The Collected Joe Abercrombie (281 page)

‘No doubt you’ll enjoy that.’

‘It’s a living.’ She punched Ario’s mistress suddenly in the ribs, hard enough to twist her in the chair. She doubled up, gasping, and Vitari leaned over her, bringing her fist up again. ‘Another?’

‘No!’ Eider held her hand up, teeth bared, eyes flickering round the room then back to Vitari. ‘No . . . ah . . . I’ll be helpful. Just . . . just tell me what you need to know.’

‘Why are you down here, ahead of your lover?’

‘To make arrangements for the ball. Costumes, masks, all kinds of—’

Vitari’s fist thumped into her side in just the same spot, harder than the first time, the sharp thud echoing off the damp walls. Eider whimpered, arms wrapped around herself, took a shuddering breath then coughed it out, face twisted with pain. Vitari leaned down over her like a black spider over a bound-up fly. ‘I’m losing patience. Why are you here?’

‘Ario’s putting on . . . another kind of celebration . . . afterwards. For his brother. For his brother’s birthday.’

‘What kind of celebration?’

‘The kind for which Sipani is famous.’ Eider coughed again, turned her head and spat, a few wet specks settling across the shoulder of her beautiful coat.

‘Where?’

‘At Cardotti’s House of Leisure. He’s hired the whole place for the night. For him, and for Foscar, and for their gentlemen. He sent me here to make the arrangements.’

‘He sent his mistress to hire whores?’

Monza snorted. ‘Sounds like Ario. What arrangements?’

‘To find entertainers. To make the place ready. To make sure it’s safe. He . . . trusts me.’

‘More fool him.’ Vitari chuckled. ‘I wonder what he’d do if he knew who you really worked for, eh? Who you really spy for? Our mutual friend at the House of Questions? Our crippled friend from his Majesty’s Inquisition? Keeping an eye on Styrian business for the Union, eh? You must have trouble remembering who you’re supposed to betray from week to week.’

Eider glowered back at her, arms still folded around her battered ribs. ‘It’s a living.’

‘A dying, if Ario learns the truth. One little note is all it would take.’

‘What do you want?’

Monza stepped from the shadows. ‘I want you to help us get close to Ario, and to Foscar. I want you to let us into Cardotti’s House of Leisure on the night of this celebration of yours. When it comes to arranging the entertainments, I want you to hire who we say, when we say, how we say. Do you understand?’

Eider’s face was very pale. ‘You mean to kill them?’ No one spoke, but the silence said plenty. ‘Orso will guess I betrayed him! The Cripple will know I betrayed him! There aren’t two worse enemies in the Circle of the World! You might as well kill me now!’

‘Alright.’ The blade of the Calvez rang gently as she drew it. Eider’s eyes went wide.

‘Wait—’

Monza reached out, resting the glinting point of the sword in the hollow between Eider’s collarbones, and gently pushed. Ario’s mistress arched back over the chair, hands opening and closing helplessly.

‘Ah! Ah!’ Monza twisted her wrist, steel flashing as the slender blade tilted one way and the other, the point grinding, digging, screwing ever so slowly into Eider’s neck. A line of dark blood trickled from the wound it made and crept down her breastbone. Her squealing grew more shrill, more urgent, more terrified. ‘No! Ah! Please! No!’

‘No?’ Monza held her there, pinned over the back of the chair. ‘Not quite ready to die after all? Not many of us are, when it comes to the moment.’ She slid the Calvez free and Eider rocked forwards, touching one trembling fingertip to her bloody neck, breath coming in ragged gasps.

‘You don’t understand. It isn’t just Orso! It isn’t just the Union! They’re both backed by the bank. By Valint and Balk. Owned by the bank. The Years of Blood are no more than a sideshow to them. A skirmish. You’ve no idea whose garden you’re pissing in—’

‘Wrong.’ Monza leaned down and made Eider shrink back. ‘I don’t care. There’s a difference.’

‘Now?’ asked Day.

‘Now.’

The girl’s hand darted out and pricked Eider’s ear with a glinting needle. ‘Ah!’

