Raith’s turn to snort. ‘Ministers.’
Skara’s laugh echoed in the darkness. For a small woman she had a big laugh, wild and dirty as some old warrior’s at an ale-hall story, and Raith thought that quite a wonderful thing as well. ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘ministers. So why did the Breaker of Swords pick you?’
He felt like a poor swimmer being lured into deep water. ‘Eh?’
‘Why send an honest idiot to do a clever liar’s job?’
He frowned at that as they stepped out into daylight. Luckily, he was spared from giving an answer.
A crowd had gathered just outside the gates but there was no work being done. Unless you counted bristling, glaring, and shouting insults, which to be fair Raith always had. Vanstermen facing Gettlanders, as usual, such a wearisome pattern even he was tiring of it. Rakki and the old Gettlander with the face like a slapped arse, Hunnan, were facing each other in the midst, both puffed up like tomcats. Rakki had a pick in his hands, Hunnan a shovel, and from the looks of things they’d both set to swinging soon and not at the ground.
‘Whoa!’ roared Raith, charging over, and their heads snapped round. He slipped in between the two, saw Hunnan’s jaw clenching, the shovel twitching back. Gods, the burning urge to butt him, punch him, seize hold of him and bite his face. Raith found he’d bared his teeth to do it. It was against his every hard-learned instinct, but he darted out a hand and grabbed the shovel instead. Then, before the old Gettlander had time to think, Raith hopped down into the ditch.
‘Thought we were allies?’ And he set to digging, showering Hunnan and Rakki with clods of soil and making them break apart. ‘Am I the only one ain’t scared of work?’ Raith might be no thinker but he could see what was put in front of him, and if he’d learned one thing from Skara it was that you’ll get more from warriors by shaming them than biting them.
So it proved. First Rakki jumped down into the ditch beside him with his pick. Then a few more Vanstermen followed. Not to be outdone, Hunnan spat into his palms, tore a shovel from the man beside him, clambered down and set to some furious work of his own. Wasn’t long before the whole length of the ditch was busy with warriors competing to give Father Earth the sternest beating.
‘When’s the last time you broke a fight up?’ muttered Rakki.
Raith grinned. ‘I’ve broken a few up with my fist.’
‘Don’t forget who you are, brother.’
‘I’m forgetting nothing,’ grunted Raith, stepping back to let Rakki swing the pick at a clump of stubborn roots. He glanced towards the gate and saw Skara smiling, couldn’t help smiling back. ‘But every day finds you a new man, eh?’
Rakki shook his head. ‘She’s got you on a short leash, that girl.’
‘Maybe,’ said Raith. ‘But I can think of worse leashes to be on.’
Power
Sister Owd frowned into the night pot. ‘This seems auspicious.’
‘How is one turd more auspicious than another?’ asked Skara.
‘People lucky enough to produce auspicious turds always ask that, my queen. Is your blood coming regularly?’
‘I understand once a month is traditional.’
‘And is your womb minded to break with tradition?’
Skara gave Sister Owd the frostiest glare she could manage. ‘My womb has always behaved entirely properly. You can rest easy. I’ve never so much as kissed a man. Mother Kyre made very sure of that.’
Owd delicately cleared her throat. ‘I am sorry to pry, but your wellbeing is my responsibility, now. Your blood is worth more to Throvenland than gold.’
‘Then Throvenland rejoice!’ shouted Skara as she stepped from the bath. ‘I’m bleeding regularly!’
Queen Laithlin’s thrall gently rubbed her dry, took a bundle of twigs and flicked her with scented water blessed in the name of He Who Sprouts the Seed. He might stand among the small gods, but he loomed large indeed over girls of royal blood.
The minister frowned. Skara’s minister, she supposed. Her servant, though it was hard not to think of her as a disapproving mistress. ‘Are you eating, my queen?’
‘What else would I do at mealtimes?’ Skara did not add that what little she forced down she felt endlessly on the point of spewing back up. ‘I’ve always been slight.’ She snapped her fingers at the thrall to bring her hurrying with her dressing-gown. ‘And I don’t enjoy being examined like a slave at the flesh-dealer’s.’
‘Who does, my queen?’ Sister Owd carefully averted her eyes. ‘But I fear privacy is a luxury the powerful cannot afford.’ Her mildness was, for some reason, more infuriating even than Mother Kyre’s bullying used to be.
‘No doubt you eat for both of us,’ snapped Skara.