The Blade Itself

by Joe Abercrombie

  Everywhere people embraced, kissed, waved to each other. Wives saying goodbye to husbands, mothers to sons, children to fathers, all equally bedraggled. Some put a brave face on it, some wept and wailed. Others did not care: spectators come simply to witness the madness.

  It all meant nothing to Jezal, leaning on the weathered rail of the ship that would carry him to Angland. He was sunk in a terrible gloom, nose running, hair plastered to his scalp with wet. Ardee was not there, and yet she was everywhere. He would hear her voice above the din, calling his name. He would glimpse her out of the corner of his eye, looking at him, and his breath would catch in his throat. He would smile, half-raise his hand to wave, then he would see it was not her. Some other dark-haired woman, smiling at some other soldier. His shoulders would slump again. Each time the disappointment was sharper.

  He realised now that he had made a terrible mistake. Why the hell had he asked her to wait for him? Wait for what? He could not marry her, that was a fact. Impossible. But the thought of her even looking at another man made him feel sick. He was wretched.

  Love. He hated to admit it, but it had to be. He had always regarded the whole notion with contempt. A stupid word. A word for bad poets to harp on, and foolish women to chatter about. A thing found in childish stories and with no relevance to the real world, where relationships between men and women were simple matters of fucking and money. Yet here he was, mired in a horrible bog of fear and guilt, lust and confusion, loss and pain. Love. What a curse.

  ‘I’d like to see Ardee,’ murmured Kaspa, wistfully.

  Jezal turned to stare at him. ‘What? What did you say?’

  ‘It’s quite a sight to see,’ said the Lieutenant, holding his hands up, ‘that’s all.’ Everyone was a little careful around him since that card game, as if he might blow up at any moment.

  Jezal turned sullenly back to the crowds. There was some kind of a commotion down below them. A single horseman was forcing his way through the chaos, spurring a well-lathered horse with frequent shouts of ‘Move!’ Even in the rain, the wings on the rider’s helmet glittered. A Knight Herald.

  ‘Bad news for someone,’ murmured Kaspa.

  Jezal nodded. ‘Looks like us.’ He was indeed making directly for their ship, leaving a trail of bemused and angry soldiers and workmen behind him. He swung out of the saddle and strode purposefully up the gangplank towards them, face grim, bright-polished armour covered with moisture and jingling with every step.

  ‘Captain Luthar?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jezal, ‘I’ll fetch the Colonel.’

  ‘No need. My message is for you.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘High Justice Marovia requires your presence at his offices. Immediately. It would be best if you took my mount.’

  Jezal frowned. He did not like the taste of this at all. There was no reason that he could see for a Knight Herald to be bringing messages to him, except that he had been inside the House of the Maker. He wanted nothing more to do with that. He wanted it in the past, forgotten, along with Bayaz, and his Northman, and that disgusting cripple.

  ‘The High Justice is waiting, Captain.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ It seemed there was nothing to be done.

  ‘Ah, Captain Luthar! An honour to see you again!’ Jezal was hardly surprised to run into the madman Sulfur, even here outside the offices of the High Justice. He no longer even seemed a madman, just another part of a world gone entirely mad. ‘An absolute honour!’ he frothed.

  ‘Likewise,’ said Jezal numbly.

  ‘I’m so lucky I caught you, what with both of us leaving so soon! My master has all manner of errands for me.’ He gave a deep sigh. ‘Never the slightest peace, eh?’

  ‘No, I know what you mean.’

  ‘Still, an honour indeed to see you, and victorious at the Contest! I saw the whole thing, you know, it was a privilege to bear witness.’ He smiled broadly, different coloured eyes glittering. ‘And to think, you were set on giving it up. Hah! But you stuck at it, just as I said you would! Yes you did, and now you reap the rewards! The edge of the World,’ he whispered softly, as though to say the words out loud was to invite disaster. ‘The edge of the World. Can you imagine? I envy you, indeed I do!’

