The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘Beck.’ Craw lowered himself stiffly down beside the fire, a wooden ale cup in one hand, and gave Beck’s knee an encouraging pat.

  ‘Chief. How’s your head?’

  The old warrior touched a finger to the fresh stitches above his ear. ‘Sore. But I’ve had worse. Very nearly had a lot worse today, in fact, as you might’ve noticed. Scorry told me you saved my life. Most folk wouldn’t place a high value on that particular article but I must admit I’m quite attached to it. So. Thanks, I guess. A lot of thanks.’

  ‘Just trying to do the right thing. Like you said.’

  ‘By the dead. Someone was listening. Drink?’ And Craw offered out his wooden mug.

  ‘Aye.’ Beck took it and a good swallow too. Taste of beer, sour on his tongue.

  ‘You did good today. Bloody good, far as I’m concerned. Scorry told me it was you put that big bastard down. The one who killed Drofd.’

  ‘Did I kill him?’

  ‘No. He’s alive.’

  ‘Didn’t kill no one today, then.’ Beck wasn’t sure whether he should be disappointed by that or glad. He wasn’t up to feeling much about anything either way. ‘I killed a man yesterday,’ he found he’d said.

  ‘Flood said you killed four.’

  Beck licked his lips. Trying to lick away the sour taste, but it was going nowhere. ‘Flood got it wrong and I was too much the coward to put him right. Lad called Reft killed those men.’ He took another swallow, too fast, made his voice spill out breathless. ‘I hid in a cupboard while they were fighting. Hid in a cupboard and pissed my pants. There’s Red Beck for you.’

  ‘Huh.’ Craw nodded, his lips pressed thoughtfully together. He didn’t seem all that bothered. He didn’t seem all that surprised. ‘Well, it don’t change what you did today. There’s far worse a man can do in a battle than hide in a cupboard.’

  ‘I know,’ muttered Beck, and his mouth hung open, ready to let it spill. It was like his body needed to say it, to spit out the rot like a sick man might need to puke. His mouth had to do it, however much he might want to keep it hid. ‘I need to tell you something, Chief,’ his dried-out tongue wrestling with the words.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Craw.

  He cast about for the best way to put it, like the sick man casting about for the best thing to spew into. As though there were words pretty enough to make it less ugly. ‘The thing is—’

  ‘Bastard!’ someone shouted, knocked Beck so bad he spilled the dregs of the cup into the fire.

  ‘Oy!’ growled Craw, wincing as he got up, but whoever it was had already gone. There was a current through the crowd, of a sudden. A new mood, angry, jeering at someone being dragged through their midst. Craw followed on and Beck followed him, more relieved than upset at the distraction, like the sick man realising he don’t have to puke into his wife’s hat after all.

  They shouldered through the crowd to the biggest fire-pit, in the centre of the Heroes, where the biggest men were. Black Dow sat in the midst of ’em in Skarling’s Chair, one dangling hand twisting the pommel of his sword round and round. Shivers was there, on the far side of the fire, pushing someone down onto his knees.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Craw.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ And Dow licked his teeth and sat back, grinning. ‘If it ain’t Prince Calder.’

  *

  Calder tried to look as comfortable as he could on his knees with his hands tied and Shivers looming over him. Which wasn’t all that comfortable. ‘The invitation was hard to refuse,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll bet,’ answered Dow. ‘Can you guess why I made it?’

  Calder took a look around the gathering. All the great men of the North were there. All the bloated fools. Glama Golden, sneering over from the far side of the fire. Cairm Ironhead, watching, one brow raised. Brodd Tenways, a bit less scornful than usual, but a long way from friendly. Caul Reachey, with a ‘my hands are tied’ sort of a wince, and Curnden Craw, with a ‘why didn’t you run?’ sort of a one. Calder gave the pair of them a sheepish nod. ‘I’ve an inkling.’

  ‘For anyone who hasn’t an inkling, Calder here tried to prevail on my new Second to kill me.’ Some muttering ran through the firelit crowd, but not that much. No one was overly surprised. ‘Ain’t that right, Craw?’

  Craw looked at the ground. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You going to deny it, even?’ asked Dow.

