The Collected Joe Abercrombie (300 page)

‘I thought you were all set on being Styria’s last good man.’

‘I’ve tried to do the right thing when I could, but you don’t get a name in the North without doing some dark work, and I done my share. I fought beside Black Dow, and Crummock-i-Phail, and the Bloody-Nine his self, for that matter.’ He gave a snort. ‘You think you got cold hearts down here? You should taste the winters where I come from.’ There was something in the set of his face she hadn’t seen before, and hadn’t expected to. ‘I’d like to be a good man, that’s true. But you need it the other way, then I know how.’

There was silence for a moment, while they looked at each other. Him leaning against the window frame, her sprawled on the bed with one hand behind her head.

‘If you really are such a snow-hearted bastard, why did you come back for me? In Cardotti’s?’

‘You still owe me money.’

She wasn’t sure if he was joking. ‘I feel warm all over.’

‘That and you’re about the best friend I’ve got in this mad fucking country.’

‘And I don’t even like you.’

‘I’m still hoping you’ll warm to me.’

‘You know what? I might just be getting there.’

She could see his grin in the light from beyond the window. ‘Letting me in your bed. Letting Furli and the rest stay in your house. If I didn’t know better I’d be thinking I’d pedalled you some mercy after all.’

She stretched out. ‘Maybe beneath this harsh yet beautiful shell I’m really still a soft-hearted farmer’s daughter, only wanting to do good. You think of that?’

‘Can’t say I did.’

‘Anyway, what’s my choice? Put them out on the street, they might start talking. Safer here, where they owe us something.’

‘They’re safest of all in the mud.’

‘Why don’t you go downstairs and put all our minds at rest, then, killer? Shouldn’t be a problem for the hero that used to carry Black Now’s luggage.’

‘Dow.’

‘Whoever. Best put some trousers on first, though, eh?’

‘I’m not saying we should’ve killed ’em or nothing, I’m just pointing out the fact. Mercy and cowardice are the same, I heard.’

‘I’ll do what needs doing, don’t worry. I always have. But I’m not Morveer. I’m not murdering eleven farmers just for my convenience.’

‘Nice to hear, I guess. All those little people dying in the bank didn’t seem to bother you none, long as one of ’em was Mauthis.’

She frowned. ‘That wasn’t the plan.’

‘Nor the folk at Cardotti’s.’

‘Cardotti’s didn’t go quite the way I had in mind either, in case you didn’t notice.’

‘I noticed pretty good. The Butcher of Caprile, they call you, no? What happened there?’

‘What needed doing.’ She remembered riding up in the dusk, the stab of worry as she saw the smoke over the city. ‘Doing it and liking it are different things.’

‘Same results, no?’

‘What the hell would you know about it? I don’t remember you being there.’ She shook the memory off and slid from the bed. The careless warmth of the last smoke was wearing through and she felt strangely awkward in her own scarred skin, crossing the room with his eyes on her, stark naked but for the glove still on her right hand. The city, and its towers, and its fires spread out beyond the window, blurred through the bubbly glass panes in the closed half. ‘I didn’t bring you up here to remind me of my mistakes. I’ve made enough of the bastards.’

‘Who hasn’t? Why did you bring me up here?’

‘Because I’ve an awful weakness for big men with tiny minds, what do you think?’

‘Oh, I try not to think much, makes my tiny mind hurt. But I’m starting to get the feeling you might not be quite so hard as you make out.’

‘Who is?’ She reached out and touched the scar on his chest. Fingertip trailing through hair, over rough, puckered skin.

‘We’ve all got our wounds, I guess.’ He slid his hand down the long scar on her hip bone, and her stomach clenched up tight. That gambler’s mix of fear and excitement still, with a trace of disgust mixed in.

‘Some worse than others.’ The words sour in her mouth.

‘Just marks.’ His thumb slid across the scars on her ribs, one by one. ‘They don’t bother me any.’

She pulled the glove off her crooked right hand and stuck it in his face. ‘No?’

‘No.’ His big hands closed gently around her ruined one, warm and tight. She stiffened up at first, almost dragged it away, breath catching with ugly shock, as if she’d caught him caressing a corpse. Then his thumbs started to rub at her twisted palm, at the aching ball of her thumb, at her crooked fingers, all the way to the tips. Surprisingly tender. Surprisingly pleasant. She let her eyes close and her mouth open, stretched her fingers out as wide as they’d go, and breathed.