  Jezal blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘What! Hah! “What”, he says! You are dauntless, sir! Dauntless!’ And Sulfur strode off across the wet Square of Marshals, chuckling to himself. Jezal was so bemused that he had not even the presence of mind to call him a damn idiot once he was out of earshot.

  One of Marovia’s many clerks ushered him through an empty, echoing hallway towards a pair of enormous doors. He stopped before them, knocked. At an answering cry he turned the handle and pulled one of the doors back, standing aside politely for Jezal to pass through.

  ‘You may go in,’ he said quietly, after they had been stood there for a while.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  The cavernous chamber beyond was eerily silent. Furniture was strangely sparse in that huge, panelled space, and what there was seemed oversized, as though for the use of people much bigger than Jezal. It gave him the distinct feeling that he was arriving at his own trial.

  High Justice Marovia sat behind an enormous table, its surface polished to mirror brightness, smiling at Jezal with a kindly, if slightly pitying expression. Marshal Varuz was seated to his left, staring down guiltily at his own blurry reflection. Jezal had not thought he could feel more depressed, but on seeing the third member of the group he realised he had been wrong. Bayaz, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He felt a mild surge of panic as the door shut behind him: the clicking of the latch felt like the clank of the heavy bolt on a prison cell.

  Bayaz started up from his chair and came round the table. ‘Captain Luthar, I am so glad you could join us.’ The old man took Jezal’s damp hand in both of his and squeezed it firmly, leading him forward into the room. ‘Thank you for coming. Thank you indeed.’

  ‘Er, of course.’ As if he had been given a choice.

  ‘Well now, you’re probably wondering what this is all about. Allow me to explain.’ He stepped back and perched on the edge of the table, like a kindly uncle holding forth to a child. ‘I and a few brave companions—chosen people, you understand, people of quality—are engaging on a great journey! An epic voyage! A grand adventure! I have little doubt that, should we be successful, there will be stories told of this for years to come. Very many years.’ Bayaz’ forehead crinkled as he raised his white eyebrows. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘Er . . .’ Jezal glanced nervously over at Marovia and Varuz, but they were giving no clues as to what was going on. ‘If I may?’

  ‘Of course, Jezal—I may call you Jezal, may I?’

  ‘Yes, er, well, yes, I suppose. Er, the thing is . . . I was wondering what all this has to do with me?’

  Bayaz smiled. ‘We are short a man.’

  There was a long, heavy silence. A drop of water trickled down Jezal’s scalp, dripped from his hair, ran down his nose and pattered against the tiles beneath his feet. Horror crept slowly through his body, from his gut to the very tips of his fingers. ‘Me?’ he croaked.

  ‘The road will be a long and difficult one, most likely beset with dangers. We have enemies out there, you and I. More enemies than you would believe. Who could be more useful than a proven swordsman, such as yourself? The winner of the Contest, no less!’

  Jezal swallowed. ‘I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I am afraid I must decline. My place is with the army, you understand.’ He took a hesitant step back towards the door. ‘I must go north. My ship will soon be sailing and—’

  ‘I am afraid it has sailed already, Captain,’ said Marovia, his warm voice stopping Jezal dead in his tracks. ‘You need not concern yourself with that any longer. You will not be going to Angland.’

  ‘But, your Worship, my company—’

  ‘Will find another commander,’ smiled the High Justice: understanding, sympathetic, but horribl
y firm. ‘I appreciate your feelings, indeed I do, but we consider this more urgent. It is important that the Union be represented in this matter.’

  ‘Terribly important,’ murmured Varuz, half-heartedly. Jezal blinked at the three old men. There was no escape. So this was his reward for winning the Contest? Some crackpot voyage to who-knew-where in the company of a demented old man and a pack of savages? How he wished now that he had never started fencing! That he had never even seen a steel in his life! But wishing was useless. There was no way back.

  ‘I need to serve my country—’ mumbled Jezal.