  ‘If I did, could we forget the whole thing?’

  Dow grinned. ‘Still joking. I like that. Not that the faithlessness surprises me, you’re known for a schemer. The stupidity does, though. Curnden Craw’s a straight edge, everyone knows that.’ Craw winced even harder, and looked away. ‘Stabbing men in the back ain’t his style.’

  ‘I’ll admit it wasn’t my brightest moment,’ said Calder. ‘How about we notch it up to youthful folly and let it slide?’

  ‘Don’t see how I can. You’ve pushed my patience too far, and it’s got a spike on the end. Haven’t I treated you like a son?’ A few chuckles ran along both sides of the fire-pit. ‘I mean, not a favourite son. Not a firstborn or nothing. A runty one, down near the end o’ the litter, but still. Didn’t I let you take charge when your brother died, though you haven’t the experience or the name for it? Didn’t I let you have your say around the fire? And when you said too much didn’t I clear you off to Carleon with your wife to cool your head rather than just cut your head off and worry later on the details? Your father weren’t so forgiving to those who disagreed with him, as I recall.’

  ‘True,’ said Calder. ‘You’ve been generosity itself. Oh. Apart from trying to kill me, of course.’

  Dow’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Eh?’

  ‘Four nights past, at Caul Reachey’s weapontake? Bringing anything back? No? Three men tried to murder me, and when I put one to the question he dropped Brodd Tenways’ name. And everyone knows Brodd Tenways wouldn’t do a thing without your say-so. You denying it?’

  ‘I am, in fact.’ Dow looked over at Tenways and he gave a little shake of his rashy head. ‘And Tenways too. Might be he’s lying, and has his own reasons, but I can tell you one thing for a fact – any man here can tell I had no part in it.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  Dow leaned forwards. ‘You’re still fucking breathing, boy. You think if I’d a mind to kill you there’s a man could stop me?’ Calder narrowed his eyes. He had to admit there was something to that argument. He looked for Reachey, but the old warrior was steadfastly looking elsewhere.

  ‘But it don’t much matter who didn’t die yesterday,’ said Dow. ‘I can tell you who’ll die tomorrow.’ Silence stretched out, and never had the word to end it been so horribly clear. ‘You.’ Seemed like everyone was smiling. Everyone except Calder, and Craw, and maybe Caul Shivers, but that was probably just because his face was so scarred he couldn’t get his mouth to curl. ‘Anyone got any objections to this?’ Aside from the crackling of the fire, there wasn’t a sound. Dow stood up on his seat and shouted it. ‘Anyone want to speak up for Calder?’ None spoke.

  How silly his whispers in the dark seemed now. All his seeds had fallen on stony ground all right. Dow was firmer set in Skarling’s Chair than ever and Calder hadn’t a friend to his name. His brother was dead and he’d somehow found a way to make Curnden Craw his enemy. Some spinner of webs he was.

  ‘No one? No?’ Slowly, Dow sat back down. ‘Anyone here not happy about this?’

  ‘I’m not fucking delighted,’ said Calder.

  Dow burst out laughing. ‘You got bones, lad, whatever they say. Bones of a rare kind. I’ll miss you. You got a preference when it comes to method? We could hang you, or cut your head off, or your father was partial to the bloody cross though I couldn’t advise it—’

  Maybe the fighting today had gone to Calder’s head, or maybe he was sick of treading softly, or maybe it was the cleverest thing to do right then. ‘Fuck yourself!’ he snarled, and spat into the fire. ‘I’d sooner die with a sword in my hand! You and me, Black Dow, in th
e circle. A challenge.’

  Slow, scornful silence. ‘Challenge?’ sneered Dow. ‘Over what? You make a challenge to decide an issue, boy. There’s no issue here. Just you turning on your Chief and trying to talk his Second into stabbing him in the back. Would your father have taken a challenge?’

  ‘You’re not my father. You’re not a fucking shadow of him! He made that chain you’re wearing. Forged it link by link, like he forged the North new. You stole it from the Bloody-Nine, and you had to stab him in the back to get it.’ Calder smirked like his life depended on it. Which it did. ‘All you are is a thief, Black Dow, and a coward, and an oath-breaker, and a fucking idiot besides.’

