The Collected Joe Abercrombie (284 page)

‘They still had their faces in the trough. All of them turned on me, I’m sure, just the way they turned on you. You’re telling me nothing I don’t know.’

‘No one thanks you, in the end. Not for the victories you bring them. Not for the money you make them. They get bored. And the first sniff of something better—’

Monza was out of patience. A leader can’t afford to look soft. Especially not a woman. ‘For such an expert on people, it’s a wonder you ended up a friendless, penniless drunk, eh, Cosca? Don’t pretend I didn’t give you a thousand chances. You wasted them all, like you wasted everything else. The only question that interests me is – are you set on wasting this one too? Can you do as I fucking tell you? Or are you set on being my enemy?’

Cosca only gave a sad smile. ‘In our line of work, enemies are things to be proud of. If experience has taught the two of us anything, it’s that your friends are the ones you need to watch. My congratulations to the cook.’ He tossed his fork down in his bowl, got up and strutted from the kitchen in almost a straight line. Monza frowned at the sullen faces he left around the table.

Never fear your enemies, Verturio wrote, but your friends, always.

A Few Bad Men

T
he warehouse was a draughty cavern, cold light finding chinks in the shutters and leaving bright lines across the dusty boards, across the empty crates piled up in one corner, across the old table in the middle of the floor. Shivers dropped into a rickety chair next to it, felt the grip of the knife Monza had given him pressing at his calf. A sharp reminder of what he’d been hired for. Life was getting way more dark and dangerous than back home in the North. As far as being a better man went, he was going backwards, and quicker every day.

So why the hell was he still here? Because he wanted Monza? He had to admit it, and the fact she’d been cold with him since Westport only made him want her more. Because he wanted her money? That too. Money was a damn good thing for buying stuff. Because he needed the work? He did. Because he was good at the work? He was.

Because he enjoyed the work?

Shivers frowned. Some men aren’t stamped out for doing good, and he was starting to reckon he might be one of ’em. He was less and less sure with every day that being a better man was worth all the effort.

The sound of a door banging tugged him from his thoughts, and Cosca came down the creaking wooden steps from the rooms where they were sleeping, scratching slowly at the splatter of red rash up the side of his neck.

‘Morning.’

The old mercenary yawned. ‘So it seems. I can barely remember the last one of these I saw. Nice shirt.’

Shivers twitched at his sleeve. Dark silk, with polished bone buttons and clever stitching round the cuff. A good stretch fancier than he’d have picked out, but Monza had liked it. ‘Hadn’t noticed.’

‘I used to be one for fine clothes myself.’ Cosca dropped into a rickety chair next to Shivers. ‘So did Monza’s brother, for that matter. He had a shirt just like that one, as I recall.’

Shivers weren’t sure what the old bastard was getting at, but he was sure he didn’t like it. ‘And?’

‘Spoken much about her brother, has she?’ Cosca had a strange little smile, like he knew something Shivers didn’t.

‘She told me he’s dead.’

‘So I hear.’

‘She told me she’s not happy about it.’

‘Most decidedly not.’

‘Something else I should know?’

‘I suppose we could all be wiser than we are. I’ll leave that up to her, though.’

‘Where is she?’ snapped Shivers, patience drying up.

‘Monza?’

‘Who else?’

‘She doesn’t want anyone to see her face that doesn’t have to. But not to worry. I have hired fighting men all across the Circle of the World. And my fair share of entertainers too, as it goes. Do you have any issue with my taking charge of the proceedings?’

Shivers had a pile of issues with it. It was plain the only thing Cosca had taken charge of for a good long while was a bottle. After the Bloody-Nine killed his brother, and cut his head off, and had it nailed up on a standard, Shivers’ father had taken to drinking. He’d taken to drinking, and rages, and having the shakes. He’d stopped making good choices, and he’d lost the respect of his people, and he’d wasted all he’d built, and died leaving Shivers nought but sour memories.

‘I don’t trust a man who drinks,’ he growled, not bothered about dressing it up. ‘A man takes to drinking, then he gets weak, then his mind goes.’

