'He mentioned it.'

'Wouldn't take it too seriously.'

'No?'

Scorry shrugged. 'Right thing's a different thing for every man.' And he started pulling knives out and laying 'em on the ground in front of him, from a huge great thing with a bone handle only just this side of a short sword to a tiny little curved one without even a grip, just a pair of rings for two fingers to fit in.

'That for peeling apples?' asked Beck.

Wonderful drew a finger across her sinewy neck. 'Slitting throats.'

Beck thought she was probably having a laugh at him, then Scorry spat onto a whetstone and that little blade gleamed in the firelight and suddenly he weren't so sure. Scorry pressed it to the stone and gave it a lick both ways, snick, snick, and all of a sudden there was a thrashing of blankets.

'Steel!' Whirrun sprang up, reeling about, sword all tangled up with his bed. 'I hear steel!'

'Shut up!' someone called.

Whirrun tore his sword free, jerking his hood out of his eyes. 'I'm awake! Is it morning?' Seemed the stories about Whirrun of Bligh being always ready were a bit overdone. He let his sword drop, squinting up at the black sky, stars peeping between shreds of cloud. 'Why is it dark? Have no fear, children, Whirrun is among you and ready to fight!'

'Thank the dead,' grunted Wonderful. 'We're saved.'

'That you are, woman!' Whirrun pulled his hood back, scratched at his hair, plastered flat on one side and sticking out like a thistle on the other. He stared about the Heroes and, seeing nought but guttering fires, sleeping men and the same old stones as ever, crawled up close to the flames, yawning. 'Saved from dull conversation. Did I hear some talk of names?'

'Aye,' muttered Beck, not daring to say more. It was like having Skarling himself to talk to. He'd been raised on stories about Whirrun of Bligh's high deeds. Listened to old drunk Scavi tell 'em down in the village, and begged for more. Dreamed of standing beside him as an equal, claiming a place in his songs. Now here he was, sitting beside him as fraud, and coward, and friend-killer. He dragged his mother's cloak tight, felt something crusted under his fingers. Realised the cloth was still stiff with Reft's blood and had to stop a shiver. Red Beck. He'd blood on his hands, all right. But it didn't feel like he'd always dreamed it would.

'Names, is it?' Whirrun lifted his sword and stood it on end in the firelight, looking too long and too heavy ever to make much sense as a weapon. 'This is the Father of Swords, and men have a hundred names for it.' Yon closed his eyes and sank back, Wonderful rolled hers up towards the sky, but Whirrun droned on, deep and measured, like it was a speech he'd given often before. 'Dawn Razor. Grave-Maker. Blood Harvest. Highest and Lowest. Scac-ang-Gaioc in the valley tongue which means the Splitting of the World, the battle that was fought at the start of time and will be fought again at its end. This is my reward and my punishment both. My blessing and my curse. It was passed to me by Daguf Col as he lay dying, and he had it from Yorweel the Mountain who had it from Four-Faces who had it from Leef-reef-Ockang, and so on 'til the world was young. When Shoglig's words come to pass and I lie bleeding, face to face with the Great Leveller at last, I'll hand it on to whoever I think best deserves it, and will bring it fame, and the list of its names, and the list of the names of the great men who wielded it, and the great men who died by it, will grow, and lengthen, and stretch back into the dimness beyond memory. In the valleys where I was born they say it is God's sword, dropped from heaven.'

'Don't you?' asked Flood.

Whirrun rubbed some dirt from the crosspiece with his thumb. 'I used to.'

'Now?'

'God makes things, no? God is a farmer. A craftsman. A midwife. God gives things life.' He tipped his head back and looked up at the sky. 'What would God want with a sword?'

Wonderful pressed one hand to her chest. 'Oh, Whirrun, you're so fucking deep. I could sit here for hours trying to work out everything you meant.'

'Whirrun of Bligh don't seem so deep a name,' said Beck, and regretted it straight away when everyone looked at him, Whirrun in particular.