  ‘That a fact?’ Dow tried to smile himself, but it looked more like a scowl. Calder might be a beaten man, but that was just the point. Having a beaten man fling shit at him was souring his day of victory.

  ‘Haven’t you got the bones to face me, man to man?’

  ‘Show me a man and we’ll see.’

  ‘I was man enough for Tenways’ daughter.’ Calder got a flutter of laughter of his own. ‘But what?’ And he nodded up to Shivers. ‘You get harder men to do your black work now, do you, Black Dow? Lost your taste for it? Come on! Fight me! The circle!’

  Dow had no real reason to say yes. He’d nothing to win. But sometimes it’s more about how it looks than how it is. Calder was famous as the biggest coward and piss-poorest fighter in any given company. Dow’s name was all built on being the very opposite. This was a challenge to everything he was, in front of all the great men of the North. He couldn’t turn it down. Dow saw it, and he slouched back in Skarling’s Chair like a man who’d argued with his wife over whose turn it was to muck out the pigpen, and lost.

  ‘All right. You want it the hard way you can have it the fucking hard way. Tomorrow at dawn. And no pissing about spinning the shield and choosing weapons. Me and you. A sword each. To the death.’ He angrily waved his hand. ‘Take this bastard somewhere I don’t have to look at him smirk.’

  Calder gasped as Shivers jerked him to his feet, twisted him around and marched him off. The crowd closed in behind them. Songs started up again, and laughter, and bragging, and all the business of victory and success. His imminent doom was a distraction hardly worth stopping the party for.

  ‘I thought I told you to run.’ Craw’s familiar voice in his ear, the old man pushing through the press beside him.

  Calder snorted. ‘I thought I told you not to say anything. Seems neither of us can do as we’re told.’

  ‘I’m sorry it had to be this way.’

  ‘It didn’t have to be this way.’

  He saw Craw’s grimace etched by firelight. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry this is what I chose, then.’

  ‘Don’t be. You’re a straight edge, everyone knows it. And let’s face the facts, I’ve been hurtling towards the grave ever since my father died. Just a surprise it’s taken me this long to hit mud. Who knows, though?’ he called as Shivers dragged him between two of the Heroes, giving Craw one last smirk over his shoulder. ‘Maybe I’ll beat Dow in the circle!’

  He could tell from Craw’s sorry face he didn’t think it likely. Neither did Calder, if he was honest for once. The very reasons for the success of his little plan were also its awful shortcomings. Calder was the biggest coward and piss-poorest fighter in any given company. Black Dow was the very opposite. They hadn’t earned their reputations by accident.

  He’d about as much chance in the circle as a side of ham, and everyone knew it.

  Stuff Happens

  ‘I’ve a letter for General Mitterick,’ said Tunny, hooding his lantern as he walked up out of the dusk to the general’s tent.

  Even in the limited light, it was plain the guard was a man who nature had favoured better below the neck than above it. ‘He’s with the lord marshal. You’ll have to wait.’

  Tunny displayed his sleeve. ‘I’m a full corporal, you know. Don’t I get precedence?’

  The guard did not take the joke. ‘Press-a-what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Tunny sighed, and stood beside him, and waited. Voices burbled from the tent, gaining in volume.

  ‘I demand the right to attack!’ one boomed out. Mitterick. There weren’t many soldiers in the army who had the good fortune not to recognise that voice. The guard frowned across at Tunny as though to say, you shouldn’t be listening to this. Tunny held up the letter and shrugged. ‘We’ve forced them back! They’re teetering, exhausted! They’ve no stomach left for it.’ Shadows moved on the side of the tent, perhaps a shaken fist. ‘The slightest push now … I have them just where I want them!’

  ‘You thought you had them there yesterday and it turned out they had you.’ Marshal Kroy’s more measured tones. ‘And the Northmen aren’t the only ones who’ve run out of stomach.’

  ‘My men deserve the chance to finish what they’ve started! Lord Marshal, I deserve the—’

  ‘No!’ Harsh as a whip cracking.

