The Collected Joe Abercrombie (270 page)

Shivers gave a nod. ‘Reckon I’m hired, then. What do you need?’

‘Give Friendly a hand taking out the rubbish, then we’re gone tonight. No point loitering in Talins.’

Shivers looked towards the anvil, and he took a sharp breath. Then he pulled out the knife she’d given him, walked over to where Friendly was starting work on Gobba’s corpse.

Monza looked down at her left hand, rubbed a few specks of blood from the back. Her fingers were trembling some. From killing a man earlier, from not killing one just now, or from needing a smoke, she wasn’t sure.

All three, maybe.

II

WESTPORT

‘Men become accustomed to poison by degrees’

Victor Hugo

T
he first year they were always hungry, and Benna had to beg in the village while Monza worked the ground and scavenged in the woods. The second year they took a better harvest, and grew roots in a patch by the barn, and got some bread from old Destort the miller when the snows swept in and turned the valley into a place of white silence.

The third year the weather was fine, and the rain came on time, and Monza raised a good crop in the upper field. As good a crop as her father had ever brought in. Prices were high because of troubles over the border. They would have money, and the roof could be mended, and Benna could have a proper shirt. Monza watched the wind make waves in the wheat, and she felt that pride at having made something with her own hands. That pride her father used to talk about.

A few days before reaping time, she woke in the darkness and heard sounds. She shook Benna from his sleep beside her, one hand over his mouth. She took her father’s sword, eased open the shutters, and together they stole through the window and into the woods, hid in the brambles behind a tree-trunk.

There were black figures in front of the house, torches flickering in the darkness.

‘Who are they?’

‘Shhhh.’

She heard them break the door down, heard them crashing through the house and the barn.

‘What do they want?’

‘Shhhh.’

They spread out around the field and set their torches to it, and the fire ate through the wheat until it was a roaring blaze. She heard someone cheering. Another laughing.

Benna stared, face dim-lit with shifting orange, tear-tracks glistening on his thin cheeks. ‘But why would they . . . why would they . . . ?’

‘Shhhh.’

Monza watched the smoke rolling up into the clear night. All her work. All her sweat and pain. She stayed there long after the men had gone, and watched it burn.

In the morning more men came. Folk from around the valley, hard-faced and vengeful, old Destort at their head with a sword at his hip and his three sons behind him.

‘Came through here too then, did they? You’re lucky to be alive. They killed Crevi and his wife, up the valley. Their son too.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘We’re going to track them, then we’re going to hang them.’

‘We’ll come.’

‘You might be better—’

‘We’ll come.’

Destort had not always been a miller, and he knew his business. They caught up with the raiders the next night, working their way back south, camped around fires in the woods without even a proper guard. More thieves than soldiers. Farmers among them too, just from one side of the border rather than the other, chosen to settle some made-up grievance while their lords were busy settling theirs.

‘Anyone ain’t ready to kill best stay here.’ Destort drew his sword and the others made their cleavers, and their axes, and their makeshift spears ready.

‘Wait!’ hissed Benna, clinging at Monza’s arm.

‘No.’

She ran quiet and low, her father’s sword in her hand, fires dancing through the black trees. She heard a cry, a clash of metal, the sound of a bowstring.

She came out from the bushes. Two men crouched by a campfire, a pot steaming over it. One had a thick beard, a wood-axe in his fist. Before he lifted it halfway Monza slashed him across the eyes and he fell down, screaming. The other turned to run and she spitted him through the back before he got a stride. The bearded man roared and roared, hands clutching at his face. She stabbed him in the chest, and he groaned out a few wet breaths, then stopped.

She frowned down at the two corpses while the sounds of fighting slowly petered out. Benna crept from the trees, and he took the bearded man’s purse from his belt, and he tipped a heavy wedge of silver coins out into his palm.

‘He has seventeen scales.’

It was twice as much as the whole crop had been worth. He held the other man’s purse out to her, eyes wide. ‘This one has thirty.’

‘Thirty?’ Monza looked at the blood on her father’s sword, and thought how strange it was that she was a murderer now. How strange it was that it had been so easy to do. Easier than digging in the stony soil for a living. Far, far easier. Afterwards, she waited for the remorse to come upon her. She waited for a long time.

It never came.

Poison

I
t was just the kind of afternoon that Morveer most enjoyed. Crisp, even chilly, but perfectly still, immaculately clear. The bright sun flashed through the bare black branches of the fruit trees, found rare gold among dull copper tripod, rods and screws, struck priceless sparks from the tangle of misted glassware. There was nothing finer than working out of doors on a day like this, with the added advantage that any lethal vapours released would harmlessly dissipate. Persons in Morveer’s profession were all too frequently despatched by their own agents, after all, and he had no intention of becoming one of their number. Quite apart from anything else, his reputation would never recover.

Morveer smiled upon the rippling lamp flame, nodded in time to the gentle rattling of condenser and retort, the soothing hiss of escaping steam, the industrious pop and bubble of boiling reagents. As the drawing of the blade to the master swordsman, as the jingle of coins to the master merchant, so were these sounds to Morveer. The sounds of his work well done. It was with comfortable satisfaction, therefore, that he watched Day’s face, creased with concentration, through the distorting glass of the tapered collection flask.

It was a pretty face, undoubtedly: heart-shaped and fringed with blonde curls. But it was an unremarkable and entirely unthreatening variety of prettiness, further softened by a disarming aura of innocence. A face that would attract a positive response, but excite little further comment. A face that would easily slip the mind. It was for her face, above all, that Morveer had selected her. He did nothing by accident.

A jewel of moisture formed at the utmost end of the condenser. It stretched, bloated, then finally tore itself free, tumbled sparkling through space and fell silently to the bottom of the flask.

