The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  “What do I think?” His voice seemed to come from a terribly long way away as he stared at those three grinning faces. “I think you should watch your mouth, you son of a fucking whore.”

  He was on his feet now, teeth gritted so tight together they felt like they might crack apart. The three smiles blinked and faded. Jezal felt Kaspa’s hand on his arm. “Come on, he only meant—”

  Jezal ripped his arm away, seized the edge of the table and flung it over. Coins, cards, bottles, glasses, flew through the air and spilled out across the grass. He had his sword in his other hand, still sheathed luckily, leaning right down over Brint, spraying spit in his face. “Now you fucking listen to me, you little bastard!” he snarled, “I hear anything more like that, anything, and you won’t have to worry about West!” He pressed the grip of his steel into Brint’s chest. “I’ll carve you like a fucking chicken!”

  The three men stared up at him, aghast, their mouths wide open, their astonishment at this sudden display of violence equalled only by Jezal’s own.

  “But—” said Jalenhorm.

  “What?” screamed Jezal, seizing a fistful of the big man’s jacket and dragging him half out of his chair. “What d’you fucking say?”

  “Nothing,” he squeaked, his hands raised, “nothing.” Jezal let him drop. The fury was draining fast. He had half a mind to apologise, but when he saw Brint’s ashen face all he could think of was “she strikes me as the willing type”.

  “Like! A! Fucking! Chicken!” he snarled again, then turned on his heel and stalked off. Halfway to the archway he realised he had left his coat behind, but he could hardly go back for it now. He made it into the darkness of the tunnel, took a couple of steps down it then sagged against the wall, breathing hard and trembling as if he’d just run ten miles. He understood now what it meant to lose one’s temper, and no mistake. He had never even realised that he had one before, but there could be no doubt now.

  “What the hell was that about?” Brint’s shocked voice echoed quietly down the tunnel, only just audible over the thumping of Jezal’s heart. He had to hold his breath to hear.

  “Damned if I know.” Jalenhorm, sounding even more surprised. There was the rattle and scrape of the table being put straight. “Never knew he had such a temper.”

  “I suppose he must have a lot to think about,” said Kaspa, uncertainly, “what with the Contest and all…”

  Brint cut him off. “That’s no excuse!”

  “Well, they’re close, aren’t they? Him and West? What with all the fencing together and what have you, maybe he knows the sister or something… I don’t know!”

  “There is another explanation,” Jezal could hear Brint saying, voice tense as though he was about to deliver a punchline. “Perhaps he’s in love with her!” The three of them burst out laughing. It was a good joke alright. Captain Jezal dan Luthar, in love, and with a girl whose station in life was so far beneath his own. What a ridiculous idea! What an absurd notion! What a joke!

  “Oh shit.” Jezal put his head in his hands. He didn’t feel like laughing. How the hell had she done this to him? How? What was it about her? She was fine to look at, of course, and clever, and funny, and all those things, but that was no explanation. “I cannot see her again,” he whispered to himself, “I will not!” And he thumped his hand against the wall. His resolve was iron. It always was.

  Until the next note came under his door.

  He groaned and slapped the side of his head. Why did he feel like this? Why did he… he couldn’t even bring himself to think the word… like her so much? Then it came to him. He knew why.

  She didn’t like him.

  Those mocking half-smiles. Those sidelong glances he caught sometimes. Those jokes that went just a little too close to the bone. Not to mention the occasional examples of outright scorn. She liked his money, maybe. She liked his position in the world, of course. She liked his looks, undoubtedly. But, in essence, the woman despised him.

  And he’d never had that feeling before. He had always just assumed that everybody loved him, had never really had cause to doubt he was a fine man, worthy of the highest respect. But Ardee didn’t like him, he saw it now, and that made him think. Apart from the jaw, of course, and the money and the clothes, what was there to like?

  She treated him with the contempt he knew he deserved. And he couldn’t get enough of it. “Strangest thing,” Jezal mumbled to himself, slouching miserably against the wall of the tunnel. “Strangest thing.”

