The Blade Itself

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘Ill, you say? Die, was it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what was your name again—’

  ‘Just open the fucking door!’ Logen shook his fist pointlessly at the slot. ‘Please.’

  ‘We don’t let just anyone in . . . hold up. Show me your hands.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your hands.’ Logen held his hands up. The watery eyes moved slowly across his fingers. ‘There are nine. There’s one missing, see?’ He shoved the stump at the hatch.

  ‘Nine, is it? You should have said.’

  Bolts clanked and the door creaked slowly open. An elderly man, bent under an old-fashioned suit of armour, was staring at him suspiciously from the other side. He was holding a long sword much too heavy for him. Its point wobbled around wildly as he strained to keep it upright.

  Logen held up his hands. ‘I surrender.’

  The ancient gatekeeper was not amused. He grunted sourly as Logen stepped past him, then he wrestled the door shut and fumbled with the bolts, turned and trudged away without another word. Logen followed him up a narrow valley lined with strange houses, weathered and mossy, half dug into the steep rocks, merging with the mountainside.

  A dour-faced woman was working at a spinning wheel on a doorstep, and she frowned at Logen as he walked past with the unconscious apprentice over his shoulder. Logen smiled back at her. She was no beauty, that was sure, but it had been a very long time. The woman ducked into her house and kicked the door shut, leaving the wheel spinning. Logen sighed. The old magic was still there.

  The next house was a bakery with a squat, smoking chimney. The smell of baking bread made Logen’s empty stomach rumble. Further on, a couple of dark-haired children were laughing and playing, running round a scrubby old tree. They reminded Logen of his own children. They didn’t look anything like them, but he was in a morbid frame of mind.

  He had to admit to being a little disappointed. He’d been expecting something cleverer-looking, and a lot more beards. These folk didn’t seem so very wise. They looked just like any other peasants. Not unlike his own village had looked before the Shanka came. He wondered if he was in the right place. Then they rounded a bend in the road.

  Three great, tapering towers were built into the mountainside ahead, joined at their bases but separating higher up, covered in dark ivy. They seemed far older even than the ancient bridge and road, as old as the mountain itself. A jumbled mess of other buildings crowded around their feet, straggling around the sides of a wide courtyard in which people were busy with everyday chores. A thin woman was churning some milk on a stoop. A stocky blacksmith was trying to shoe a restless mare. An old, bald butcher in a stained apron had finished chopping up some animal and was washing his bloody forearms in a trough.

  And on a set of wide steps before the tallest of the three towers sat a magnificent old man. He was dressed all in white, with a long beard, a hook nose, and white hair spilling from under a white skull-cap. Logen was impressed, finally. The First of the Magi surely looked the part. As Logen shuffled towards him he started up from the steps and hurried over, white coat flapping behind him.

  ‘Set him down here,’ he muttered, indicating a patch of grass by the well, and Logen knelt and dumped Quai on the ground, as gently as he could with his back aching so much. The old man bent over him, laid a gnarled hand on his forehead.

  ‘I brought your apprentice back,’ muttered Logen pointlessly.

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Aren’t you Bayaz?’

  The old man laughed. ‘Oh no, I am Wells, head servant here at the Library.’

  ‘I am Bayaz,’ came a voice from behind. The butcher was walking slowly toward them, wiping his hands on a cloth. He looked maybe sixty but heavily built, with a strong face, deeply lined, and a close-cropped grey beard around his mouth. He was entirely bald, and the afternoon sun shone brightly off his tanned pate. He was neither handsome nor majestic, but as he came closer there did seem to be something about him. An assurance, an air of command. A man used to giving orders, and to being obeyed.

  The First of the Magi took Logen’s left hand in both of his and pressed it warmly. Then he turned it over and examined the stump of his missing finger.

  ‘Logen Ninefingers, then. The one they call the Bloody-Nine. I have heard stories about you, even shut up here in my library.’

  Logen winced. He could guess what sort of stories the old man might have heard. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Of course. We all have a past, eh? I make no judgements on hearsay.’ And Bayaz smiled. A broad, white, beaming smile. His face lit up with friendly creases, but a hardness lingered around his eyes, deep-set and glistening green. A stony hardness. Logen grinned back, but he reckoned already that he wouldn’t want to make an enemy of this man.