  Bayaz laughed. ‘There are other ways to serve your country, my boy, than being one corpse in a pile, up there in the frozen North. We leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? But my things are—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ and the old man slipped off the table and clapped him enthusiastically on the shoulder, ‘everything is arranged. Your boxes were brought off the ship before it left. You have this evening to pick out some things for our journey, but we must travel light. Weapons, of course, and stout clothes for travelling. Make sure you pack a good pair of boots, eh? No uniforms, I’m afraid, they might attract the wrong kind of attention where we’re going.’

  ‘No, of course,’ said Jezal miserably. ‘Might I ask . . . where are we going?’

  ‘The edge of the World, my boy, the edge of the World!’ Bayaz’ eyes twinkled. ‘And back, of course . . . I hope.’

  The Bloody-Nine

  Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that he’s happy. They were leaving, at last. Beyond some vague talk about the Old Empire, and the edge of the World, he had no idea where they were going and he didn’t care. Anywhere but this cursed place would do for him, and the sooner the better.

  The latest member of the group didn’t seem to share his good spirits. Luthar, the proud young man from the gate. The one who’d won the sword-game, thanks to Bayaz’ cheating. He’d barely said two words together since he arrived. Just stood there, face rigid and chalky pale, staring out of the window, bolt upright like he had a spear all the way up his arse.

  Logen ambled over to him. If you’re going to travel with a man, and maybe fight alongside him, it’s best to talk, and laugh if you can. That way you can get an understanding, and then a trust. Trust is what binds a band together, and out there in the wilds that can make the difference between living or dying. Building that kind of trust takes time, and effort. Logen reckoned it was best to get started early, and today he had good humour to spare, so he stood next to Luthar and looked out at the park, trying to dream up some common ground in which to plant the seeds of an unlikely friendship.

  ‘Beautiful, your home.’ He didn’t think it was, but he was short on ideas.

  Luthar turned from the window, looked Logen haughtily up and down. ‘What would you know about it?’

  ‘I reckon one man’s thoughts are worth about as much as another’s.’

  ‘Huh,’ sneered the young man coldly. ‘Then I suppose that’s where we differ.’ He turned back to the view.

  Logen took a deep breath. The trust might be a while coming. He abandoned Luthar and tried Quai instead, but the apprentice was scarcely more promising: slumped in a chair, frowning at nothing.

  Logen sat down next to him. ‘Aren’t you looking forward to going home?’

  ‘Home,’ mumbled the apprentice listlessly.

  ‘That’s right, the Old Empire . . . or wherever.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like there.’

  ‘You could tell me,’ said Logen, hoping to hear something about the peaceful valleys, cities, rivers and whatnot.

  ‘Bloody. It’s bloody there, and lawless, and life is cheap as dirt.’

  Bloody and lawless. That all had an unpleasantly familiar smack to it. ‘Isn’t there an Emperor, or something?’

  ‘There are many, always making war on one another, forging alliances that last a week, or a day, or an hour, before they scramble to be first to stab each other in the back. When one Emperor falls another rises, and another, and another, and meanwhile the hopeless and the dispossessed scavenge and loot and kill on the fringes. The cities dwindle, the great works of the past fall into ruin, the crops go unharvested and the people go hungry. Bloodshed and betrayal, hundreds of years of it. The feuds have become so deep, so complicated, that few can tell any longer who hates who, and no one can say why. There’s no need for reasons any more.’

  Logen made one last effort. ‘You never know. Things might have got better.’

  ‘Why?’ muttered the apprentice. ‘Why?’

  Logen was fumbling for a reply when one of the doors swung briskly open. Bayaz frowned around the room. ‘Where’s Maljinn?’

  Quai swallowed. ‘She left.’

  ‘I can see she left! I thought I told you to keep her here!’

  ‘You didn’t tell me how,’ muttered the apprentice.

  His master ignored him. ‘What the hell has become of that bloody woman? We must be away by noon! Three days I’ve known her, and she already has me at the end of my rope!’ He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. ‘Find her, will you Logen? Find her and bring her back.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want to come back?’