'No?'

'Well ... you're from Bligh, I guess. Ain't you?'

'Never been there.'

'Then-'

'I couldn't honestly tell you how it came about. Maybe Bligh's the only place up there folk down here ever heard of.' Whirrun shrugged. 'Don't hardly matter. A name's got nothing in it by itself. It's what you make of it. Men don't brown their trousers when they hear the Bloody-Nine because of the name. They brown their trousers because of the man that had it.'

'And Cracknut Whirrun?' asked Drofd.

'Straightforward. An old man up near Ustred taught me the trick of cracking a walnut in my fist. What you do is-'

Wonderful snorted. 'That ain't why they call you Cracknut.'

'Eh?'

'No,' said Yon. 'It ain't.'

'They call you Cracknut for the same reason they gave Cracknut Leef the name,' and Wonderful tapped at the side of her shaved head. 'Because it's widely assumed your nut's cracked.'

'They do?' Whirrun frowned. 'Oh, that's less complimentary, the fuckers. I'll have to have words next time I hear that. You've completely bloody spoiled it for me!'

Wonderful spread her hands. 'It's a gift.'

'Morning, people.' Curnden Craw walked slowly up to the fire with his cheeks puffed out and his grey hair twitching in the wind. He looked tired. Dark bags under his eyes, nostrils rimmed pink.

'Everyone on their knees!' snapped Wonderful. 'It's Black Dow's right hand!'

Craw pretended to wave 'em down. 'No need to grovel.' Someone else came behind him. Caul Shivers, Beck realised with a sick lurch in his stomach.

'Y'all right, Chief?' asked Drofd, pulling the bit of meat out of his pocket and offering it over.

Craw winced as he bent his knees and squatted by the fire, put one finger on one nostril, then blew out through the other with a long wheeze like a dying duck. Then he took the meat and had a bite out of it. 'The definition of all right changes with the passing winters, I find. I'm about all right by the standards of the last few days. Twenty years ago I'd have considered this close to death.'

'We're on a battlefield, ain't we?' Whirrun was all grin. 'The Great Leveller's pressed up tight against us all.'

'Nice thought,' said Craw, wriggling his shoulders like there was someone breathing on his neck. 'Drofd.'

'Aye, Chief?'

'If the Union come later, and I reckon it's a set thing they will ... might be best if you stay out of it.'

'Stay out?'

'It'll be a proper battle. I know you've got the bones but you don't have the gear. A hatchet and a bow? The Union got armour, and good steel and all the rest ...' Craw shook his head. 'I can find you a place behind somewhere-'

'Chief, no, I want to fight!' Drofd looked across at Beck, like he wanted support. Beck had none to give. He wished he could be left behind. 'I want to win myself a name. Give me the chance!'

Craw winced. 'Name or not, you'll just be the same man. No better. Maybe worse.'

'Aye,' Beck found he'd said.

'Easy for those to say who have one,' snapped Drofd, staring surly at the fire.

'He wants to fight, let him fight,' said Wonderful.

Craw looked up, surprised. Like he'd realised he wasn't quite where he'd thought he was. Then he leaned back on one elbow, stretching one boot out towards the fire. 'Well. Guess it's your dozen now.'

'That's a fact,' said Wonderful, nudging that boot with hers. 'And they'll all be fighting.' Yon slapped Drofd on the shoulder, all flushed and grinning now at the thought of glory. Wonderful reached out and flicked the pommel of the Father of Swords with a fingernail. 'Besides, you don't need a great weapon to win yourself a name. Got yours with your teeth, didn't you, Craw?'

'Bite someone's throat out, did you?' asked Drofd.