  ‘Then, sir, I demand the right to resign—’

  ‘No to that too. No even more to that.’ Mitterick tried to say something but Kroy spoke over him. ‘No! Must you argue every point? You will swallow your damn pride and do your damn duty! You will stand down, you will bring your men back across the bridge and you will prepare your division for the journey south to Uffrith as soon as we have completed negotiations. Do you understand me, General?’

  There was a long pause and then, very quietly, ‘We lost.’ Mitterick’s voice, but hardly recognisable. Suddenly shrunk very small, and weak, sounding almost as if there were tears in it. As if some cord held vibrating taut had suddenly snapped, and all Mitterick’s bluster had snapped with it. ‘We lost.’

  ‘We drew.’ Kroy’s voice was quiet now, but the night was quiet, and few men could drop eaves like Tunny when there was something worth hearing. ‘Sometimes that’s the most one can hope for. The irony of the soldier’s profession. War can only ever pave the way for peace. And it should be no other way. I used to be like you, Mitterick. I thought there was but one right thing to do. One day, probably very soon, you will replace me, and you will learn the world is otherwise.’

  Another pause. ‘Replace you?’

  ‘I suspect the great architect has tired of this particular mason. General Jalenhorm died at the Heroes. You are the only reasonable choice. One that I support in any case.’

  ‘I am speechless.’

  ‘If I had known I could achieve that simply by resigning I would have done it years ago.’

  A pause. ‘I would like Opker promoted to lead my division.’

  ‘I see no objection.’

  ‘And for General Jalenhorm’s I thought—’

  ‘Colonel Felnigg has been given the command,’ said Kroy. ‘General Felnigg, I should say.’

  ‘Felnigg?’ came Mitterick’s voice, with a tinge of horror.

  ‘He has the seniority, and my recommendation to the king is already sent.’

  ‘I simply cannot work with that man—’

  ‘You can and you will. Felnigg is sharp, and cautious, and he will balance you out, as you have balanced me. Though you were often, frankly, a pain in my arse, by and large it has been an honour.’ There was a sharp crack, as of polished boot heels snapping together.

  Then another. ‘Lord Marshal Kroy, the honour has been entirely mine.’

  Tunny and the guard both flung themselves to the most rigid attention as the two biggest hats in the army suddenly strode from the tent. Kroy made sharply off into the gathering gloom. Mitterick stayed there, looking after him, one hand opening and closing by his side.

  Tunny had a pressing appointment with a bottle and a bedroll. He cleared his throat. ‘General Mitterick, sir!’

  Mitterick turned, very obviously wiping away a tear while pretending to be clearing dust from his eye. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Corporal Tunny, sir, standard-bearer of his Majesty’s First Regiment.’

  Mitterick frowned. ‘The same Tunny who was made colour sergeant a
fter Ulrioch?’

  Tunny puffed out his chest. ‘The same, sir.’

  ‘The same Tunny who was demoted after Dunbrec?’

  Tunny’s shoulders slumped. ‘The same, sir.’

  ‘The same Tunny who was court-martialled after that business at Shricta?’

  And further yet. The same, sir, though I hasten to point out that the tribunal found no evidence of wrongdoing, sir.’

  Mitterick snorted. ‘So much for tribunals. ‘What brings you here, Tunny?’

  He held out the letter. ‘I have come in my official capacity as standard-bearer, sir, with a letter from my commanding officer, Colonel Vallimir.’

  Mitterick looked down at it. What does it say?’

  ‘I wouldn’t—’

  ‘I do not believe a soldier with your experience of tribunals would carry a letter without a good idea of the contents. What does it say?’

  Tunny conceded the point. ‘Sir, I believe the colonel lays out at some length the reasons behind his failure to attack today.’

  ‘Does he.’

  ‘He does, sir, and he furthermore apologises most profusely to you, sir, to Marshal Kroy, to his Majesty, and in fact to the people of the Union in general, and he offers his immediate resignation, sir, but also demands the right to explain himself before a court martial – he was rather vague on that point, sir – he goes on to praise the men and to shoulder the blame entirely himself, and—’

  Mitterick took the letter from Tunny’s hand, crumpled it up in his fist and tossed it into a puddle.