The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  The people here were different. Their clothes were bright and gaudy, cut in strange styles that served no purpose. The women hardly seemed like people at all—pale and bony, swaddled in shining fabric, flapping at themselves in the hot sun with pieces of cloth stretched over sticks.

  “Where are we?” he shouted at Bayaz. If the wizard had answered that they were on the moon, Logen would not have been surprised.

  “This is the Middleway, one of the city’s main thoroughfares! It cuts through the very centre of the city to the Agriont!”

  “Agriont?”

  “Fortress, palace, barracks, seat of government. A city within the city. The heart of the Union. That’s where we’re going.”

  “We are?” A group of sour young men stared suspiciously at Logen as he passed them. “Will they let us in?”

  “Oh yes. But they won’t like it.”

  Logen struggled on through the crowds. Everywhere the sun twinkled on the panes of glass windows, hundreds of them. Carleon had a few glass windows in the grandest buildings, at least before they’d sacked the city. Precious few afterwards, it had to be admitted. Precious little of anything. The Dogman had loved the sound the glass made as it broke. He’d prodded at the windows with a spear, a great big smile on his face, delighted by the crash and tinkle.

  That had hardly been the worst of it. Bethod had given the city to his Carls for three days. That was his custom, and they loved him for it. Logen had lost his finger in the battle the day before, and they’d closed the wound with hot iron. It throbbed, and throbbed, and the pain had made him savage. As though he’d needed an excuse for violence back then. He remembered the stink of blood, and sweat, and smoke. The sounds of screaming, and crashing, and laughter.

  “Please…” Logen tripped, nearly fell. There was something clinging to his leg. A woman, sitting on the ground beside a wall. Her clothes were dirty, ragged, her face was pale, pinched with hunger. She had something in her arms. A bundle of rags. A child. “Please…” Nothing else. The people laughed and chattered and surged around them, just as if they weren’t there. “Please…”

  “I don’t have anything,” he muttered. No more than five strides away a man in a tall hat sat at a table and chuckled with a friend as he tucked into a steaming plate of meat and vegetables. Logen looked at the plate of food, at the starving woman.

  “Logen! Come on!” Bayaz had taken him by the elbow and was drawing him away.

  “But shouldn’t we—”

  “Haven’t you noticed? They’re everywhere! The King needs money, so he squeezes the nobles. The nobles squeeze their tenants, the tenants squeeze the peasants. Some of them, the old, the weak, the extra sons and daughters, they get squeezed right out the bottom. Too many mouths to feed. The lucky ones make thieves or whores, the rest end up begging.”

  “But—”

  “Clear the road!” Logen stumbled to the wall and pressed himself against it, Malacus and Bayaz beside him. The crowds parted and a long column of men tramped by, shepherded by armoured guards. Some were young, mere boys, some were very old. All were dirty and ragged, and few of them looked healthy. A couple were clearly lame, hobbling along as best they could. One near the front had only one arm. A passer-by in a fabulous crimson jacket held a square of cloth over his wrinkled nose as the beggars shuffled past.

  “What are these?” Logen whispered to Bayaz. “Law-breakers?”

  The Magus chuckled. “Soldiers.”

  Logen stared at them—filthy, coughing, limping, some without boots. “Soldiers? These?”

  “Oh yes. They go to fight Bethod.”

  Logen rubbed at his temples. “A clan once sent their poorest warrior, a man called Forley the Weakest, to fight me in a duel. They meant it by way of surrender. Why does this Union send their weakest?” Logen shook his head grimly. “They won’t beat Bethod with such as these.”

  “They will send others.” Bayaz pointed out another, smaller gathering. “Those are soldiers too.”

  “Those?” A group of tall youths, dressed in gaudy suits of red or bright green cloth, a couple with outsize hats. They were at least wearing swords, of a kind, but they hardly looked like fighting men. Fighting women, maybe. Logen frowned, staring from one group to the other. The dirty beggars, the gaudy lads. It was hard for him to say which were the stranger.