'Not quite.' Craw had a faraway look for a moment, firelight picking out the lines at the corners of his eyes. 'First full battle I was in we had a real red day, and I was in the midst. I had a thirst, back then. Wanted to be a hero. Wanted myself a name. We was all sat around the fire-pit after, and I was expecting something fearsome.' He looked up from under his eyebrows. 'Like Red Beck. Then when Threetrees was considering it, I took a big bite from a piece of meat. Drunk, I guess. Got a bone stuck in my throat. Spent a minute hardly able to breathe, everyone thumping me on the back. In the end a big lad had to hold me upside down 'fore it came loose. Could barely talk for a couple of days. So Threetrees called me Craw, on account of what I'd got stuck in it.'

'Shoglig said ...' sang Whirrun, arching back to look into the sky, 'I would be shown my destiny ... by a man choking on a bone.'

'Lucky me,' grunted Craw. 'I was furious, when I got the name. Now I know the favour Threetrees was doing me. His way of trying to keep me level.'

'Seems like it worked,' croaked Shivers. 'You're the straight edge, ain't you?'

'Aye.' Craw licked unhappily at his teeth. 'A real straight edge.'

Scorry gave the straight edge of his latest knife one last flick with the whetstone and picked up the next. 'You met our latest recruit, Shivers?' Sticking his thumb sideways. 'Red Beck.'

'I have.' Shivers stared across the fire at him. 'Down in Osrung. Yesterday.'

Beck had that mad feeling Shivers could see right through him with that eye, and knew him for the liar he was. Made him wonder how none of the others could see it, writ across his face plain as a fresh tattoo. Cold prickled his back, and he pulled his blood-crusted cloak tight again.

'Quite a day yesterday,' he muttered.

'And I reckon today'll be another.' Whirrun stood and stretched up tall, lifting the Father of Swords high over his head. 'If we're lucky.'

Still Yesterday The blue skin stretched as the steel slid underneath it, paint flaking like parched earth, stubbly hairs shifting, red threads of veins in the wide whites near the corners of his eyes. Her teeth ground together as she pushed it in, pushed it in, pushed it in, coloured patterns bursting on the blackness of her closed lids. She could not get that damned music out of her head. The music the violinists had been playing. Were playing still, faster and faster. The husk-pipe they had given her had blunted the pain just as they said it would, but they had lied about the sleep. She twisted the other way, huddling under the blankets. As though you can roll over and leave a day of murder on the other side of the bed.

Candlelight showed around the door, through the cracks between the slats. As the daylight had showed through the door of the cold room where they were kept prisoner. Kneeling in the darkness, plucking at the knots with her nails. Voices outside. Officers, coming and going, speaking with her father. Talking of strategy and logistics. Talking of civilisation. Talking of which one of them Black Dow wanted.

What had happened blurred with what might have, with what should have. The Dogman arrived an hour earlier with his Northmen, saw off the savages before they left the wood. She found out ahead of time, warned everyone, was given breathless thanks by Lord Governor Meed. Captain Hardrick brought help, instead of never being heard from again, and the Union cavalry arrived at the crucial moment like they did in the stories. Then she led the defence, standing atop a barricade with sword aloft and a blood-spattered breastplate, like a lurid painting of Monzcarro Murcatto at the battle of Sweet Pines she once saw on the wall of a tasteless merchant. All mad, and while she spun out the fantasies she knew they were mad, and she wondered if she was mad, but she did it all the same.

And then she would catch something at the edge of her sight, and she was there, as it had been, on her back with a knee crushing her in the stomach and a dirty hand around her neck, could not breathe, all the sick horror that she somehow had not felt at the time washing over her in a rotting tide, and she would rip back the blankets and spring up, and pace round and round the room, chewing at her lip, picking at the scabby bald patch on the side of her head, muttering to herself like a madwoman, doing the voices, doing all the voices.

If she'd argued harder with Black Dow. If she'd pushed, demanded, she could have brought Aliz with her, instead of ... in the darkness, her blubbering wail as Finree's hand slipped out of hers, the door rattling shut. A blue cheek bulged as the steel slid underneath it, and she bared her teeth, and moaned, and clutched at her head, and squeezed her eyes shut.