‘Excellent,’ muttered Morveer.

More droplets swelled and broke away in solemn procession. The last of them clung reluctantly at the edge, and Day reached out and gently flicked the glassware. It fell, and joined the rest, and looked, for all the world, like a little water in the bottom of a flask. Barely enough to wet one’s lips.

‘And carefully, now, my dear, so very, very carefully. Your life hangs by a filament. Your life, and mine too.’

She pressed her tongue into her lower lip, ever so carefully twisted the condenser free and set it down on the tray. The rest of the apparatus followed, piece by slow piece. She had fine, soft hands, Morveer’s apprentice. Nimble yet steady, as indeed they were required to be. She pressed a cork carefully into the flask and held it up to the light, the sunshine making liquid diamonds of that tiny dribble of fluid, and she smiled. An innocent, a pretty, yet an entirely forgettable smile. ‘It doesn’t look much.’

‘That is the entire point. It is without colour, odour or taste. And yet the most infinitesimal drop consumed, the softest mist inhaled, the gentlest touch upon the skin, even, will kill a man in minutes. There is no antidote, no remedy, no immunity. Truly . . . this is the King of Poisons.’

‘The King of Poisons,’ she breathed, with suitable awe.

‘Keep this knowledge close to your heart, my dear, to be used only in the extreme of need. Only against the most dangerous, suspicious and cunning of targets. Only against those intimately acquainted with the poisoner’s art.’

‘I understand. Caution first, always.’

‘Very good. That is the most valuable of lessons.’ Morveer sat back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. ‘Now you know the deepest of my secrets. Your apprenticeship is over, but . . . I hope you will continue, as my assistant.’

‘I’d be honoured to stay in your service. I still have much to learn.’

‘So do we all, my dear.’ Morveer jerked his head up at the sound of the gate bell tinkling in the distance. ‘So do we all.’

Two figures were approaching the house down the long path through the orchard, and Morveer snapped open his eyeglass and trained it upon them. A man and a woman. He was very tall, and powerful-looking with it, wearing a threadbare coat, long hair swaying. A Northman, from his appearance.

‘A primitive,’ he muttered, under his breath. Such men were prone to savagery and superstition, and he held them in healthy contempt.

He trained the eyeglass on the woman, now, though she was dressed much like a man. She looked straight towards the house, unwavering. Straight towards him, it almost seemed. A beautiful face, without doubt, edged with coal-black hair. But it was a hard and unsettling variety of beauty, further sharpened by a brooding appearance of grim purpose. A face that at once issued a challenge and a threat. A face that, having been glimpsed, one would not quickly forget. She did not compare with Morveer’s mother in beauty, of course, but who could? His mother had almost transcended the human in her goodly qualities. Her pure smile, kissed by the sunlight, was etched for ever into Morveer’s memory as if it were a—

‘Visitors?’ asked Day.

‘The Murcatto woman is here.’ He snapped his fingers towards the table. ‘Clear all this away. With the very greatest care, mark you! Then bring wine and cakes.’

‘Do you want anything in them?’

‘Only plums and apricots. I mean to welcome my guests, not kill them.’ Not until he had heard what they had to say, at least.

While Day swiftly cleared the table, furnished it with a cloth and drew the chairs back in around it, Morveer took some elementary precautions. Then he arranged himself in his chair, highly polished knee-boots crossed in front of him and hands clasped across his chest, very much the country gentleman enjoying the winter air of his estate. Had he not earned it, after all?

He rose with his most ingratiating smile as his visitors came in close proximity to the house. The Murcatto woman walked with the slightest hint of a limp. She covered it well, but over long years in the trade Morveer had sharpened his perceptions to a razor point, and missed no detail. She wore a sword on her right hip, and it appeared to be a good one, but he paid it little mind. Ugly, unsophisticated tools. Gentlemen might wear them, but only the coarse and wrathful would stoop to actually use one. She wore a glove on her right hand, suggesting she had something she was keen to hide, because her left was bare, and sported a blood-red stone big as his thumbnail. If it was, as it certainly appeared to be, a ruby, it was one of promisingly great value.

‘I am—’

‘You are Monzcarro Murcatto, once captain general of the Thousand Swords, recently in the service of Duke Orso of Talins.’ Morveer thought it best to avoid that gloved hand, and so he offered out his left, palm upwards, in a gesture replete with humbleness and submission. ‘A Kantic gentleman of our mutual acquaintance, one Sajaam, told me to expect your visit.’ She gave it a brief shake, firm and businesslike. ‘And your name, my friend?’ Morveer leaned unctuously forwards and folded the Northman’s big right hand in both of his.

‘Caul Shivers.’

‘Indeed, indeed, I have always found your Northern names delightfully picturesque.’

‘You’ve found ’em what now?’

‘Nice.’

‘Oh.’

Morveer held his hand a moment longer, then let it free. ‘Pray have a seat.’ He smiled upon Murcatto as she worked her way into her chair, the barest phantom of a grimace on her face. ‘I must confess I was expecting you to be considerably less beautiful.’

She frowned at that. ‘I was expecting you to be less friendly.’

‘Oh, I can be decidedly unfriendly when it is called for, believe me.’ Day silently appeared and slid a plate of sweet cakes onto the table, a tray with a bottle of wine and glasses. ‘But it is hardly called for now, is it? Wine?’

His visitors exchanged a loaded glance. Morveer grinned as he pulled the cork and poured himself a glass. ‘The two of you are mercenaries, but I can only assume you do not rob, threaten and extort from everyone you meet. Likewise, I do not poison my every acquaintance.’ He slurped wine noisily, as though to advertise the total safety of the operation. ‘Who would pay me then? You are safe.’