Cosca sadly shook his head. ‘You have it back to front. A man’s mind goes, then he gets weak, then he takes to drink. The bottle is the symptom, not the cause. But though I am touched to my core by your concern, you need not worry on my account. I feel a great deal steadier today!’ He spread his hands out above the tabletop. It was true they weren’t shaking as bad as they had been. A gentle quiver rather than a mad jerk. ‘I’ll be back to my best before you know it.’

‘I can hardly wait to see that.’ Vitari strutted out from the kitchen, arms folded.

‘None of us can, Shylo!’ And Cosca slapped Shivers on the arm. ‘But enough about me! What criminals, footpads, thugs and other such human filth have you dug from the slimy backstreets of old Sipani? What fighting entertainers have you for our consideration? Musicians who murder? Deadly dancers? Singers with swords? Jugglers who . . . who . . .’

‘Kill?’ offered Shivers.

Cosca’s grin widened. ‘Brusque and to the point, as always.’

‘Brusque?’

‘Thick.’ Vitari slid into the last chair and unfolded a sheet of paper on the scarred tabletop. ‘First up, there’s a band I found playing for bits near the docks. I reckon they make a fair stretch more from robbing passers-by than serenading them, though.’

‘Rough-and-tumble fellows, eh? The very type we need.’ Cosca stretched out his scrawny neck like a cock about to crow. ‘Enter!’

The door squealed open and five men wandered in. Even where Shivers came from they would’ve been reckoned a rough-looking set. Greasy-haired. Pock-faced. Rag-dressed. Their eyes darted about, narrow and suspicious, dirty hands clutching a set of stained instruments. They shuffled up in front of the table, one of them scratching his groin, another prodding at a nostril with his drumstick.

‘And you are?’ asked Cosca.

‘We’re a band,’ the nearest said.

‘And has your band a name?’

They looked at each other. ‘No. Why would it?’

‘Your own names, then, if you please, and your specialities both as entertainer and fighter.’

‘My name’s Solter. I play the drum, and the mace.’ Flicking his greasy coat back to show the dull glint of iron. ‘I’m better with the mace, if I’m honest.’

‘I’m Morc,’ said the next in line. ‘Pipe, and cutlass.’

‘Olopin. Horn, and hammer.’

‘Olopin, as well.’ Jerking a thumb sideways. ‘Brother to this article. Fiddle, and blades.’ Whipping a pair of long knives from his sleeves and spinning ’em round his fingers.

The last had the most broken nose Shivers had ever seen, and he’d seen some bad ones. ‘Gurpi. Lute, and lute.’

‘You fight with your lute?’ asked Cosca.

‘I hits ’em with it just so.’ The man showed off a sideways swipe, then flashed two rows of shit-coloured teeth. ‘There’s a great-axe hidden in the body.’

‘Ouch. A tune, then, if you please, my fellows, and make it something lively!’

Shivers weren’t much for music, but even he could tell it was no fine playing. The drum was out of time. The pipe was tuneless tooting. The lute was flat, probably on account of all the ironware inside. But Cosca nodded along, eyes shut, like he’d never heard sweeter music.

‘My days, what multi-talented fellows you are!’ he shouted after a couple of bars, bringing the din to a stuttering halt. ‘You’re hired, each one of you, at forty scales per man for the night.’

‘Forty . . . scales . . . a man?’ gawped the drummer.

‘Paid on completion. But it will be tough work. You will undoubtedly be called upon to fight, and possibly even to play. It may have to be a fatal performance, for our enemies. You are ready for such a commitment?’

‘For forty scales a man?’ They were all grinning now. ‘Yes, sir, we are! For that much we’re fearless.’

‘Good men. We know where to find you.’

Vitari leaned across as the band made their way out. ‘Ugly set of bastards.’

‘One of the many advantages of a masked revel,’ whispered Cosca. ‘Stick ’em in motley and no one will be any the wiser.’

Shivers didn’t much care for the idea of trusting his life to those lot. ‘They’ll notice the playing, no?’

Cosca snorted. ‘People don’t visit Cardotti’s for the music.’

‘Shouldn’t we have checked how they fight?’