  A tiny bell jingled as the door opened, and Logen followed Bayaz through the low archway, Malacus behind him. The shop was dim after the bright street and it took Logen’s eyes a moment to adjust. Leaning against a wall were sheets of wood, childishly daubed with pictures of buildings, forests, mountains. Strange clothes were draped over stands beside them—flowing robes, lurid gowns, suits of armour, enormous hats and helmets, rings and jewellery, even a heavy crown. Weapons occupied a small rack, swords and spears richly decorated. Logen stepped closer, frowning. They were fakes. Nothing was real. The weapons were painted wood, the crown was made of flaking tin, the jewels were coloured glass.

  “What is this place?”

  Bayaz was casting an eye over the robes by the wall. “A theatrical outfitters.”

  “A what?”

  “The people of this city love spectacle. Comedy, drama, theatre of all kinds. This shop provides equipment for the mounting of plays.”

  “Stories?” Logen poked at a wooden sword. “Some people have too much time on their hands.”

  A small, plump man emerged from a door at the back of the shop, looking Bayaz, Malacus and Logen over suspiciously. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  “Of course.” Bayaz stepped forward, switching effortlessly to the common tongue. “We are mounting a production, and require some costumes. We understand you are the foremost theatrical outfitter’s in all of Adua.”

  The shopkeeper smiled nervously, taking in their grimy faces and travel stained clothes. “True, true, but… er… quality is expensive, gentlemen.”

  “Money is no object.” Bayaz took out a bulging purse and tossed it absently on the counter. It sagged open, heavy golden coins scattering across the wood.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes lit with an inner fire. “Of course! What precisely did you have in mind?”

  “I need a magnificent robe, suitable for a Magus, or a great sorcerer, or some such. Something of the arcane about it, certainly. Then we’ll have something similar, if less impressive, for an apprentice. Finally we need something for a mighty warrior, a prince of the distant North. Something with fur, I imagine.”

  “Those should be straightforward. I will see what we have.” The shopkeeper disappeared through the door behind the counter.

  “What is all this shit?” asked Logen.

  The wizard grinned. “People are born to their station here. They have commoners, to fight, and farm the land, and do the work. They have gentry, to trade, and build and do the thinking. They have nobility, to own the land and push the others around. They have royalty…” Bayaz glanced at the tin crown “…I forget exactly why. In the North you can rise as high as your merits will take you. Only look at our mutual friend, Bethod. Not so here. A man is born in his place and is expected to stay there. We must seem to be from a high place indeed, if we are to be taken seriously. Dressed as we are we wouldn’t get past the gates of the Agriont.”

  The shopkeeper interrupted him by reappearing through the door, his arms heaped with bright cloth. “One mystical robe, suitable for the most powerful of wizards! Used last year for a Juvens in a production of The End of the Empire, during the spring festival. It is, if I may say so, some of my best work.” Bayaz held the shimmering swathe of crimson cloth up to the faint light, gazing at it admiringly. Arcane diagrams, mystical lettering, and symbols of sun, moon and stars, glittered in silver thread.

  Malacus ran a hand over the shining cloth of his own absurd garment. “I don’t think you’d have laughed me off so quickly, eh, Logen, if I’d arrived at your campfire dressed in this?”

  Logen winced. “I reckon I might’ve.”

  “And here we have
a splendid piece of barbarian garb.” The shopkeeper hefted a black leather tunic onto the counter, set with swirls of shiny brass, trimmed with pointless tissues of delicate chain-mail. He pointed at the matching fur cloak. “This is real sable!” It was a ludicrous piece of clothing, equally useless for warmth or protection.

  Logen folded his arms across his old coat. “You think I’m going to wear that?”

  The shopkeeper swallowed nervously. “You must forgive my friend,” said Bayaz. “He is an actor after the new fashion. He believes in losing himself entirely in his role.”

  “Is that so?” squeaked the man, looking Logen up and down. “Northmen are… I suppose… topical.”