She felt him closer, the warmth of him, his breath on her face. Not much chance to wash lately and he had a smell – sweat and leather and a hint of bad meat. Sharp, but not entirely unpleasant. She knew she had a smell herself. His face brushed hers, rough cheek, hard jaw, nudging against her nose, nuzzling at her neck. She was half-smiling, skin tingling in the draught from the window, carrying that familiar tickle of burning buildings to her nose.

One of his hands still held hers, out to the side now, the other slid up her flank, over the knobble of her hip bone, slid under her breast, thumb rubbing back and forth over her nipple, slightly pleasant, slightly clumsy. Her free hand brushed against his cock, already good and hard, up, and down, damp skin sticky on her palm. She lifted one foot, heel scraping loose plaster from the wall, wedged it on the windowsill so her legs were spread wide. His fingers slid back and forth between them with a soft squelch, squelch.

Her right hand was round under his jaw, twisted fingers pulling at his ear, turning his head sideways, thumb dragging his mouth open so she could push her tongue into it. It tasted of the cheap wine they’d been drinking, but hers probably did too, and who cared a shit anyway?

She drew him close, pressing up against him, skin sliding against skin. Not thinking about her dead brother, not thinking about her crippled hand, not thinking about the war outside, or needing a smoke, or the men she had to kill. Just his fingers and her fingers, his cock and her cunt. Not much, maybe, but something, and she needed something.

‘Get on and fuck me,’ she hissed in his ear.

‘Right,’ he croaked at her, hooked her under one knee, lifted her to the bed and dumped her on her back, frame creaking. She wriggled away, making room, and he knelt down between her open knees, working his way forwards, fierce grin on his face as he looked down at her. Same grin she had, keen to get on with it. She felt the end of his cock sliding around between her thighs, one side, then the other. ‘Where the fuck . . .’

‘Bloody Northmen, couldn’t find your arse with a chair.’

‘My arse ain’t the hole I’m looking for.’

‘Here.’ She dragged some spit off her tongue with her fingers, propped herself up on one elbow, reached down and took hold of him, working his cock around until she found the spot.

‘Ah.’

‘Ah,’ she grunted back. ‘That’s it.’

‘Aye.’ He moved his hips in circles, easing deeper with each one. ‘That . . . is . . . it.’ He ran his hands up her thighs, fingers into the short hair, started rubbing at her with his thumb.

‘Gently!’ She slapped his hand away and slid her own down in its place, middle finger working slowly round and round. ‘You’re not trying to crack a nut, fool.’

‘Your nut, your business, I reckon.’ His cock slid out as he worked his way forwards, onto his arms above her, but she slid it back in easy enough. They started finding a rhythm, patient but building, bit by bit.

She kept her eyes open, looking in his face, and she could see the gleam of his in the darkness looking back. Both of them with teeth bared, breathing hard. He opened his mouth to meet hers, then moved his head away as she craned up to kiss him, always just out of reach until she had to slump back flat with a gasp that sent a warm shiver through her.

She slid her right hand onto his backside, squeezing at one buttock as it tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed. Faster now, damp skin slap-slapping, and she pushed her twisted hand round further, down into the crack of his arse. She strained her head up off the bed again, biting at his lips, at his teeth, and he nipped at her, grunting in his throat and her grunting back. He came down onto one elbow, his other hand sliding up over her ribs, squeezing hard at one breast then the other, almost painful.

Creak, creak, creak, and her feet were off the bed and in the air, his hand tangled in her hair, fingers rubbing at the coins under her skin, dragging her head back, her face up against his, and she sucked his tongue out of his mouth and into hers, bit at it, licked at it. Deep, slobbery, hungry, snarling kisses. Hardly kisses at all. She pushed her finger into his arsehole, up to the first knuckle.

‘What the fuck?’ He broke clear of her as if she’d slapped him in the face, stopped moving, still and tense above her. She jerked her right hand back, left still busy between her legs.

‘Alright,’ she hissed. ‘Doesn’t make you less of a man, you know. Your arse, your business. I’ll keep clear of it in—’

‘Not that. D’you hear something?’

