The Collected Joe Abercrombie (24 page)

‘
Prince
Scale,’ rumbled Bethod’s monstrous son, his eyes popping out even more.

‘Hmm,’ said Bayaz, with an eyebrow raised. ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting your other companion before.’

‘I am Caurib.’ Logen blinked. The woman’s voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Calming, soothing, intoxicating. ‘I am a sorceress,’ she sang, tossing her head with a scornful smile. ‘A sorceress, from the utmost north.’ Logen stood frozen, his mouth half open. His hatred seeped away. They were all friends here. More than friends. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, didn’t want to. The others in the room had faded. It was as if she was speaking only to him, and the fondest wish of his heart was that she should never stop—

But Bayaz only laughed. ‘A real sorceress, and you have the golden voice! How wonderful! It’s a long time since I heard that one, but it will not serve you here.’ Logen shook his head clear and his hatred rushed back in, hot and reassuring. ‘Tell me, does one have to study, to become a sorceress? Or is it simply a question of jewellery, and a deal of paint about the face?’ Caurib’s eyes narrowed to deadly blue slits, but the First of the Magi didn’t give her time to speak. ‘And from the
utmost
north, imagine that!’ He shivered slightly. ‘It must be cold up there, this time of year. Rough on the nipples, eh? Have you come to us for the warm weather, or is there something else?’

‘I go where my King commands,’ she hissed, pointed chin lifting a little higher.

‘Your King?’ asked Bayaz, staring about the room as though there must be someone else there, hiding in the corner.

‘My father is King of the Northmen now!’ snarled Scale. He sneered at Logen. ‘You should kneel to him, Bloody-Nine!’ He sneered at Bayaz. ‘And so should you, old man!’

The First of the Magi spread his hands in apology. ‘Oh I’m afraid I don’t kneel to anyone. Too old for it. Stiffness in the joints, you see.’

Scale’s boot thumped heavy on the floor as he began to move forward, a curse half out of his mouth, but his father placed a gentle hand on his arm. ‘Come now, my son, there is no need for kneeling here.’ His voice was cold and even as freshly fallen snow. ‘It is not fitting that we bicker. Are our interests not the same? Peace? Peace in the North? I have come only to ask for your wisdom, Bayaz, as I did in days past. Is it so wrong, to seek the help of an old friend?’ No one had ever sounded more genuine, more reasonable, more trustworthy. But Logen knew better.

‘But do we not have peace in the North already?’ Bayaz leaned back in his chair, hands clasped before him. ‘Are the feuds not all ended? Were you not the victor? Do you not have everything you wanted, and more? King of the Northmen, eh? What help could I possibly offer you?’

‘I only share my counsel with friends, Bayaz, and you have been no friend to me of late. You turn away my messengers, my son even. You play host to my sworn enemies.’ He frowned towards Logen, and his lip curled. ‘Do you know what manner of thing this is? The Bloody-Nine? An animal! A coward! An oath-breaker! Is that the kind of company that you prefer?’

Bethod smiled a friendly smile as he turned back to Bayaz, but there was no missing the threat in his words. ‘I fear the time has come for you to decide whether you are with me, or against me. There can be no middle ground in this. Either you are a part of my future, or a relic of the past. Yours is the choice, my friend.’ Logen had seen Bethod give such choices before. Some men had yielded. The rest had gone back to the mud.

But Bayaz, it seemed, was not to be rushed. ‘Which shall it be?’ He reached forward slowly and took his pipe from the table. ‘The future, or the past?’ He strolled over to the fire and squatted down, back turned to his three guests, took a stick from the grate, set it to the bowl, and puffed slowly away. It seemed to take an age for him to get the damn thing lit. ‘With, or against?’ he mused as he returned to his chair.

‘Well?’ demanded Bethod.

Bayaz stared up at the ceiling and blew out a thin stream of yellow smoke. Caurib looked the old Magus up and down with icy contempt, Scale twitched with impatience, Bethod waited, eyes a little narrowed. Finally, Bayaz gave a heavy sigh. ‘Very well. I am with you.’

Bethod smiled wide, and Logen felt a lurch of terrible disappointment. He had hoped for better from the First of the Magi. Damn foolish, how he never learned to stop hoping.

