The Collected Joe Abercrombie (19 page)

‘An excellent plan, your Eminence.’

Sult stared at him coldly. ‘Of course. You will need somewhere to operate, somewhere far from the House of Questions. I will make the funds available, have Rews delivered to your Practicals, and let you know when Kalyne has the information. Find me this assassin, Glokta, and squeeze him. Squeeze him until the pips squeak.’ The boat lurched wildly as the soldiers tried to haul their wet companion in, then it suddenly turned right over, dumping them all into the water.

‘I want names,’ hissed Sult, glowering at the splashing soldiers, ‘I want names, and evidence, and documents, and people who will stand up in Open Council and point fingers.’ He stood up smoothly from the bench. ‘Keep me informed.’ He strode off towards the House of Questions, feet crunching on the gravel of the path, and Glokta watched him go.
An excellent plan. I’m glad you’re on my side, Arch Lector. You are on my side, aren’t you?

The soldiers had succeeded in hauling the upended boat onto the bank and were standing, dripping wet, shouting at one another, no longer so good-humoured. One of the oars was still floating, abandoned in the water, drifting gradually towards the point where the stream flowed from the lake. Soon it would pass under the bridge and be carried out, beneath the great walls of the Agriont and into the moat. Glokta watched it turning slowly round in the water.
A mistake. One should attend to the details. It is easy to forget the little things, but without the oar, the boat is useless.

He let his gaze wander across some of the other faces in the park. His eye alighted on a handsome pair sitting on a bench by the lake. The young man was speaking quietly to the girl, a sad and earnest expression on his face. She got up quickly, moving away from him with her hands over her face.
Ah, the pain of the jilted lover. The loss, the anger, the shame. It seems as though you’ll never recover. What poet was it who wrote there’s no pain worse than the pain of a broken heart? Sentimental shit. He should have spent more time in the Emperor’s prisons.
He smiled, opening his mouth and licking the empty gums where his front teeth used to be.
Broken hearts heal with time, but broken teeth never do.

Glokta looked at the young man. He had an expression of slight amusement on his face as he watched the weeping girl walk away.
The young bastard! I wonder if he’s broken as many hearts as I did, in my youth? It hardly seems possible now. It takes me half an hour just to pluck up the courage to stand. The only women I’ve made cry lately have been the wives of those I’ve had exiled to Angland—

‘Sand.’

Glokta turned around. ‘Lord Marshal Varuz, what an honour. ’

‘Oh no, no,’ said the old soldier, sitting down on the bench with the swift, precise movements of the fencing master. ‘You look well,’ he said, but without really looking.
I look crippled, you mean.
‘How are you, my old friend?’
I’m crippled, you pompous old ass. And friend, is it? All those years since I came back, and you have never sought me out, not once. Is that a friendship?

‘Well enough, thank you, Lord Marshal.’

Varuz shifted uncomfortably on the bench. ‘My latest student, Captain Luthar . . . perhaps you know him?’

‘We are acquainted.’

‘You should see his forms.’ Varuz shook his head sadly. ‘He has the talent, alright, though he will never be in your class, Sand.’
I don’t know. I hope some day he’ll be just as crippled as I am.
‘But he has plenty of talent, enough to win. Only he’s wasting it. Throwing it away.’
Oh, the tragedy of it. I am so upset I could be sick. Had I eaten anything this morning.

‘He is lazy, Sand, and stubborn. He lacks courage. He lacks dedication. His heart is just not in it, and time is running out. I was wondering, if you have the time of course,’ Varuz looked Glokta in the eye for just an instant, ‘whether you might be able to speak to him for me.’

I can hardly wait! Lecturing that whining ass would be the realisation of all my dreams. You arrogant old dolt, how dare you? You built your reputation on my successes, then when I needed your help you cut me off. And now you come to me, and seek my help, and call me friend?

‘Of course, Marshal Varuz, I would be glad to speak to him. Anything for an old friend.’

‘Excellent, excellent! I’m sure you’ll make all the difference! I train him every morning, in that courtyard near the House of the Maker, where I used to train you . . .’ The old Marshal trailed off awkwardly.

