Half a King. Джо Аберкромби

as it was, up to the light. ‘And hands? Can you teach those?’

      ‘You may lack a hand, but the gods have given you rarer gifts.’

      He snorted. ‘My fine singing voice, you mean?’

      ‘Why not? And a quick mind, and empathy, and strength. Only the kind of strength that makes a great minister, rather than a great king. You have been touched by Father Peace, Yarvi. Always remember: strong men are many, wise men are few.’

      ‘No doubt why women make better ministers.’

      ‘And better tea, in general.’ Gundring slurped from the cup he brought her every evening, and nodded approval again. ‘But the making of tea is another of your mighty talents.’

      ‘Hero’s work indeed. Will you give me less flattery when I’ve turned from prince into minister?’

      ‘You will get such flattery as you deserve, and my foot in your arse the rest of the time.’

      Yarvi sighed. ‘Some things never change.’

      ‘Now to history.’ Mother Gundring slid one of the books from its shelf, stones set into the gilded spine winking red and green.

      ‘Now? I have to be up with Mother Sun to feed your doves. I was hoping to get some sleep before—’

      ‘I’ll let you sleep when you’ve passed the test.’

      ‘No you won’t.’

      ‘You’re right, I won’t.’ She licked one finger, ancient paper crackling as she turned the pages. ‘Tell me, my prince, into how many splinters did the elves break God?’

      ‘Four hundred and nine. The four hundred Small Gods, the six Tall Gods, the first man and woman, and Death, who guards the Last Door. But isn’t this more the business of a prayer-weaver than a minister?’

      Mother Gundring clicked her tongue. ‘All knowledge is the business of the minister, for only what is known can be controlled. Name the six Tall Gods.’

      ‘Mother Sea and Father Earth, Mother Sun and Father Moon, Mother War and—’

      The door banged wide and that seeking wind tore through the chamber. The flames in the firepit jumped as Yarvi did, dancing distorted in the hundred hundred jars and bottles on the shelves. A figure blundered up the steps, setting the bunches of plants swinging like hanged men behind him.

      It was Yarvi’s Uncle Odem, hair plastered to his pale face with the rain and his chest heaving. He stared at Yarvi, eyes wide, and opened his mouth but made no sound. One needed no gift of empathy to see he was weighed down by heavy news.

      ‘What is it?’ croaked Yarvi, his throat tight with fear.

      His uncle dropped to his knees, hands on the greasy straw. He bowed his head, and spoke two words, low and raw.

      ‘My king.’

      And Yarvi knew his father and brother were dead.

       DUTY

      They hardly looked dead.

      Only very white, laid out on those chill slabs in that chill room with shrouds drawn up to their armpits and naked swords gleaming on their chests. Yarvi kept expecting his brother’s mouth to twitch in sleep. His father’s eyes to open, to meet his with that familiar scorn. But they did not. They never would again.

      Death had opened the Last Door for them, and from that portal none return.

      ‘How did it happen?’ Yarvi heard his mother saying from the doorway. Her voice was steady as ever.

      ‘Treachery, my queen,’ murmured his Uncle Odem.

      ‘I am queen no more.’

      ‘Of course … I am sorry, Laithlin.’

      Yarvi reached out and gently touched his father’s shoulder. So cold. He wondered when he last touched his father. Had he ever? He remembered well enough the last time they had spoken any words that mattered. Months before.

      A man swings the scythe and the axe, his father had said. A man pulls the oar and makes fast the knot. Most of all a man holds the shield. A man holds the line. A man stands by his shoulder-man. What kind of man can do none of these things?

      I didn’t ask for half a hand, Yarvi had said, trapped where he so often found himself, on the barren ground between shame and fury.

       I didn’t ask for half a son.

      And now King Uthrik was dead, and his King’s Circle, hastily resized, was a weight on Yarvi’s brow. A weight far heavier than that thin band of gold deserved to be.

      ‘I asked you how they died,’ his mother was saying.

      ‘They went to speak peace with Grom-gil-Gorm.’

      ‘There can be no peace with the damn Vanstermen,’ came the deep voice of Hurik, his mother’s Chosen Shield.

      ‘There must be vengeance,’ said Yarvi’s mother.

      His uncle tried to calm the storm. ‘Surely time to grieve, first. The High King has forbidden open war until—’

      ‘Vengeance!’ Her voice was sharp as broken glass. ‘Quick as lightning, hot as fire.’

      Yarvi’s eyes crawled to his brother’s corpse. There was quick and hot, or had been. Strong-jawed, thick-necked, already the makings of a dark beard like their father’s. As unlike Yarvi as it was possible to be. His brother had loved him, he supposed. A bruising love where every pat was just this side of a slap. The love one has for something always beneath you.

      ‘Vengeance,’ growled Hurik. ‘The Vanstermen must be made to pay.’

      ‘Damn the Vanstermen,’ said Yarvi’s mother. ‘Our own people must be made to serve. They must be shown their new king has iron in him. Once they are happy on their knees you can make Mother Sea rise with your tears.’

      Yarvi’s uncle gave a heavy sigh. ‘Vengeance, then. But is he ready, Laithlin? He has never been a fighter—’

      ‘He must fight, ready or not!’ snapped his mother. People had always talked around Yarvi as though he was deaf as well as crippled. It seemed his sudden rise to power had not cured them of the habit. ‘Make preparations for a great raid.’

      ‘Where shall we attack?’ asked Hurik.

      ‘All that matters is that we attack. Leave us.’

      Yarvi heard the door closing and his mother’s footsteps, soft across the cold floor.

      ‘Stop crying,’ she said. It was only then that Yarvi realized his eyes were swimming, and he wiped them, and sniffed, and was ashamed. Always he was ashamed

      She gripped him by the shoulders. ‘Stand tall, Yarvi.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying to puff out his chest the way his brother might have. Always he was sorry.

      ‘You are a king, now.’ She twisted his crooked cloak-buckle into place, tried to tame his pale blonde hair, close-clipped but always wild, and finally laid cool fingertips against his cheek. ‘You must never be sorry. You must wear your father’s sword, and lead a raid against the Vanstermen.’

      Yarvi swallowed. The idea of going on a raid had always filled him with dread. To lead one?

      Odem must have seen his horror. ‘I will be your shoulder-man, my king, always beside you, my shield at the ready. However I can help you, I will.’

      ‘My thanks,’ mumbled Yarvi. All the help he wanted was to be sent to Skekenhouse to take the Minister’s Test, to sit in the shadows rather than be thrust into the light. But that hope was dust now. Like badly-mixed mortar, his hopes were prone to crumble.

      ‘You