‘If they fight like they play we should have no worries.’

‘They play about as well as runny shit.’

‘They play like lunatics. With luck they fight the same way.’

‘That’s no kind of—’

‘I hardly thought of you as the fussy type.’ Cosca peered at Shivers down his long nose. ‘You need to learn to live a little, my friend. All victories worth the winning are snatched with vim and brio!’

‘With who?’

‘Carelessness,’ said Vitari.

‘Dash,’ said Cosca. ‘And seizing the moment.’

‘And what do you make of all this?’ Shivers asked Vitari. ‘Vim and whatever.’

‘If the plan goes smoothly we’ll get Ario and Foscar away from the others and—’ She snapped her fingers with a sharp crack. ‘Won’t matter much who strums the lute. Time’s running out. Four days until the great and good of Styria descend on Sipani for their conference. I’d find better men, in an ideal world. But this isn’t one.’

Cosca heaved a throaty sigh. ‘It most certainly is not. But let’s not be downhearted – a few moments in and we’re five men to the good! Now, if I could just get a glass of wine we’d be well on our way to—’

‘No wine,’ growled Vitari.

‘It’s coming to something when a man can’t even wet his throat.’ The old mercenary leaned close enough that Shivers could pick out the broken veins across his cheeks. ‘Life is a sea of sorrows, my friend. Enter!’

The next man barely fit through the warehouse door, he was that big. A few fingers taller than Shivers but a whole lot weightier. He had thick stubble across his great chunk of jaw and a mop of grey curls though he didn’t seem old. His heavy hands fussed with each other as he came towards the table, a bit stooped like he was shamed of his own size, boards giving a complaining creak every time one of his great boots came down.

Cosca whistled. ‘My, my, that is a big one.’

‘Found him in a tavern down by the First Canal,’ said Vitari, ‘drunk as shit but everyone too scared to move him. Hardly speaks a word of Styrian.’

Cosca leaned towards Shivers. ‘Perhaps you might take the lead with this one? The brotherhood of the North?’

Shivers didn’t remember there being that much brotherhood up there in the cold, but it was worth a try. The words felt strange in his mouth, it was that long since he’d used them. ‘What’s your name, friend?’

The big man looked surprised to hear Northern. ‘Greylock.’ He pointed at his hair. ‘S’always been this colour.’

‘What brought you all the way down here?’

‘Come looking for work.’

‘What sort o’ work?’

‘Whatever’ll have me, I reckon.’

‘Even if it’s bloody?’

‘Likely it will be. You’re a Northman?’

‘Aye.’

‘You look like a Southerner.’

Shivers frowned, drew his fancy cuffs back and out of sight under the table. ‘Well, I’m not one. Name’s Caul Shivers.’

Greylock blinked. ‘Shivers?’

‘Aye.’ He felt a flush of pleasure that the man knew his name. He still had his pride, after all. ‘You heard o’ me?’

‘You was at Uffrith, with the Dogman?’

‘That’s right.’

‘And Black Dow too, eh? Neat piece o’ work, the way I heard it.’

‘That it was. Took the city with no more’n a couple dead.’

‘No more’n a couple.’ The big man nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Shivers’ face. ‘That must’ve been real smooth.’

‘It was. He was a good chief for keeping folk alive, the Dogman. Best I took orders from, I reckon.’

‘Well, then. Since the Dogman ain’t here his self, it’d be my honour to stand shoulder to shoulder with a man like you.’

‘Right you are. Likewise. Pleased to have you along. He’s in,’ said Shivers in Styrian.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Cosca. ‘He has a certain . . . sourness to his eye that worries me.’

‘You need to learn to live a little,’ grunted Shivers. ‘Get some fucking brio in.’

Vitari snorted laughter and Cosca clutched his chest. ‘Gah! Run through with my own rapier! Well, I suppose you can have your little friend. What could we do with a pair of Northmen, now?’ He threw up one finger. ‘We could mount a re-enactment! A rendering of that famous Northern duel – you know the one, Fenris the Feared, or whatever, and . . . you know, what’s-his-name now . . .’