Half the World. Джо Аберкромби

up and, still wondering if this was some trick, crept after him.

      ‘Thanks for your kindness,’ she muttered as she passed the key-keeper.

      The woman glared back. ‘I hope you never need it again.’

      ‘No offence, but so do I.’ And Thorn followed Father Yarvi along the dim corridor and up the steps, blinking into the light.

      He might have had one hand but his legs worked well enough, setting quite a pace as he stalked across the yard of the citadel, the breeze making the branches of the old cedar whisper above them.

      ‘I should speak to my mother—’ she said, hurrying to catch up.

      ‘I already have. I told her I had found you innocent of murder but you had sworn an oath to serve me.’

      ‘But … how did you know I’d—’

      ‘It is a minister’s place to know what people will do.’ Father Yarvi snorted. ‘As yet you are not too deep a well to fathom, Thorn Bathu.’

      They passed beneath the Screaming Gate, out of the citadel and into the city, down from the great rock and towards Mother Sea. They went by switching steps and narrow ways, sloping steeply between tight-crammed houses and the people tight-crammed between them.

      ‘I’m not going on King Uthil’s raid, am I?’ A fool’s question, doubtless, but now Thorn stepped from Death’s shadow there was light enough to mourn her ruined dreams.

      Father Yarvi was not in a mourning mood. ‘Be thankful you’re not going in the ground.’

      They passed down the Street of Anvils, where Thorn had spent long hours gazing greedily at weapons like a beggar child at pastries. Where she had ridden on her father’s shoulders, giddy-proud as the smiths begged him to notice their work. But the bright metal set out before the forges only seemed to mock her now.

      ‘I’ll never be a warrior of Gettland.’ She said it soft and sorry, but Yarvi’s ears were sharp.

      ‘As long as you live, what you might come to be is in your own hands, first of all.’ The minister rubbed gently at some faded marks on his neck. ‘There is always a way, Queen Laithlin used to tell me.’

      Thorn found herself walking a little taller at the name alone. Laithlin might not be a fighter, but Thorn could think of no one she admired more. ‘The Golden Queen is a woman no man dares take lightly,’ she said.

      ‘So she is.’ Yarvi looked at Thorn sidelong. ‘Learn to temper stubbornness with sense and maybe one day you will be the same.’

      It seemed that day was still some way off. Wherever they passed people bowed, and muttered softly, ‘Father Yarvi,’ and stepped aside to give the minister of Gettland room, but shook their heads darkly at Thorn as she skulked after him, filthy and disgraced, through the gates of the city and out onto the swarming dockside. They wove between sailors and merchants from every nation around the Shattered Sea and some much further off, Thorn ducking under fishermen’s dripping nets and around their glittering, squirming catches.

      ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

      ‘Skekenhouse.’

      She stopped short, gaping, and was nearly knocked flat by a passing barrow. She had never in her life been further than a half-day’s walk from Thorlby.

      ‘Or you could stay here,’ Yarvi tossed over his shoulder. ‘They have the stones ready.’

      She swallowed, then hurried again to catch him up. ‘I’ll come.’

      ‘You are as wise as you are beautiful, Thorn Bathu.’

      That was either a double compliment or a double insult, and she suspected the latter. The old planks of a wharf clonked under their boots, salt water slapping at the green-furred supports below. A ship rocked beside it, small but sleek and with white-painted doves mounted at high prow and stern. Judging by the bright shields ranged down each side, it was manned and ready to sail.

      ‘We’re going now?’ she asked.

      ‘I am summoned by the High King.’

      ‘The High … King?’ She looked down at her clothes, stiff with dungeon filth, crusted with her blood and Edwal’s. ‘Can I change, at least?’

      ‘I have no time for your vanity.’

      ‘I stink.’

      ‘We will haul you behind the ship to wash away the reek.’

      ‘You will?’

      The minister raised one brow at her. ‘You have no sense of humour, do you?’

      ‘Facing Death can sap your taste for jokes,’ she muttered.

      ‘That’s the time you need it most.’ A thickset old man was busy casting off the prow rope, and tossed it aboard as they walked up. ‘But don’t worry. Mother Sea will have given you more washing than you can stomach by the time we reach Skekenhouse.’ He was a fighter: Thorn could tell that from the way he stood, his broad face battered by weather and war.

      ‘The gods saw fit to take my strong left hand.’ Yarvi held up his twisted claw and wiggled the one finger. ‘But they gave me Rulf instead.’ He clapped it down on the old man’s meaty shoulder. ‘Though it hasn’t always been easy, I find myself content with the bargain.’

      Rulf raised one tangled brow. ‘D’you want to know how I feel about it?’

      ‘No,’ said Yarvi, hopping aboard the ship. Thorn could only shrug at the grey-bearded warrior and hop after. ‘Welcome to the South Wind.’

      She worked her mouth and spat over the side. ‘I don’t feel too welcome.’

      Perhaps forty grizzled-looking oarsmen sat upon their sea-chests, glaring at her, and she had no doubts what they were thinking. What is this girl doing here?

      ‘Some ugly patterns keep repeating,’ she murmured.

      Father Yarvi nodded. ‘Such is life. It is a rare mistake you make only once.’

      ‘Can I ask a question?’

      ‘I have the sense that if I said no, you would ask anyway.’

      ‘I’m not too deep a well to fathom, I reckon.’

      ‘Then speak.’

      ‘What am I doing here?’

      ‘Why, holy men and deep-cunning women have been asking that question for a thousand years and never come near an answer.’

      ‘Try talking to Brinyolf the Prayer-Weaver on the subject,’ grunted Rulf, pushing them clear of the wharf with the butt of a spear. ‘He’ll bore your ears off with his talk of whys and wherefores.’

      ‘Who is it indeed’, muttered Yarvi, frowning off towards the far horizon as though he could see the answers written in the clouds, ‘that can plumb the gods’ grand design? Might as well ask where the elves went!’ And the old man and the young grinned at each other. Plainly this act was not new to them.

      ‘Very good,’ said Thorn. ‘I mean, why have you brought me onto this ship?’

      ‘Ah.’ Yarvi turned to Rulf. ‘Why do you think, rather than taking the easy road and crushing her, I have endangered all our lives by bringing the notorious killer Thorn Bathu onto my ship?’

      Rulf leaned on his spear a moment, scratching at his beard. ‘I’ve really no idea.’

      Yarvi looked at Thorn with his eyes very wide. ‘If I don’t share my thinking with my own left hand, why ever would I share it with the likes of you? I mean to say, you stink.’

      Thorn rubbed at her temples. ‘I need to sit down.’

      Rulf put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. ‘I understand.’ He shoved her onto the nearest chest so hard she went squawking