  ‘I don’t know, pick her up and carry her! You can kick her all the way back here as far as I’m concerned!’

  Easy to say, but Logen didn’t fancy trying it. Still, if it had to be done before they could leave, it was best done now. He sighed, got up from his chair and made for the door.

  Logen pressed himself into the shadows by the wall, watching.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered to himself. It would have to be now, just as they were about to leave. Ferro was twenty strides away, standing up tall with a deeper than usual scowl on her dark face. There were three men gathered round her. Masked men, all in black. Their sticks were down by their legs, behind their backs, kept half out of sight, but Logen had no doubt about what they had in mind. He could hear one of them talking, hissing through his mask, something about coming quietly. He winced. Coming quietly didn’t sound like Ferro’s style.

  He wondered whether he should slip away and tell the others. He couldn’t really say he liked the woman much, not near enough to get his head broken for her. But if he left them to it, three against one, the chances were they’d have knocked her to pieces by the time he got back, however tough she was, and dragged her off to who knew where. He might never get out of this damn city then.

  He started judging the distance, thinking about how best to go at them, weighing his chances, but he’d been too long doing nothing, and his mind moved slowly. He was still working on it when Ferro suddenly jumped on one of them, yelling at the top of her voice, knocking him on his back. She gave him a couple of vicious-looking punches in the face before the others caught hold of her and dragged her up.

  ‘Shit,’ hissed Logen. The three of them wrestled, lurching around in the lane, knocking against the walls, grunting and swearing, kicking and punching, a tangle of flailing limbs. It seemed that time had run out for a clever approach. Logen gritted his teeth and charged towards them.

  The one on the floor had rolled to his feet, shaking the fuzz out of his head while the other two struggled to get a good grip on Ferro. Now he lifted his stick high, arching back, ready to smash her on the skull. Logen let go a roar. The masked face snapped round, surprised-looking.

  ‘Huh?’ Then Logen’s shoulder crunched into his ribs, lifting him off his feet and sending him sprawling. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone swing a stick at him, but he’d got them offguard and there was no real force behind it. He caught it across his arm then pressed in under it and smashed the man right in the mask with his fists, a full-blooded punch with each hand. He reeled back, arms flopping, already falling. Logen grabbed him by two fistfuls of his black coat, hauled him into the air and flung him upsidedown into the wall.

  He bounced off with a gurgle and crumpled on the cobbles. Logen spun round, fists c
lenched, but the last one was lying on his face with Ferro on top of him, one knee jammed into his back, pulling his head up by the hair and smashing his face into the road, shouting meaningless curses all the while.

  ‘What did you fucking do?’ he shouted, grabbing her under the elbow and dragging her off.

  She tore free of his grip and stood there panting, fists bunched up by her sides, blood leaking out of her nose. ‘Nothing,’ she snarled.

  Logen took a cautious step back. ‘Nothing? What’s this then?’

  She bit off each word in her ugly accent and spat them at him. ‘I . . . don’t . . . know.’ She wiped her bloody mouth with one hand, then froze. Logen glanced over his shoulder. Three more masked men, running at them down the narrow lane.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Move, pink!’ Ferro turned and started running and Logen followed her. What else could he do? He ran. The horrible, breathless running of the hunted, shoulders prickling for a blow in the back, sucking in air in gasps, the slapping footfalls of the men behind echoing around him.

  High white buildings flashed past on either side, windows, doors, statues, gardens. People too, shouting as they dived out of the way or flattening themselves against the walls. He had no idea where they were, no idea where they were going. A man stepped out of a doorway right in front of him, a big sheaf of papers in his arms. They crashed together, tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over in the gutter with papers flapping down all around them.

  He tried to get up but his legs were burning. He couldn’t see! There was a piece of paper across his face. He tore it away, felt someone grab him under the arm and haul him along. ‘Up, pink! Move!’ Ferro. She wasn’t even out of breath. Logen’s lungs were bursting as he struggled to keep up with her but she pulled steadily away, head down, feet flying.