  “Absolutely. I do declare, Master Ninefingers is the very best at what he does.” The old wizard nudged Logen in the ribs. “The very best. I have seen it.”

  “If you say so.” The shopkeeper looked far from convinced. “Might I enquire what you will be staging?”

  “Oh, it’s a new piece.” Bayaz tapped the side of his bald head with a finger. “I am still working on the details.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed. More a scene than an entire play.” He glanced back at the robe, admiring the way the light glittered on the arcane symbols. “A scene in which Bayaz, the First of the Magi, finally takes up his seat on the Closed Council.”

  “Ah,” the shopkeeper nodded knowingly. “A political piece. A biting satire, perhaps? Will it be comic, or dramatic in tone?”

  Bayaz glanced sidelong at Logen. “That remains to be seen.”

  Barbarians at the Gate

  Jezal flashed along the lane beside the moat, feet pounding on the worn cobblestones, the great white wall sliding endlessly by on his right, one tower after another, as he made his daily circuit of the Agriont. Since he had cut down on the drinking the improvement in his stamina had been impressive. He was scarcely even out of breath. It was early and the streets of the city were nearly empty. The odd person would look up at him as he ran by, maybe even call out some word of encouragement, but Jezal barely noticed them. His eyes were fixed on the sparkling, lapping water in the moat, and his mind was elsewhere.

  Ardee. Where else was it ever? He had supposed, after that day when West had warned him off, after he had stopped seeing her, that his thoughts would soon return to other matters, and other women. He had applied himself to his fencing with a will, attempted to show an interest in his duties as an officer, but he found himself unable to concentrate, and other women seemed now pale, flat, tedious creatures. The long runs, the monotonous exercises with bar and beam, gave his mind ample opportunity to wander. The tedium of peacetime soldiering was even worse: reading boring papers, standing guard on things that needed no guarding. His attention would inevitably slip, and then she would be there.

  Ardee in wholesome peasant garb, flushed and sweaty from hard work in the fields. Ardee in the finery of a princess, glittering with jewels. Ardee bathing in forest pools, while he watched from the bushes. Ardee proper and demure, glancing shyly up at him from beneath her lashes. Ardee a whore by the docks, beckoning to him from a grimy doorway. The fantasies were infinite in variety, but they all ended the same way.

  His hour-long circuit of the Agriont was complete and he thumped across the bridge and back in through the south gate.

  Jezal treated the guards to their daily share of indifference, trotted through the tunnel and up the long ramp into the fortress, then turned towards the courtyard where Marshal Varuz would be waiting. All the while, Ardee was rubbing up against the back of his mind.

  It was hardly as though he had nothing else to think about. The Contest was close now, very close. Soon he would fight before the cheering crowds, his family and friends among them. It might make his reputation… or sink it. He should have been lying awake at night, tense and sweating, worrying endlessly about forms, and training, and steels. And yet somehow that wasn’t what he thought about in bed.

  Then there was a war on. It was easy to forget, here in the sunny lanes of the Agriont, that Angland had been invaded by hordes of slavering barbarians. He would be going north soon, to lead his company in battle. There, surely, was a thought to keep a man occupied. Was not war a deadly business? He could be hurt, or scarred, or killed even. Jezal tried to conjure up the twisting, twitching, painted face of Fenris the Feared. Legions of screaming savages descending upon the Agriont. It was a terrible business alright, a dangerous and frightening business.

  Hmmm.

  Ardee came from Angland. What if, say, she were to fall into the hands of the Northmen? Jezal would rush to her rescue, of course. She would not be hurt. Well, not badly. Perhaps her clothes a little torn, like so? No doubt she would be frightened, grateful. He would be obliged to comfort her, of course. She might even faint? He might have to carry her, her head pressed against his shoulder. He might have to lay her down and loosen her clothes. Their lips might touch, just brush gently, hers might part a little, then…

  Jezal stumbled in the road. There was a pleasant swelling building in his crotch. Pleasant, but hardly compatible with a brisk run. He was nearly at the courtyard now, and this would never do at fencing practice. He glanced desperately around for a distraction, and nearly choked on his tongue. Major West was standing by the wall, dressed to fence and watching him approach with an unusually grim expression. For an instant, Jezal wondered if his friend might be able to tell what he had been thinking. He swallowed guiltily, felt the blood rushing to his face. West couldn’t know, he couldn’t. But he was most unhappy about something.