  ‘And you have brought our missing lamb back to the fold.’ Bayaz frowned down at Malacus Quai, motionless on the grass. ‘How is he?’

  ‘I think he will live, sir,’ said Wells, ‘but we should get him out of the cold.’

  The First of the Magi snapped his fingers and a sharp crack echoed from the buildings. ‘Help him.’ The smith hurried forward and took Quai’s feet, and together he and Wells carried the apprentice through the tall door into the library.

  ‘Now, Master Ninefingers, I have called and you have answered, and that shows good manners. Manners might be out of fashion in the North, but I want you to know that I appreciate them. Courtesy should be answered with courtesy, I have always thought. But what’s this now?’ The old gatekeeper was hurrying back across the yard, greatly out of breath. ‘Two visitors in one day? Whatever next?’

  ‘Master Bayaz!’ wheezed the gatekeeper, ‘there’s riders at the gate, well horsed and well armed! They say they’ve an urgent message from the King of the Northmen!’

  Bethod. It had to be. The spirits had said he had given himself a golden hat, and who else would have dared to call himself King of the Northmen? Logen swallowed. He’d got away from their last meeting with his life and nothing else, and yet it was better than many had managed, far better.

  ‘Well, master?’ asked the gatekeeper, ‘shall I tell them to be off?’

  ‘Who leads them?’

  ‘A fancy lad with a sour face. Said he’s this King’s son or something.’

  ‘Was it Calder or Scale? They’re both something sour.’

  ‘The younger one, I reckon.’

  Calder then, that was something. Either one was bad, but Scale was much the worse. Both together were an experience to be avoided. Bayaz seemed to consider a moment. ‘Prince Calder may enter, but his men must remain beyond the bridge.’

  ‘Yes sir, beyond the bridge.’ The gatekeeper wheezed away. He’d love that, would Calder. Logen was greatly tickled by the thought of the so-called Prince screaming uselessly through that little slot.

  ‘The King of the Northmen now, can you imagine?’ Bayaz stared absently off down the valley. ‘I knew Bethod when he was not so grand. And so did you, eh, Master Ninefingers?’

  Logen frowned. He’d known Bethod when he was next to nothing, a little chieftain like so many others. Logen had come for help against the Shanka, and Bethod had given it, at a price. Back then, the price had seemed light, and well worth the paying. Just to fight. To kill a few men. Logen had always found killing easy, and Bethod had seemed a man well worth fighting for—bold, proud, ruthless, venomously ambitious. All qualities that Logen had admired, back then, all qualities he thought he had himself. But time had changed them both, and the price had risen.

  ‘He used to be a better man,’ Bayaz was musing, ‘but crowns sit badly on some people. Do you know his sons?’

  ‘Better than I’d like.’

  Bayaz nodded. ‘They’re absolute shit, aren’t they? And I fear now they will never improve. Imagine that pin-head Scale a king. Ugh!’ The wizard shuddered. ‘It almost makes you want to wish his father a long life. Almost, but not quite.’

  The little girl that Logen had seen
playing scurried over. She had a chain of yellow flowers in her hands, and she held it up to the old wizard. ‘I made this,’ she said. Logen could hear the rapid pounding of hooves coming up the road.

  ‘For me? How perfectly charming.’ Bayaz took the flowers from her. ‘Excellent work, my dear. The Master Maker himself could not have done better.’

  The rider clattered out into the yard, pulled his horse up savagely and swung from the saddle. Calder. The years had been kinder to him than to Logen, that much was clear. He was dressed all in fine blacks trimmed with dark fur. A big red jewel flashed on his finger, the hilt of his sword was set with gold. He’d grown and filled out, half the size of his brother Scale, but a big man still. His pale, proud face was pretty much as Logen remembered though, thin lips twisted in a permanent sneer.

  He threw his reins at the woman churning milk then strode briskly across the yard, glowering about him, his long hair flapping in the breeze. When he was about ten strides away he saw Logen. His jaw dropped. Calder took a shocked half step back and his hand twitched towards his sword. Then he smiled a cold little smile.

  ‘So you’ve taken to keeping dogs have you, Bayaz? I’d watch this one. He’s been known to bite his master’s hand.’ His lip curled further. ‘I could put him down for you if you’d like.’