‘Good,’ murmured the King of the Northmen. ‘I knew you would see my way of thinking, in the end.’ He slowly licked his lips, like a hungry man watching good food brought in. ‘I mean to invade Angland.’

Bayaz raised an eyebrow, then he started to chuckle, then he thumped the table with his fist. ‘Oh that’s good, that’s very good! You find peace does not suit your kingdom, eh, Bethod? The clans are not used to being friends, are they? They hate each other and they hate you, am I right?’

‘Well,’ smiled Bethod, ‘they are somewhat restive.’

‘I bet they are! But send them to war with the Union, then they will be a nation, eh? United against the common enemy, to be sure. And if you win? You’ll be the man who did the impossible! The man who drove the damn southerners out of the North! You’ll be loved, or at any rate, more feared than ever. If you lose, well, at least you keep the clans busy a while, and sap their strength in the process. I remember now why I used to like you! An excellent plan!’

Bethod looked smug. ‘Of course. And we will not lose. The Union is soft, arrogant, unprepared. With your help—’

‘My help?’ interrupted Bayaz. ‘You presume too much.’

‘But you—’

‘Oh, that.’ The Magus shrugged. ‘I am a liar.’

Bayaz lifted his pipe to his mouth. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Bethod’s eyes narrowed. Caurib’s widened. Scale’s heavy brow crinkled with confusion. Logen’s smile slowly returned.

‘A liar?’ hissed the sorceress. ‘And more besides, say I!’ Her voice still had the singing note about it, but it was a different song now – hard, shrill, murderous sharp. ‘You old worm! Hiding here behind your walls, and your servants, and your books! Your time is long past, fool! You are nothing but words and dust!’ The First of the Magi calmly pursed his lips and blew out smoke. ‘Words and dust, old worm! Well, we shall see. We will come to your library!’ The wizard set his pipe carefully down on the table, a little smoke still curling up out of the bowl. ‘We will come back to your library, and put your walls to the hammer, your servants to the sword, and your books to the fire! To the—’

‘Silence.’ Bayaz was frowning now, deeper even than he had at Calder, days before in the yard outside. Again Logen felt the desire to step away, but stronger by far. He found himself glancing around the room for a place to hide. Caurib’s lips still moved, but only a meaningless croak came out.

‘Break my walls, would you?’ murmured Bayaz. His grey brows drew inwards, deep, hard grooves cutting into the bridge of his nose.

‘Kill my servants, will you?’ asked Bayaz. The room had turned very chill, despite the logs on the fire.

‘Burn my books, say you?’ thundered Bayaz. ‘You say too much, witch!’ Caurib’s knees buckled. Her white hand clawed at the door-frame, chains and bangles jingling together as she slumped against the wall.

‘Words and dust, am I?’ Bayaz thrust up four fingers. ‘Four gifts you had of me, Bethod – the sun in winter, a storm in summer, and two things you could never have known, but for my Art. What have you given me in return, eh? This lake and this valley, which were mine already, and but one other thing.’ Bethod’s eyes flicked across to Logen, then back. ‘You owe me still, yet you send messengers to me, you make demands, you presume to
command
me? That is not my idea of manners.’

Scale had caught up now, and his eyes were near popping out of his head. ‘Manners? What does a King need with manners? A King takes what he wants!’ And he took a heavy step towards the table.

Now Scale was big enough and cruel enough, to be sure. Most likely you could never find a better man for kicking someone once he was down. But Logen wasn’t down, not yet, and he was good and sick of listening to this bloated fool. He stepped forward to block Scale’s path, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘Far enough.’

The Prince looked Logen over with his bulging eyes, held up his meaty fist, squeezing his great fingers so the knuckles turned white. ‘Don’t tempt me Ninefingers, you broken cur! Your day’s long past! I could crush you like an egg!’

‘You can try it, but I’ve no mind to let you. You know my work. One step more and I’ll set to work on you, you fucking swollen pig.’

‘Scale!’ snapped Bethod. ‘There is nothing for us here, that much is plain. We are leaving.’ The hulking prince locked his great lump of a jaw, his huge hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, glowering at Logen with the most bestial hatred imaginable. Then he sneered, and slowly backed away.