Day yawned as she slipped the splinter of metal into an inside pocket. ‘Don’t worry, it’s slow-working. You’ve got at least a week.’

‘Until what?’

‘Until you get sick.’ Day took a bite out of her plum and juice ran down her chin. ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, catching it with a fingertip.

‘Sick?’ breathed Eider.

‘Really, really sick. A day after that you’ll be deader than Juvens.’

‘Help us, you get the antidote, and at least the chance to run.’ Monza rubbed the blood from the point of Benna’s sword with gloved thumb and forefinger. ‘Try and tell anyone what we’re planning, here or in the Union, Orso, or Ario, or your friend the Cripple, and . . .’ She slid the blade back into its sheath and slapped the hilt home with a sharp snap. ‘One way or another, Ario will be short one mistress.’

Eider stared round at them, one hand still pressed to her neck. ‘You evil bitches.’

Day gave the plum pit a final suck then tossed it away. ‘It’s a living.’

‘We’re done.’ Vitari dragged Ario’s mistress to her feet by one elbow and started marching her towards the door.

Monza stepped in front of them. ‘What will you be telling your battered manservant, when he comes round?’

‘That . . . we were robbed?’

Monza held out her gloved hand. Eider’s face fell even further. She unclasped her necklace and dropped it into Monza’s palm, then followed it with her rings. ‘Convincing enough?’

‘I don’t know. You seem like the kind of woman to put up a struggle.’ Monza punched her in the face. She squawked, stumbled, would’ve fallen if Vitari hadn’t caught her. She looked up, blood leaking from her nose and her split lip, and for an instant she had this strange expression. Hurt, yes. Afraid, of course. But more angry than either one. Like the look Monza had herself, maybe, when they threw her from the balcony.

‘Now we’re done,’ she said.

Vitari yanked at Eider’s elbow and dragged her out into the hallway, towards the front door, their footsteps scraping against the grubby boards. Day gave a sigh, then pushed herself away from the wall and brushed plaster-dust from her backside. ‘Nice and neat.’

‘No thanks to your master. Where is he?’

‘I prefer employer, and he said there were some errands he had to run.’

‘Errands?’

‘That a problem?’

‘I paid for the master, not the dog.’

Day grinned. ‘Woof, woof. There’s nothing Morveer can do that I can’t.’

‘That so?’

‘He’s getting old. Arrogant. That rope burning through was nearly the death of him, in Westport. I wouldn’t want any carelessness like that to interfere with your business. Not for what you’re paying. No one worse to have next to you than a careless poisoner.’

‘You’ll get no argument from me on that score.’

Day shrugged. ‘Accidents happen all the time in our line of work. Especially to the old. It’s a young person’s trade, really.’ She sauntered out into the corridor, passed Vitari stalking back the other way. The look of glee was long gone from her sharp face, and the swagger with it. She lifted one black boot and shoved the chair angrily away into one corner.

‘There’s our way in, then,’ she said.

‘Seems so.’

‘Just what I promised you.’

‘Just what you promised.’

‘Ario and Foscar, both together, and a way to get to them.’

‘A good day’s work.’

They looked at each other, and Vitari ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth as if it tasted bitter. ‘Well.’ She shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘It’s a living.’

The Life of the Drinker

‘A
drink, a drink, a drink. Where can a man find a drink?’ Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune, tottered against the A wall of the alley, rooting through his purse yet again with quivering fingers. There was still nothing in it but a tuft of grey fluff. He dug it out, blew it from his fingertips and watched it flutter gently down. All his fortune.

‘Bastard purse!’ He flung it in the gutter in a feeble rage. Then he thought better of it and had to stoop to pick it up, groaning like an old man. He was an old man. A lost man. A dead man, give or take a final rattle of breath. He sank slowly to his knees, gazing at his broken reflection in the black water gathered between the cobblestones.

He would have given all he owned for the slightest taste of liquor. He owned nothing, it had to be said. But his body was his, still. His hands, which had raised up princes to the heights of power and flung them down again. His eyes, which had surveyed the turning points of history. His lips, which had softly kissed the most celebrated beauties of the age. His itching cock, his aching guts, his rotting neck, he would happily have sold it all for a single measure of grape spirit. But it was hard to see where he would find a buyer.