  Logen shrugged. Hard words are for fools and cowards. Calder might have been both, but Logen was neither. If you mean to kill, you’re better getting right to it than talking about it. Talk only makes the other man ready, and that’s the last thing you want. So Logen said nothing. Calder could take that for weakness if he pleased, and so much the better. Fights might find Logen depressingly often, but he was long, long past looking for them.

  Bethod’s second son turned his contempt on the First of the Magi. ‘My father will be displeased, Bayaz! That my men must wait outside the gate shows little respect!’

  ‘But I have so little, Prince Calder,’ said the wizard calmly. ‘Please don’t be downhearted, though. Your last messenger wasn’t allowed over the bridge, so you see we’re making progress.’

  Calder scowled. ‘Why have you not answered my father’s summons?’

  ‘There are so many demands on my time.’ Bayaz held up the chain of flowers. ‘These don’t make themselves, you know.’

  The Prince was not amused. ‘My father,’ he boomed, ‘Bethod, King of the Northmen, commands you to attend upon him at Carleon!’ He cleared his throat. ‘He will not . . .’ He coughed.

  ‘What?’ demanded Bayaz. ‘Speak up, child!’

  ‘He commands . . .’ The Prince coughed again, spluttered, choked. He put a hand to his throat. The air seemed to have become very still.

  ‘Commands, does he?’ Bayaz frowned. ‘Bring great Juvens back from the land of the dead. He may command me. He alone, and no other.’ The frown grew deeper still, and Logen had to resist a strange desire to back away. ‘You may not. Nor may your father, whatever he calls himself.’

  Calder sank slowly to his knees, face twisted, eyes watering. Bayaz looked him up and down. ‘What solemn attire, did somebody die? Here,’ and he tossed the chain of flowers over the Prince’s head. ‘A little colour may lighten your mood. Tell your father he must come himself. I do not waste my time on fools and younger sons. I am old fashioned in this. I like to talk to the horse’s head, not the horse’s arse. Do you understand me, boy?’ Calder was sagging sideways, eyes red and bulging. The First of the Magi waved his hand. ‘You may go.’

  The Prince heaved in a ragged breath, coughed and reeled to his feet, stumbled for his horse and hauled himself up into the saddle with a deal less grace than he had got down. He shot a murderous glance over his shoulder as he made for the gate, but it didn’t have quite the same weight with his face red as a slapped arse. Logen realised he was grinning, wide. It was a long time since he’d enjoyed himself this much.

  ‘I understand that you can speak to the spirits.’

  Logen was caught off guard. ‘Eh?’

  ‘To speak to the spirits.’ Bayaz shook his head. ‘It is a rare gift in these times. How are they?’

  ‘What, the spirits?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Dwindling.’

  ‘Soon they will all sleep, eh? The magic leaks out of the world. That is the set order of things. Over the years my knowledge has grown, and yet my power has diminished.’

  ‘Calder seemed impressed.’

  ‘Bah.’ Bayaz waved his hand. ‘A mere nothing. A little trick of air and flesh, easily done. No, believe me, the magic ebbs away. It is a fact. A natural law. Still, there are many ways to crack an egg, eh, my friend? If one tool fails then we must try another.’ Logen was no longer entirely sure what they were talking about, but he was too tired to ask.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ murmured the First of the Magi. ‘There are many ways to crack an egg. Speaking of which, you look hungry.’

  Logen’s mouth flooded with spit at the very mention of food. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Yes . . . I could eat.’

  ‘Of course.’ Bayaz clapped him warmly on the shoulder. ‘And then perhaps a bath? Not that we are offended of course, but I find that there is nothing more soothing than hot water after a long walk, and you, I suspect, have had a very long walk indeed. Come with me, Master Ninefingers, you’re safe here.’

  Food. Bath. Safety. Logen had to stop himself from weeping as he followed the old man into the library.

  The Good Man

  It was a hot, hot day outside, and the sun shone brightly through the many-paned windows, casting criss-cross patterns on the wooden floor of the audience chamber. It was mid-afternoon, and the room was soupy warm and stuffy as a kitchen.