  It made him want to change her mind.

  The Seed

  “How are you, Sand?”

  Colonel Glokta opened his eyes. It was dark in the room. Damn it, he was late!

  “Damn it!” he shouted, shoving back the covers and leaping out of bed. “I’m late!” He snatched up his uniform trousers, shoving his legs in, fumbling with his belt.

  “Don’t worry about that, Sand!” His mother’s voice was half soothing, half impatient. “Where is the Seed?”

  Glokta frowned over as he pushed his shirt in. “I’ve no time for this nonsense, mother! Why do you always think you know what’s best for me?” He cast around him for his sword, but couldn’t see it. “We’re at war, you know!”

  “We are indeed.” The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. “Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath—an old war, long years in the making.” Glokta frowned. How ever could he have mistaken that old windbag for his mother? And what was he doing in Glokta’s chambers in any case? Sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, prattling about old wars?

  “What the hell are you doing in my chambers?” growled Colonel Glokta, “and what have you done with my sword?”

  “Where is the Seed?” A woman’s voice now, but not his mother’s. Someone else. He did not recognise it. He squinted against the darkness, straining to see who was in the chair. He could make out a vague outline, but the shadows were too deep to tell more.

  “Who are you?” asked Glokta sternly.

  “Who was I? Or what am I?” The figure in the chair shifted as it rose slowly, smoothly, from its seat. “I was a patient woman, but I am woman no more, and the grinding years have worn my patience thin.”

  “What do you want?” Glokta’s voice quivered, reedy and weak as he backed away.

  The figure moved, stepping through the shaft of moonlight from the window. A woman’s form, slender and graceful, but shadows stuck to the face. A sudden fear clawed at him and he stumbled back against the wall, raising his arm to fend the woman off.

  “I want the Seed.” A pale hand snaked out and closed around his outstretched arm. A gentle touch, but cold. Cold as stone. Glokta trembled, gasped, squeezed shut his eyes. “I need it. You cannot know the need I have. Where is it?” Fingers plucked at his clothes, quick and deft, seeking, searching, darting in his pockets, in his shirt, brushing his skin. Cold. Cold as glass.

  “The Seed?” squeaked Glokta, half paralysed with terror.

  “You know what I speak of, broken man. Where is it?”

  “The Maker fell…” he whispered. The words welled up, he knew not from where.

  “I know it.”

  “…burning, burning…”

  “I saw it.” The face was close enough for him to feel the breath upon his skin. Cold. Cold as frost.

  “…he broke upon the bridge below…”

  “I remember it.”

  “…they searched for the Seed…”

  “Yes…” whispered the voice, urgent in his ear, “where is it?” Something brushed against his face, his cheek, his eyelid, soft and slimy. A tongue. Cold. Cold as ice. His flesh crawled.

  “I don’t know! They could not find it!”

  “Could not?” Fingers closed tight around his throat, squeezing, crushing, choking the air from him. Cold. Cold as iron, and just as hard. “You think you know pain, broken man? You know nothing!” The icy breath rasped in his ear, the icy fingers squeezed, squeezed. “But I can
show you! I can show you!”

  Glokta screamed, thrashed, struggled. He fought his way up, stood for a dizzy instant, then his leg buckled and he plunged into space. The dark room tumbled around him and he crashed to the boards with a sickening crunch, his arm folded beneath him, his forehead cracking against the floor.

  He struggled up, clawing at the leg of his bed, pushing himself against the wall, snorting for breath, staring wild-eyed towards the chair, yet barely able to look for fear. A bar of moonlight spilled through the window, cut across the rumpled bed-clothes and onto the polished wood of the seat. Empty.

  Glokta cast around the rest of the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness, peering into every shadowy corner. Nothing. Empty. A dream.

  And now, as the crazy hammering of his heart relaxed, as his ragged breathing slowed, the pain came on. His head thumped, his leg screamed, his arm was throbbing dully. He could taste blood, his eyes stung and wept, his guts heaved, sick and spinning. He whimpered, made an agonising hop towards the bed, then collapsed on the moonlit mattress, exhausted, wet with cold sweat.