Bayaz leaned forward. ‘You said you would bring peace to the North, Bethod, and what have you done? You have piled war on war! The land is bled white with your pride and your brutality! King of the Northmen? Hah! You’re not worth the helping! And to think, I had such high hopes for you!’

Bethod only frowned, his eyes as cold as the diamond on his forehead. ‘You have made an enemy of me, Bayaz, and I am a bad enemy to have. The very worst. You will yet regret this day’s work.’ He turned his scorn on Logen. ‘As for you, Ninefingers, you will have no more mercy from me! Every man in the North will be your enemy now! You will be hated, and hunted, and cursed, wherever you go! I will see to it!’

Logen shrugged. There was nothing new there. Bayaz stood up from his chair. ‘You’ve said your piece, now take your witch and get you gone!’

Caurib stumbled from the room first, still gasping for air.

Scale gave Logen one last scowl, then he turned and lumbered away. The so-called King of the Northmen was the last to leave, nodding slowly and sweeping the room with a deadly glare. As their footsteps faded down the corridor Logen took a deep breath, steadied himself, and let his hand drop from the hilt of the sword.

‘So,’ said Bayaz brightly, ‘that went well.’

A Road Between Two Dentists

P
ast midnight, and it was dark in the Middleway. Dark and it smelled bad. It always smelled bad down by the docks: old salt water, rotten fish, tar and sweat and horse shit. In a few hours time this street would be thronging with noise and activity. Tradesmen shouting, labourers cursing under their loads, merchants hurrying to and fro, a hundred carts and wagons rumbling over the dirty cobbles. There would be an endless tide of people, thronging off the ships and thronging on, people from every part of the world, words shouted in every language under the sun. But at night it was still. Still and silent.
Silent as the grave, and even worse smelling.

‘It’s down here,’ said Severard, strolling towards the shadowy mouth of a narrow alley, wedged in between two looming warehouses.

‘Did he give you much trouble?’ asked Glokta as he shuffled painfully after.

‘Not too much.’ The Practical adjusted his mask, letting some air in behind.
Must get very clammy under there, all that breath and sweat. No wonder Practicals tend to have bad tempers.
‘He gave Rews’ mattress some trouble, stabbed it all to bits. Then Frost knocked him on the head. Funny thing. When that boy knocks a man on the head, the trouble all goes out of him.’

‘What about Rews?’

‘Still alive.’ The light from Severard’s lamp passed over a pile of putrid rubbish. Glokta heard rats squeaking in the darkness as they scurried away.

‘You know all the best neighbourhoods, don’t you Severard?’

‘That’s what you pay me for, Inquisitor.’ His dirty black boot squelched, heedless, into the stinking mush. Glokta limped gingerly around it, holding the hem of his coat up in his free hand. ‘I grew up round here,’ continued the Practical. ‘Folk don’t ask questions.’

‘Except for us.’
We always have questions.

‘Course.’ Severard gave a muffled giggle. ‘We’re the Inquisition.’ His lamp picked out a dented iron gate, the high wall above topped with rusty spikes. ‘This is it.’
Indeed, and what an auspicious-looking address it is.
The gate evidently didn’t see much use, its brown hinges squealed in protest as the Practical unlocked it and heaved it open. Glokta stepped awkwardly over a puddle that had built up in a rut in the ground, cursing as his coat trailed in the foul water.

The hinges screamed again as Severard wrestled the heavy gate shut, forehead creasing with the effort, then he lifted the hood on his lantern, lighting up a wide ornamental courtyard, choked with rubble and weeds and broken wood.

‘And here we are,’ said Severard.

It must once have been a magnificent building, in its way.
How much would all those windows have cost? How much all that decorative stonework? Visitors must have been awed by its owner’s wealth, if not his good taste.
But no more. The windows were blinded with rotting boards, the swirls of masonry were choked with moss and caked with bird droppings. The thin layer of green marble on the pillars was cracked and flaking, exposing the rotten plaster underneath. All was crumbled, broken and decayed. Fallen lumps of the façade were strewn everywhere, casting long shadows on the high walls of the yard. Half the head of a broken cherub stared mournfully up at Glokta as he limped past.