  “Luthar,” he grunted.

  “West.” Jezal stared down at his shoes. They had not been getting on too well since West joined Lord Marshal Burr’s staff. Jezal tried to be happy for him, but could not escape the feeling that he was better qualified for the post. He had excellent blood after all, whether he had experience in the field or not. Then Ardee was still lurking between them, that unpleasant and needless warning. Everyone knew that West had been first through the breach at Ulrioch. Everyone knew that he had the devil of a temper. That had always seemed exciting to Jezal, until he got on the wrong end of it.

  “Varuz is waiting.” West unfolded his arms and strode off towards the archway, “and he’s not alone.”

  “Not alone?”

  “The Marshal feels you need to get used to an audience.”

  Jezal frowned. “I’m surprised anyone cares in the present climate, what with the war and all.”

  “You’d be surprised. Fighting and fencing and all things martial are very much the flavour. Everyone’s wearing a sword these days, even if they’ve never drawn one in their lives. There’s an absolute fever about the Contest, believe me.”

  Jezal blinked as they passed into the bright courtyard. A stand of temporary seating had been hastily erected along one wall, packed from one end to the other with people, three score or more.

  “And here he is!” shouted Marshal Varuz. There was a ripple of polite applause. Jezal felt himself grinning—there were some very important people in amongst the crowd. He spotted Marovia, the Lord High Justice, stroking his long beard. Lord Isher was not far away from him, looking slightly bored. Crown Prince Ladisla himself was lounging on the front row, shining in a shirt of gossamer chain-mail and clapping enthusiastically. The people on the benches behind had to lean over to see round the waving plume on his magnificent hat.

  Varuz handed Jezal his steels, still beaming. “Don’t you dare make me look a fool!” he hissed. Jezal coughed nervously, looking up at the rows of expectant people. His heart sank. Inquisitor Glokta’s toothless grin leered at him from the crowd, and on the row behind him… Ardee West. She was wearing an expression that she never had in his daydreams: one third sullen, one third accusing, one third simply bored. He glanced away, staring toward the opposite wall, inwardly cursing his own cowardice. He seemed unable to meet anyone’s eye these days.

  “This bout will be fought with half-edged steels!” thundered the Lord Marshal. “Th
e best of three touches!” West already had his swords drawn and was making his way to the circle, marked out with white chalk in the carefully shaved grass. Jezal’s heart was hammering loud as he fumbled his own steels out of their sheaths, acutely aware of all those eyes upon him. He took his mark opposite West, pushing his feet cautiously into the grass. West raised his steels, Jezal did the same. They faced each other for a moment, motionless.

  “Begin!” shouted Varuz.

  It quickly became clear that West had no mind to roll over for him. He came on with more than his usual ferocity, harrying Jezal with a flurry of heavy cuts, their steels clashing and scraping rapidly together. He gave ground, still uncomfortable under the watchful eyes of all those people, damned important people some of them, but as West pushed him back towards the edge of the circle, his nerves began to fade, his training took over. He ducked away, making room for himself, parrying the cuts with left and right, dodging and dancing, too fast to catch.

  The people faded, even Ardee was gone. The blades moved by themselves, back and forth, up and down. There was no need for him to look at them. He turned his attention to Wests eyes, watched them flicker from the ground to the steels to Jezal’s dancing feet, trying to guess his intentions.

  He felt the lunge coming even before it was begun. He feinted one way then turned the other, slipping smoothly round behind West as he blundered past. It was a simple matter for him to apply his foot to the seat of his opponent’s trousers and shove him out of the circle.