Half the World. Джо Аберкромби

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СКАЧАТЬ guiltily up at the great statues of the six tall gods, towering in judgment over the Black Chair. Towering in judgment over him. He squirmed as though he was the one killed Edwal and named Thorn murderer. All he’d done was watch.

      Watch and do nothing.

      ‘The High King could call half the world to war with us,’ Father Yarvi was saying, patiently as a master-at-arms explains the basics to children. ‘The Vanstermen and the Throvenmen are sworn to him, the Inglings and the Lowlanders are praying to his One God, Grandmother Wexen is forging alliances in the south as well. We are hedged in by enemies and we must have friends to—’

      ‘Steel is the answer.’ King Uthil cut his minister off with a voice sharp as a blade. ‘Steel must always be the answer. Gather the men of Gettland. We will teach these carrion-pecking Islanders a lesson they will not soon forget.’ On the right side of the hall the frowning men beat their approval on mailed chests, and on the left the women with their oiled hair shining murmured their angry support.

      Father Yarvi bowed his head. It was his task to speak for Father Peace but even he was out of words. Mother War ruled today. ‘Steel it is.’

      Brand should’ve thrilled at that. A great raid, like in the songs, and him with a warrior’s place in it! But he was still trapped beside the training square, picking at the scab of what he could’ve done differently.

      If he hadn’t hesitated. If he’d struck without pity, like a warrior was supposed to, he could’ve beaten Thorn, and there it would’ve ended. Or if he’d spoken up with Edwal when Hunnan set three on one, perhaps together they could’ve stopped it. But he hadn’t spoken up. Facing an enemy on the battlefield took courage, but you had your friends beside you. Standing alone against your friends, that was a different kind of courage. One Brand didn’t pretend to have.

      ‘And then we have the matter of Hild Bathu,’ said Father Yarvi, the name bringing Brand’s head jerking up like a thief’s caught with his hand round a purse.

      ‘Who?’ asked the king.

      ‘Storn Headland’s daughter,’ said Queen Laithlin. ‘She calls herself Thorn.’

      ‘She’s done more than prick a finger,’ said Father Yarvi. ‘She killed a boy in the training square and is named a murderer.’

      ‘Who names her so?’ called Uthil.

      ‘I do.’ Master Hunnan’s golden cloak-buckle gleamed as he stepped into the shaft of light at the foot of the dais.

      ‘Master Hunnan.’ A rare smile touched the corner of the king’s mouth. ‘I remember well our bouts together in the training square.’

      ‘Treasured memories, my king, though painful ones for me.’

      ‘Ha! You saw this killing?’

      ‘I was testing my eldest students to judge those worthy to join your raid. Thorn Bathu was among them.’

      ‘She embarrasses herself, trying to take a warrior’s place!’ one woman called.

      ‘She embarrasses us all,’ said another.

      ‘A woman has no place on the battlefield!’ came a gruff voice from among the men, and heads nodded on both sides of the room.

      ‘Is Mother War herself not a woman?’ The king pointed up at the Tall Gods looming over them. ‘We only offer her the choice. The Mother of Crows picks the worthy.’

      ‘And she did not pick Thorn Bathu,’ said Hunnan. ‘The girl has a poisonous temper.’ Very true. ‘She failed the test I set her.’ Partly true. ‘She lashed out against my judgment and killed the boy Edwal.’ Brand blinked. Not quite a lie, but far from all the truth. Hunnan’s grey beard wagged as he shook his head. ‘And so I lost two pupils.’

      ‘Careless of you,’ said Father Yarvi.

      The master-at-arms bunched his fists but Queen Laithlin spoke first. ‘What would be the punishment for such a murder?’

      ‘To be crushed with stones, my queen.’ The minister spoke calmly, as if they considered crushing a beetle, not a person, and that a person Brand had known most of his life. One he’d disliked almost as long, but even so.

      ‘Will anyone here speak for Thorn Bathu?’ thundered the king.

      The echoes of his voice faded to leave the silence of a tomb. Now was the time to tell the truth. To do good. To stand in the light. Brand looked across the Godshall, the words tickling at his lips. He saw Rauk in his place, smiling. Sordaf too, his doughy face a mask. They didn’t make the faintest sound.

      And nor did Brand.

      ‘It is a heavy thing to order the Death of one so young.’ Uthil stood from the Black Chair, mail rattling and skirts rustling as everyone but the queen knelt. ‘But we cannot turn from the right thing simply because it is a painful thing.’

      Father Yarvi bowed still lower. ‘I will dispense your justice according to the law.’

      Uthil held his hand out to Laithlin, and together they came down the steps of the dais. On the subject of Thorn Bathu, crushing with rocks was the last word.

      Brand stared in sick disbelief. He’d been sure among all those lads someone would speak, for they were honest enough. Or Hunnan would tell his part in it, for he was a respected master-at-arms. The king or the queen would draw out the truth, for they were wise and righteous. The gods wouldn’t allow such an injustice to pass. Someone would do something.

      Maybe, like him, they were all waiting for someone else to put things right.

      The king walked stiffly, drawn sword cradled in his arms, his iron-grey stare wavering neither right nor left. The queen’s slightest nods were received like gifts, and with the odd word she let it be known that this person or that should enjoy the favour of visiting her counting house upon some deep business. They came closer, and closer yet.

      Brand’s heart beat loud in his ears. His mouth opened. The queen turned her freezing gaze on him for an instant, and in shamed and shameful silence he let the pair of them sweep past.

      His sister was always telling him it wasn’t up to him to put the world right. But if not him, who?

      ‘Father Yarvi!’ he blurted, far too loud, and then, as the minister turned towards him, croaked far too soft, ‘I need to speak to you.’

      ‘What about, Brand?’ That gave him a pause. He hadn’t thought Yarvi would have the vaguest notion who he was.

      ‘About Thorn Bathu.’

      A long silence. The minister might only have been a few years older than Brand, pale-skinned and pale-haired as if the colour was washed out of him, so gaunt a stiff breeze might blow him away and with a crippled hand besides, but close up there was something chilling in the minister’s eye. Something that caused Brand to wilt under his gaze.

      But there was no going back, now. ‘She’s no murderer,’ he muttered.

      ‘The king thinks she is.’

      Gods, his throat felt dry, but Brand pressed on, the way a warrior was supposed to. ‘The king СКАЧАТЬ