  There was an urgent knocking at the door. “Sir? Are you alright?” Barnam’s voice. The knocking came again. No good. It is locked. Always locked, but I don’t think I’ll be moving. Frost will have to break it down. But the door swung open, and Glokta shielded his eyes from the sudden ruddy glow of the old servant’s lamp.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I fell,” mumbled Glokta. “My arm…”

  The old servant perched on the bed, taking Glokta’s hand gently and pushing up the sleeve of his night-shirt. Glokta winced, Barnam clicked his tongue. His forearm had a big pink mark across it, already beginning to swell and redden.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” said the servant, “but I should fetch the surgeon, just in case.”

  “Yes, yes.” He waved Barnam away with his good hand. “Fetch him.”

  Glokta watched the old servant hurry, stooped, out of the door, heard him creaking along the narrow corridor outside, down the narrow stairs. He heard the front door banging shut. Silence descended.

  He looked over at the scroll he had taken from the Adeptus Historical, still rolled up tight on the dresser, waiting to be delivered to Arch Lector Sult. The Maker fell burning. He broke upon the bridge below. Strange, how parts of the waking world stray into one’s dreams. That damned Northman and his intruder. A woman, and cold. That’ll be what set me off.

  Glokta rubbed his arm gently, pressing the sore flesh with his fingertips. Nothing. Just a dream. And yet something was niggling at him. He looked over at the back of the door. The key was still in the lock, shining orange in the light from the lamp. Not locked, and yet I must have locked it. Must have. I always do. Glokta looked back to the empty chair. What did that idiot apprentice say? Magic comes from the Other Side. The world below. Hell.

  Somehow, at that moment, after that dream, it did not seem so difficult to believe. The fear was building in him again, now he was alone. He stretched out his good hand towards the chair. It took an age to get there, trembling, shaking. His fingers touched the wood. Cool, but not cold. Not cold. There is nothing there. He slowly withdrew his hand, cradled his pulsing arm. Nothing. Empty.

  A dream.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. “Fell out of bed.” He scratched absently at his wrist through the dressing. Until a moment ago it had been throbbing like hell, but the sight in front of him had pushed the pain into the back of his mind. I could be worse off. A lot worse. “Not a pretty sight. Not at all.”

  “You’re damn right it’s not.” Severard looked as disgusted as was possible with half his face covered. “I nearly puked when I first saw it. Me!”

  Glokta peered down, frowning, at the tangled mess of butchery, supporting himself against a tree-trunk with one hand and pushing some of the ferns aside with the tip of his cane to get a better look. “Are we even sure it’s a man?”

  “Might be a woman. Human anyway. That’s a foot.”

  “Ah, so it is. How was it found?”

  “He found it.” Severard nodded over towards a gardener: sat on the ground, pale-faced and staring, and with a small pool of drying vomit on the grass beside him. “In amongst the trees here, hidden in the bushes. Looks as if whatever killed it tried to hide it, but not long ago. It’s fresh.” It is indeed—barely any smell, and only a couple of flies have arrived. Very fresh, perhaps last night even. “It might not have been found for days, except someone asked for one of these trees to be pruned. Blocking out the light or something. You ever see anything like this?”

  Glokta shrugged. “In Angland, once, before you came. One of the convicts tried to escape. He made it a few miles, then succumbed to the cold. A bear made free with the corpse. That was quite a mess, though not near as bad as this one.”

  “I can’t see anyone freezing to death last night. It was hot as hell.”

  “Mmm,” said Glokta. If hell is hot. I’ve always thought it might be cold. Cold as ice. “There are few bears within the Agriont in any case. Do we have any idea as to the identity of this…” he waved his cane towards the carcass “…person?”

  “None.”

  “Is anyone unaccounted for? Reported missing?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “So we have not the slightest idea even who our victim is? Why the hell are we taking an interest? Don’t we have a fake Magus to be watching?”