‘I will come as soon as my duties permit.’

‘Of course, your duties . . .’ Varuz was already getting up, evidently keen to be on his way. Glokta held out his hand, making the old soldier pause for a moment.
You needn’t worry, Lord Marshal, I am not contagious.
Varuz gave it a limp shake, as though worried it might snap off, then he mumbled his excuses and strode away, head held high. The dripping soldiers bowed and saluted as he walked past, somewhat embarrassed.

Glokta stretched out his leg, wondering whether to get up.
And go where? The world will not end if I sit here a moment longer. There is no rush. No rush.

An Offer and a Gift

‘A
nd, forward!’ bellowed Marshal Varuz. Jezal lurched at him, toes curling round the edges of the beam, trying desperately to keep his balance, making a clumsy lunge or two just to give the impression of his heart being in Four hours of training a day were taking their toll on him, and he felt beyond mere exhaustion.

Varuz frowned and flicked Jezal’s blunted steel aside, moving effortlessly along the beam as though it was a garden path. ‘And back!’

Jezal stumbled back on his heels, left arm waving stupidly around him in an attempt to keep his balance. Everything above his knees was aching terribly from the effort. Below the knees it was much, much worse. Varuz was over sixty, but he showed no signs of fatigue. He wasn’t even sweating as he danced forward down the beam, swishing his steels around. Jezal himself was gasping for air as he parried desperately with his left hand, badly off balance, his right foot fishing in space for the safety of the beam behind him.

‘And, forward!’ Jezal’s calves were agony as he stumbled to change his direction and shove a blow at the infuriating old man, but Varuz did not move back. Instead he ducked under the despairing cut and used the back of his arm to sweep Jezal’s feet away.

Jezal let out a howl as the courtyard turned over around him. His leg smacked painfully against the edge of the beam, then he sprawled on his face on the grass, chin thumping into the turf and making his teeth rattle. He rolled a short distance then lay there on his back, gasping like a fish snatched suddenly from the water, leg throbbing where it had collided with the beam on his way down. He would have yet another ugly bruise in the morning.

‘Awful, Jezal, awful!’ cried the old soldier as he sprang nimbly down onto the lawn. ‘You teeter about the beam as though it were a tightrope!’ Jezal rolled over, cursing, and started to climb stiffly to his feet. ‘It is a solid piece of oak, wide enough to get lost in!’ The Lord Marshal illustrated his point by whacking at the beam with his short steel, making splinters fly.

‘I thought you said forward,’ moaned Jezal.

Varuz’ eyebrows went up sharply. ‘Do you seriously suppose, Captain Luthar, that Bremer dan Gorst gives his opponents reliable information as to his intentions?’

‘Bremer dan Gorst will be trying to beat me, you old shit! You are supposed to be helping me to beat him!’ That was what Jezal thought, but he knew better than to say it. He just shook his head dumbly.

‘No! No indeed he does not! He makes every effort to deceive and confuse his opponents, as all great swordsmen must!’ The Lord Marshal paced up and down, shaking his head. Jezal considered again whether to give it all up. He was sick of falling into bed exhausted each night, at a time when he should have been just starting to get drunk. He was sick of waking up every morning, bruised and aching, to face another four interminable hours of running, beam, bar, forms. He was sick of being knocked on his arse by Major West. Most of all he was sick of being bullied by this old fool.

‘ . . . A depressing display, Captain, very depressing. I do believe you are actually getting worse ...’

Jezal would never win the Contest. No one expected him to, himself least of all. So why not give it up, and go back to his cards and late nights? Wasn’t that all he really wanted from life? But then what would mark him out from a thousand other noble younger sons? He had decided long ago that he wanted to be something special. A Lord Marshal himself perhaps, and then Lord Chamberlain. Something big and important anyway. He wanted a big chair on the Closed Council, and to make big decisions. He wanted people to fawn and smile around him and hang on his every word. He wanted people to whisper, ‘There goes Lord Luthar!’ as he swept past. Could he be happy being forever a richer, cleverer, better-looking version of Lieutenant Brint? Ugh! It was not to be thought of.