‘I have become myself . . . an empty purse.’ He raised his leaden arms imploringly and roared into the murky night. ‘Someone give me a fucking drink!’

‘Stop your mouth, arsehole!’ a rough voice called back, and then, with the clatter of shutters closing, the alley plunged into deeper gloom.

He had dined at the tables of dukes. He had sported in the beds of countesses. Cities had trembled at the name of Cosca.

‘How did it ever come . . . to this?’ He clambered up, swallowing the urge to vomit. He smoothed his hair back from his throbbing temples, fumbled with the limp ends of his moustaches. He made for the lane with something approaching his famous swagger of old. Out between the ghostly buildings and into a patch of lamplight in the mist, moist night breeze tickling at his sore face. Footsteps approached and Cosca lurched round, blinking.

‘Good sir! I find myself temporarily without funds, and wonder whether you would be willing to advance me a small loan until—’

‘Away and piss, beggar.’ The man shoved past, barging him against the wall.

Cosca’s skin flushed with greasy outrage. ‘You address none other than Nicomo Cosca, famed soldier of fortune!’ The effect was somewhat spoiled by the brittle cracking of his ravaged voice. ‘Captain general of the Thousand Swords! Ex-captain general, that is.’ The man made an obscene gesture as he disappeared into the fog. ‘I dined . . . at the beds . . . of dukes!’ Cosca collapsed into a fit of hacking coughs and was obliged to bend over, shaking hands on his shaking knees, aching ribcage going like a creaky bellows.

Such was the life of the drinker. A quarter on your arse, a quarter on your face, a quarter on your knees and the rest of your time bent over. He finally hawked up a great lump of phlegm, and with one last cough blew it spinning from his sore tongue. Would this be his legacy? Spit in a hundred thousand gutters? His name a byword for petty betrayal, avarice and waste? He straightened with a groan of the purest despair, staring up into nothingness, even the stars denied him by Sipani’s all-cloaking fog.

‘One last chance. That’s all I’m asking.’ He had lost count of the number of last chances he had wasted. ‘Just one more. God!’ He had never believed in God for an instant. ‘Fates!’ He had never believed in Fates either. ‘Anyone!’ He had never believed in anything much beyond the next drink. ‘Just one . . . more . . . chance.’

‘Alright. One more.’

Cosca blinked. ‘God? Is that . . . you?’

Someone chuckled. A woman’s voice, and a sharp, mocking, most ungodlike sort of a chuckle. ‘You can kneel if you like, Cosca.’

He squinted into the sliding mist, pickled brains spurred into something approaching activity. Someone knowing his name was unlikely to be a good thing. His enemies far outnumbered his friends, and his creditors far outnumbered both. He fished drunkenly for the hilt of his gilded sword, then realised he had pawned it months ago in Ospria and bought a cheap one. He fished drunkenly for the hilt of that instead, then realised he had pawned that one when he first reached Sipani. He let his shaky hand drop. Not much lost. He doubted he could have swung a blade even if he’d had one.

‘Who the bloody hell’s out there? If I owe you money, make ready-’ his stomach lurched and he gave vent to a long, acrid burp ‘-to die?’

A dark shape rose suddenly from the murk at his side and he spun, tripped over his own feet and went sprawling, head cracking against the wall and sending a blinding flash across his vision.

‘So you’re alive, still. You are alive, aren’t you?’ A long, lean woman, a sharp face mostly in shadow, spiky hair tinted orange. His mind fumbled sluggishly to recognition.

‘Shylo Vitari, well I never.’ Not an enemy, perhaps, but certainly not a friend. He propped himself up on one elbow, but from the way the street was spinning, decided that was far enough. ‘Don’t suppose you might consent . . . to buy a man a drink, might you?’

‘Goat’s milk?’

‘What?’

‘I hear it’s good for the digestion.’

‘They always said you had a flint for a heart, but I never thought even you would be so cold as to suggest I drink milk, damn you! Just one more shot of that old grape spirit.’ A drink, a drink, a drink. ‘Just one more and I’m done.’