  “That’s just it. Their new quarters are right over there.” Severard’s gloved finger pointed out a building not twenty strides away. “I was watching them when this came to light.”

  Glokta raised an eyebrow. “I see. And you suspect some connection, do you?” The Practical shrugged. “Mysterious intruders in the dead of night, gruesome murders on their very doorstep? Our visitors draw trouble like shit draws flies.”

  “Huh,” said Severard, swatting a fly away with his gloved hand. “I looked into that other thing as well. Your bankers. Valint and Balk.”

  Glokta looked up. “Really? And?”

  “And not a lot. An old house. Very old and very well respected. Their notes are good as gold among the merchants. They’ve got offices all across Midderland, Angland, Starikland, in Westport, in Dagoska. Even outside the Union. Powerful people, by all accounts. All kind of folk owe them money, I reckon. Strange thing though, no one seems ever to have met a Valint or a Balk. Who can tell with banks though, eh? They love secrets. You want me to dig any more?”

  It could be dangerous. Very dangerous. Dig too far and we might be digging our own graves. “No. We’d better leave off. For now. Keep your ears open though.”

  “My ears are always open, chief. So who do you like for the Contest?”

  Glokta glanced across at the Practical. “How can you think about that with this in front of you?”

  The Practical shrugged. “It won’t do ’em any harm, will it?” Glokta looked back at the mangled body. I suppose it won’t, at that. “So come on, you should know, Luthar or Gorst?”

  “Gorst.” I hope he carves the little bastard in two.

  “Really? People say he’s a clumsy ox. Lucky is all.”

  “Well, I say he’s a genius,” said Glokta. “In a couple of years they’ll all be fencing like him, if you can call it fencing. You mark my words.”

  “Gorst, eh? Maybe I’ll have a little bet.”

  “You do that. But in the meantime you’d better scrape this mess up and take it to the University. Get Frost to give you a hand, he’s got a strong stomach.”

  “The University?”

  “Well, we can’t just leave it here. Some fashionable lady taking a turn in the park could get an awful shock.” Severard giggled. “And I might just know of someone who can shed some light on this little mystery.”

  “This is quite an interesting discovery you’ve made, Inquisitor.” The Adeptus Physical paused in his work and peered over at Glokta, one eye enormously magnified through hi
s glittering eyeglass. “Quite a fascinating discovery,” he muttered, as he returned to the corpse with his instruments: lifting, prodding, twisting, squinting down at the glistening flesh.

  Glokta peered round the laboratory, his lip curling with distaste. Jars of many different sizes lined two of the four walls, filled with floating, pickled lumps of meat. Some of those floating things Glokta recognised as parts of the human body, some he did not. Even he felt slightly uncomfortable in amongst the macabre display. I wonder how Kandelau came by them all? Do his visitors end up dismembered, floating in a dozen different jars? Perhaps I would make an interesting specimen?

  “Fascinating.” The Adeptus loosened the strap of his eye-glass and perched it on top of his head, rubbing at the pink ring it had left behind around his eye. “What can you tell me about it?”

  Glokta frowned. “I came here to find out what you can tell me about it.”

  “Of course, of course.” Kandelau pursed his lips. “Well, er, as to the gender of our unfortunate friend, er…” he trailed off.

  “Well?”

  “Heh heh, well, er, the organs that would allow one to make an easy determination are…” and he gestured at the meat on the table, harshly lit under the blazing lamps “…absent.”

  “And that is the sum of your investigation?”

  “Well, there are other things: a man’s third finger is typically longer than his first, not necessarily so with a woman but, heh, our remnant does not have all the digits necessary to make such a judgement. As to gender, therefore, without the fingers, we are quite stumped!” He giggled nervously at his own joke. Glokta did not.

  “Young or old?”

  “Well, er, again that is quite difficult to determine, I am afraid. The, er,” and the Adeptus tapped at the corpse with his tongs, “teeth here are in good condition and, heh, such skin as remains would appear to be consistent with a younger person but, er, this is really just, heh heh—”

  “So what can you tell me about the victim?”