Monza couldn’t hear anything but her own fast breath and the faint sound of her fingers still sliding wetly up and down. She pushed her hips back up against him. ‘Come on. There’s nothing but—’

The door crashed open, wood flying from the splintered lock. Shivers scrambled from the bed, tangled with the blanket. Monza was dazzled by lamplight, caught a glimpse of bright metal, armour, a shout and a sword swung.

There was a metallic thud, Shivers gave a squawk and went down hard on the boards. Monza felt spots of blood patter on her cheek. She had the hilt of the Calvez in her hand. Right hand, stupidly, by force of habit, blade a few inches drawn.

‘No you don’t.’ A woman coming through the ruins of the door, loaded flatbow levelled, hair scraped back from a soft-looking round face. A man turned from standing over Shivers and towards Monza, sword in hand. She could scarcely see more of him than the outline of his armour, his helmet. Another soldier stomped through the door, lantern in one fist and an axe in the other, curved blade gleaming. Monza let her twisted fingers open and the Calvez clattered down beside the bed half-drawn.

‘That’s better,’ said the woman.

Shivers gave a groan, tried to push himself up, eyes narrowed against the light, blood trickling down his face from a cut in his hair. Must have been clubbed with the flat. The one with the axe stepped forwards and swung a boot into his ribs, thud, thud, made him grunt, curled up naked against the wall. A fourth soldier walked in, some dark cloth over one arm.

‘Captain Langrier.’

‘What did you find?’ asked the woman, handing him the flatbow.

‘This, and some others.’

‘Looks like a Talinese uniform.’ She held the jacket up so Monza could see it. ‘Got anything to say about this?’

The jolt of cold shock was fading, and an even frostier fear was pressing in fast behind it. These were Salier’s soldiers. She’d been so fixed on killing Ganmark, so fixed on Orso’s army, she hadn’t spared a thought for the other side. They’d got her attention now, alright. She felt a sudden need for another smoke, so bad she was nearly sick. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she managed to croak out, acutely aware she was stark naked and smelled sharply of fucking.

‘How do you know what I think?’

Another soldier with a big drooping moustache appeared in the doorway. ‘A load of bottles and suchlike in one of the rooms. Didn’t fancy touching ’em. Looked like poison to me.’

‘Poison, you say, Sergeant Pello?’ Langrier stretched her head to one side and rubbed at her neck. ‘Well, that is damn suspicious.’

‘I can explain it.’ Monza’s mouth was dry. She knew she couldn’t. Not in any way these bastards would believe.

‘You’ll get your chance. Back at the palace, though. Bind ’em up.’

Shivers grimaced as the axeman dragged his wrists behind his back and snapped manacles shut on them, hauled him to his feet. One of the others grabbed Monza’s arm, twisted it roughly behind her as he jammed the cuffs on.

‘Ah! Mind my hand!’ One of them dragged her off the bed, shoved her stumbling towards the door and she nearly slipped, getting her balance back without much dignity. There wasn’t much dignity to be had in all of this. Benna’s little glass statue watched from its niche. So much for household spirits. ‘Can we get some clothes at least?’

‘I don’t see why.’ They hauled her out onto the landing, into the light of another lantern. ‘Wait there.’ Langrier squatted down, frowning at the zigzag scars on Monza’s hip and along her thigh, neat pink dots of the pulled stitches almost faded. She prodded at them with one thumb as though she was checking a joint of meat in a butcher’s for rot. ‘You ever seen marks like that before, Pello?’

‘No.’

She looked up at Monza. ‘How did you get these?’

‘I was shaving my cunt and the razor slipped.’

The woman spluttered with laughter. ‘I like that. That’s funny.’

Pello was laughing too. ‘That is funny.’

‘Good thing you’ve got a sense of humour.’ Langrier stood up, brushing dust from her knees. ‘You’ll need that later.’ She thumped Monza on the side of the head with an open hand and sent her tumbling down the stairs. She fell on her shoulder with a jarring impact, the steps battered her back, skinned her knees, her legs went flying over. She squealed and grunted as the wood drove the air out of her, then the wall cracked her in the nose and knocked her sprawling, one leg buckled against the plaster. She lifted her head, groggy as a drunkard, the stairway still reeling. Her mouth tasted of blood. She spat it out. It filled up again.