  Fortis dan Hoff, the Lord Chamberlain, was red-faced and sweaty in his fur-trimmed robes of state, and had been in an increasingly filthy mood all afternoon. Harlen Morrow, his Under-Secretary for Audiences, looked even more uncomfortable, but then he had his terror of Hoff to contend with, in addition to the heat. Both men seemed greatly distressed in their own ways, but at least they got to sit down.

  Major West was sweating steadily into his embroidered dress uniform. He had been standing in the same position, hands behind his back, teeth gritted, for nearly two hours while Lord Hoff sulked and grumbled and bellowed his way through the applicants and anyone else in view. West fervently wished, and not for the first time that afternoon, that he was lying under a tree in the park, with a strong drink. Or perhaps under a glacier, entombed within the ice. Anywhere but here.

  Standing guard on these horrible audiences was hardly one of West’s more pleasant duties, but it could have been worse. You had to spare a thought for the eight soldiers stood around the walls: they were in full armour. West was waiting for one of them to pass out and crash to the floor with a sound like a cupboard full of saucepans, no doubt to the great disgust of the Lord Chamberlain, but so far they were all somehow staying upright.

  ‘Why is this damned room always the wrong temperature?’ Hoff was demanding to know, as if the heat was an insult directed solely at him. ‘It’s too hot half the year, too cold the other half! There’s no air in here, no air at all! Why don’t these windows open? Why can’t we have a bigger room?’

  ‘Er . . .’ mumbled the harassed Under-Secretary, pushing his spectacles up his sweaty nose, ‘requests for audiences have always been held here, my Lord Chamberlain.’ He paused under the fearsome gaze of his superior. ‘Er . . . it is . . . traditional?’

  ‘I know that, you dolt!’ thundered Hoff, face crimson with heat and fury. ‘Who asked for your damn fool of an opinion anyway?’

  ‘Yes, that is to say, no,’ stuttered Morrow, ‘that is to say, quite so, my Lord.’

  Hoff shook his head with a mighty frown, staring around the room in search of something else to displease him. ‘How many more must we endure today?’

  ‘Er . . . four more, your Grace.’

  ‘Damn it!’ thundered the Chamberlain, shifting in his huge chair and flapping his fur-trimmed collar to let some air
in. ‘This is intolerable!’ West found himself in silent agreement. Hoff snatched up a silver goblet from the table and took a great slurp of wine. He was a great one for drinking, indeed he had been drinking all afternoon. It had not improved his temper. ‘Who’s the next fool?’ he demanded.

  ‘Er . . .’ Morrow squinted at a large document through his spectacles, tracing across the crabby writing with an inky finger. ‘Goodman Heath is next, a farmer from—’

  ‘A farmer? A farmer did you say? So we must sit in this ridiculous heat, listening to some damn commoner moan on about how the weather has affected his sheep?’

  ‘Well, my Lord,’ muttered Morrow, ‘it does seem as though, er, Goodman Heath has, er, a legitimate grievance against his, er, landlord, and—’

  ‘Damn it all! I am sick to my stomach of other people’s grievances!’ The Lord Chamberlain took another swallow of wine. ‘Show the idiot in!’

  The doors were opened and Goodman Heath was allowed into their presence. To underline the balance of power within the room, the Lord Chamberlain’s table was raised up on a high dais, so that even standing the poor man had to look up at them. An honest face, but very gaunt. He held a battered hat before him in trembling hands. West shrugged his shoulders in discomfort as a drop of sweat ran down his back.

  ‘You are Goodman Heath, correct?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ mumbled the peasant in a broad accent, ‘from—’

  Hoff cut him off with consummate rudeness. ‘And you come before us seeking an audience with his August Majesty, the High King of the Union?’

  Goodman Heath licked his lips. West wondered how far he had come to be made a fool of. A very long way, most likely. ‘My family have been put off our land. The landlord said we had not been paying the rent but—’

  The Lord Chamberlain waved a hand. ‘Plainly this is a matter for the Commission for Land and Agriculture. His August Majesty the King is concerned with the welfare of all his subjects, no matter how mean,’ West almost winced at this slight, ‘but he cannot be expected to give personal attention to every trifling thing. His time is valuable, and so is mine. Good day.’ And that was it. Two of the soldiers pulled the double doors open for Goodman Heath to leave.