'Fin.'

'Hal.' He was leaning over her, candlelight picking out the side of his head in gold. She sat up, rubbing her face. It felt numb. As if she was kneading dead dough.

'I brought you fresh clothes.'

'Thank you.' Laughably formal. The way one might address someone else's butler.

'Sorry to wake you.'

'I wasn't asleep.' Her mouth still had a strange taste, a swollen feeling from the husk. The darkness in the corners of the room fizzed with colours.

'I thought I should come ... before dawn.' Another pause. Probably he was waiting for her to say she was glad, but she could not face the petty politeness. 'Your father has put me in charge of the assault on the bridge in Osrung.'

She did not know what to say. Congratulations. Please, no! Be careful. Don't go! Stay here. Please. Please. 'Will you be leading from the front?' Her voice sounded icy.

'Close enough to it, I suppose.'

'Don't indulge in any heroics.' Like Hardrick, charging out of the door for help that could never come in time.

'There'll be no heroics, I promise you that. It's just ... the right thing to do.'

'It won't help you get on.'

'I don't do it to get on.'

'Why, then?'

'Because someone has to.' They were so little alike. The cynic and the idealist. Why had she married him? 'Brint seems ... all right. Under the circumstances.' Finree found herself hoping that Aliz was all right, and made herself stop. That was a waste of hope, and she had none to spare.

'How should one feel when one's wife has been taken by the enemy?'

'Utterly desperate. I hope he will be all right.'

'All right' was such a useless, stilted expression. It was a useless, stilted conversation. Hal felt like a stranger. He knew nothing about who she really was. How can two people ever really know each other? Everyone went through life alone, fighting their own battle.

He took her hand. 'You seem-'

She could not bear his skin against hers, jerked her fingers away as though she was snatching them from a furnace. 'Go. You should go.'

His face twitched. 'I love you.'

Just words, really. They should have been easy to say. But she could not do it any more than she could fly to the moon. She turned away from him to face the wall, dragging the blanket over her hunched shoulder. She heard the door shut.

A moment later, or perhaps a while, she slid out of bed. She dressed. She splashed water on her face. She twitched her sleeves down over the scabbing chafe marks on her wrists, the ragged cut up her arm. She opened the door and went through. Her father was in the room on the other side, talking to the officer she saw crushed by a falling cupboard yesterday, plates spilling across the floor. No. A different man.

'You're awake.' Her father was smiling but there was a wariness to him, as if he was expecting her to burst into flames and he was ready to grab for a bucket. Maybe she would burst into flames. She would not have been surprised. Or particularly sorry, right then. 'How do you feel?'

'Well.' Hands closed around her throat and she plucked at them with her nails, ears throbbing with her own heartbeat. 'I killed a man yesterday.'

He stood, put his hand on her shoulder. 'It may feel that way, but-'

'It certainly does feel that way. I stabbed him, with a short steel I stole from an officer. I pushed the blade into his face. Into his face. So. I got one, I suppose.'

'Finree-'

'Am I going mad?' She snorted up a laugh, it sounded so stupid. 'Things could be so much worse. I should be glad. There was nothing I could do. What can anyone do? What should I have done?'

'After what you have been through, only a madman could feel normal. Try to act as though ... it is just another day, like any other.'

She took a long breath. 'Of course.' She gave him a smile which she hoped projected reassurance rather than insanity. 'It is just another day.'

There was a wooden bowl, on a table, with fruit in it. She took an apple. Half-green, half-blood-coloured. She should eat while she could. Keep her strength up. It was just another day, after all.

Still dark outside. Guards stood by torchlight. They fell silent as she passed, watching while pretending not to watch. She wanted to spew all over them, but she tried to smile as if it was just another day, and they did not look exactly like the men who had strained desperately to hold the gates of the inn closed, splinters bursting around them as the savages hacked down the doors.