me?” sneered Downside. “Can you even—

In the end, the only thing a man can really do is pick his moment. Watch for the opening, and recognise it when it comes, and seize it. Clover feinted left, switched right, heard the grunt of surprise as Downside’s axe thudded into the turf where he might’ve been. Clover was already rolling across the flat stone, came up turning, edge of his sword flicking out and catching the back of Downside’s boot, below the hem of his mail coat.

He took a gasping breath. “I think—” “No one cares.”

Calder raised his brows at it. “You can still swing that sword, then.” “I try not to advertise the fact.” Clover turned his head and spat blood again. “I find it makes folk want to try to kill you.”

“Aye.”

Shivers's tomb just reads "Aye"

Bethod’s line ends with you.” “Ah.” For some reason, Calder had the ghost of a smile at the last. He leaned forwards and spoke so softly only she could hear. “So you don’t see everything.

“History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.” Karl Marx

all.

What about your kids?

Rikke looked at him baffled. “When I count something against you, you want to disagree. When I count something for you, you want to disagree with that, too.” “In my experience… things are rarely all one way or the other.”

But it was only right that a father should have the final word when it came to his son.

It was a bad message to send, having brown faces around the royal children.

solution.

EXCUSE YOU, HE SAVED YOUR LIFE WHEN YOU WERE ABOUT TO BE EXECUTED YOU SON OF A BITCH

We have to make sure nothing like the Great Change can ever happen again.” “It didn’t turn out too badly.”

“Don’t you trust me?” “It can be hard to trust men who stab their allies in the back.” “I don’t plan to do it once a week!” he snapped. “Or ever again,” he added, hurriedly. He felt bad for Lord Marshal Forest. A good man, a good soldier. He felt bad, but there’d been no choice. And as a point of fact, he’d stabbed him in the front.

The best of both worlds! Justice and good government for all!” Now there was wholehearted support. The Representatives were already rushing forwards. Queueing up to sign. Noblemen first, as was only right, Isher smiling at their head.

NOTHING HAS CHANGED THEN

“Your power is borrowed.” He pronounced each word with furious care. “And as any banker will tell you, what is borrowed must be repaid. With interest.”

“She blames me,” he said, slumping in his seat. He’d never been able to hide anything from his mother for long. “She blames me for everything. For making our son a king. For making her wildest ambitions come true. For bringing order back to the Union. For everything.” His mother raised the other brow. “And is it your fault?” “Ten breaths off the boat and you’re taking her side?” “It’s a marriage, Leo. There shouldn’t be sides.” “Feels like there are, though.” He frowned out of the window at the lonely well-wishers. “And everyone’s on hers.”

It faintly disgusted Leo that he was obliged to lap up the flattery of mongrels.

And the thought of getting back in the saddle, leading men in the field, being the Young Lion again, whoever the enemy, brought on a surge of excitement.

YOU HAVE LEARNED NOTHING

“In the name of King Orso,” he piped, his boots grinding into the weathered wood as he lowered himself into a ready crouch, “no.” “So be it,” snarled Leo. “Kill—” Gorst moved before he even said the him.