‘ . . . We have a terribly long way to go, and not enough time to get there, not unless you change your attitude. Your sparring is lamentable, your stamina is still weak, and as for your balance, the less said about that the better ...’

And what would everyone else think if he gave up? What would his father do? What would his brothers say? What about the other officers? He would look a coward. And then there was Ardee West. She seemed to have been much on his mind during the past couple of days. Would she lean so close to him if he didn’t fence? Would she talk to him in such soft tones? Would she laugh at his jokes? Would she look up at him with those big, dark eyes, so he could almost feel her breath on his face—

‘Are you listening, boy?’ thundered Varuz. Jezal felt a bit of his breath on his face alright, and a deal of spit too.

‘Yes, sir! Sparring lamentable, stamina weak!’ Jezal swallowed nervously. ‘Less said about balance the better.’

‘That’s right! I am beginning to think, though I can hardly believe it after the trouble you have put me to, that your heart really isn’t in this.’ He glared into Jezal’s eyes. ‘What do you think, Major?’

There was no reply. West was slumped in his chair, arms folded, frowning grimly and staring into space.

‘Major West?’ snapped the Lord Marshal.

He looked up suddenly, as though he had only just become aware of their presence. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I had become distracted.’

‘So I see.’ Varuz sucked his teeth. ‘It seems that nobody has been concentrating this morning.’ It was a great relief that some of the old man’s anger had been deflected elsewhere, but Jezal’s happiness was not long-lived.

‘Very well,’ snapped the old Marshal, ‘if that’s the way you want it. Starting tomorrow we will begin each session with a swim in the moat. A mile or two should do it.’ Jezal squeezed his teeth together to keep from screaming. ‘Cold water has a wonderful way of sharpening the senses. And perhaps we need to start a little earlier, to catch you in your most receptive frame of mind. That means we begin at five. In the meantime, Captain Luthar, I suggest that you consider whether you are here in order to win the Contest, or simply for the pleasure of my company.’ And he turned on his heel and stalked off.

Jezal waited until Varuz had left the courtyard before losing his temper, but once he was sure the old man was out of earshot he flung his steels against the wall in a fury.

‘Damn it!’ he shouted as the swords rattled to the ground. ‘Shit!’ He looked around for something to kick that wouldn’t hurt too much. His eye lighted on the leg of the beam, but he misjudged the kick badly and had to stifle the urge to grab his bruised foot and hop around like an idiot. ‘Shit, shit!’ he raged.

West was disappointingly unimpressed. He got up, frowning, and made to follow Marshal Varuz.

‘Where are you off to?’ asked Jezal.

‘Away,’ said West, over his shoulder, ‘I’ve seen enough.’

‘What does that mean?’

West stopped and turned to face him. ‘Amazing though it may seem, there are bigger problems in the world than this.’

Jezal stood there open mouthed as West stalked from the courtyard. ‘Just who do you think you are?’ he shouted after him, once he was sure he was gone. ‘Shit, shit!’ He considered giving the beam another kick, but thought better of it.

Jezal was in a foul mood on his way back to his quarters, so he stayed away from the busier parts of the Agriont, sticking to the quieter lanes and gardens to the side of the Kingsway. He glowered down at his feet as he walked, to further discourage any social encounter. But luck was not on his side.

‘Jezal!’ It was Kaspa, out for a stroll with a yellow-haired girl in expensive clothes. They had a severe-looking middle-aged woman with them, no doubt the girl’s governess or some such. They had stopped to admire some piece of minor sculpture in a little-visited yard.

‘Jezal!’ Kaspa shouted again, waving his hat above his head. There was no avoiding them. He plastered an unconvincing smile onto his face and stalked over. The pale girl smiled at him as he approached, but if he was meant to be charmed he didn’t feel it.

‘Been fencing again, Luthar?’ asked Kaspa pointlessly. Jezal was sweating and holding a pair of fencing steels. It was well known that he fenced every morning. You didn’t need a fine mind to make the connection, which was fortunate, because Kaspa certainly didn’t have one.