The Collected Joe Abercrombie (304 page)

‘Mothers and whores,’ sneered Monza. ‘A curse on fucking artists. We were talking of Ganmark. Help me!’

Salier blew out a tired sigh. ‘Ah, Monzcarro, Monzcarro. If only you had sought my help five seasons ago, before Sweet Pines. Before Caprile. Even last spring, before you spiked Cantain’s head above his gate. Even then, the good we could have done, the blows we could have struck together for freedom. Even—’

‘Forgive me if I’m blunt, your Excellency, but I spent the night being beaten like a sack of meat.’ Monza’s voice cracked slightly on the last word. ‘You ask for my opinion. You’ve lost because you’re too weak, too soft and too slow, not because you’re too good. You fought alongside Orso happily enough when you shared the same goals, and smiled happily enough at his methods, as long as they brought you more land. Your men spread fire, rape and murder when it suited you. No love of freedom then. The only open hand the farmers of Puranti had from you back in those days was the one that crushed them flat. Play the martyr if you must, Salier, but not with me. I feel sick enough already.’

Cosca felt himself wincing. There was such a thing as too much truth, especially in the ears of powerful men.

The duke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Blunt, you say? If you spoke to Orso in such a manner it is small wonder he threw you down a mountain. I almost wish I had a long drop handy. Tell me, since candour seems the fashion, what did you do to anger Orso so? I thought he loved you like a daughter? Far more than his own children, not that any of those three ever were so very lovable – fox, shrew and mouse.’

Her bruised cheek twitched. ‘I became too popular with his people.’

‘Yes. And?’

‘He was afraid I might steal his throne.’

‘Indeed? And I suppose your eyes were never turned upon it?’

‘Only to keep him in it.’

‘Truly?’ Salier grinned sideways at Cosca. ‘It would hardly have been the first chair your loyal claws tore from under its owner, would it?’

‘I did nothing!’ she barked. ‘Except win his battles, make him the greatest man in Styria. Nothing!’

The Duke of Visserine sighed. ‘I have a fat body, Monzcarro, not a fat head, but have it your way. You are all innocence. Doubtless you handed out cakes at Caprile as well, rather than slaughter. Keep your secrets if you please. Much good may they do you now.’

Cosca narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare as they stepped out of an open doorway, through an echoing arcade and into the pristine garden at the centre of Salier’s gallery. Water trickled in pools at its corners. A pleasant breeze made the new flowers nod, stirred the leaves of the topiary, plucked specks of blossom from Suljuk cherry trees, no doubt torn from their native soil and brought across the sea for the amusement of the Duke of Visserine.

A magnificent sculpture towered over them in the midst of a cobbled space, twice life-size or more, carved from perfectly white, almost translucent marble. A naked man, lean as a dancer and muscular as a wrestler, one arm extended and with a bronze sword, turned dark and streaked with green, thrust forwards in the fist. As if directing a mighty army to storm the dining room. He had a helmet pushed back on the top of his head, a frown of stern command on his perfect features.

‘The Warrior,’ murmured Cosca, as the shadow of the great blade fell across his eyes, the glare of sunlight blazing along its edge.

‘Yes, by Bonatine, greatest of all Styrian sculptors, and this perhaps his greatest work, carved at the height of the New Empire. It originally stood on the steps of the Senate House in Borletta. My father took it as an indemnity after the Summer War.’

‘He fought a war?’ Monza’s split lip curled. ‘For this?’

‘Only a small one. But it was worth it. Beautiful, is it not?’

‘Beautiful,’ Cosca lied. To the starving man, bread is beautiful. To the homeless man, a roof is beautiful. To the drunkard, wine is beautiful. Only those who want for nothing else need find beauty in a lump of rock.

‘Stolicus was the inspiration, I understand, ordering the famous charge at the Battle of Darmium.’

Monza raised an eyebrow. ‘Leading a charge, eh? You’d have thought he’d have put some trousers on for work like that.’

‘It’s called artistic licence,’ snapped Salier. ‘It’s a fantasy, one can do as one pleases.’

Cosca frowned. ‘Really? I always felt a man makes more points worth making if he steers always close to the truth . . .’

Hurried boot heels cut him off and a nervous-looking officer rushed across the garden, face touched with sweat, a long smear of black mud down the left side of his jacket. He came to one knee on the cobbles, head bowed.

‘Your Excellency.’

Salier did not even look at him. ‘Speak, if you must.’

‘There has been another assault.’

‘So close to breakfast time?’ The duke winced as he placed a hand on his belly. ‘A typical Union man, this Ganmark, he has no more regard for mealtimes than you did, Murcatto. With what result?’

‘The Talinese have forced a second breach, towards the harbour. We drove them back, but with heavy losses. We are greatly outnumbered—’

‘Of course you are. Order your men to hold their positions as long as possible.’

The colonel licked his lips. ‘And then . . . ?’

‘That will be all.’ Salier did not take his eyes from the great statue.

‘Your Excellency.’ The man retreated towards the door. And no doubt to a heroic, pointless death at one breach or another. The most heroic deaths of all were the pointless ones, Cosca had always found.

‘Visserine will soon fall.’ Salier clicked his tongue as he stared up at the great image of Stolicus. ‘How profoundly . . . depressing. Had I only been more like this.’

‘Thinner waisted?’ murmured Cosca.

‘I meant warlike, but while we are wishing, why not a thin waist too? I thank you for your . . . almost uncomfortably honest counsel, General Murcatto. I may have a few days yet to make my decision.’ To delay the inevitable at the cost of hundreds of lives. ‘In the meantime, I hope the two of you will remain with us. The two of you, and your three friends.’

‘Your guests,’ asked Monza, ‘or your prisoners?’

‘You have seen how my prisoners are treated. Which would be your choice?’

Cosca took a deep breath, and scratched slowly at his neck. A choice that more or less made itself.

Vile Jelly

S
hivers’ face was near healed. Faint pink stripe left across his forehead, through his brow, across his cheek. More’n likely it would fade altogether in a few days more. His eye still ached a bit, but he’d kept his looks alright. Monza lay in the bed, sheet round her waist, skinny back turned towards him. He stood a moment, grinning, watching her ribs shift gently as she breathed, patches of shadow between them shrinking and growing. Then he padded from the mirror across to the open window, looking out. Beyond it the city was burning, fires lighting up the night. Strange thing though, he wasn’t sure which city, or why he was there. Mind was moving slowly. He winced, rubbing at his cheek.

‘Hurts,’ he grunted. ‘By the dead it hurts.’

‘Oh, that hurts?’ He whipped round, stumbling back against the wall. Fenris the Feared loomed over him, bald head brushing the ceiling, half his body tattooed with tiny letters, the rest all cased in black metal, face writhing like boiling porridge.

‘You’re . . . you’re fucking dead!’

The giant laughed. ‘I’ll say I’m fucking dead.’ He had a sword stuck right through his body, the hilt above one hip, point of the blade sticking out under his other arm. He jerked one massive thumb at the blood dripping from the pommel and scattering across the carpet. ‘I mean, this really hurts. Did you cut your hair? I liked you better before.’

Bethod pointed to his smashed-in head, a twisted mess of blood, brains, hair, bone. ‘Shuth uth, the pair o’ youth.’ He couldn’t speak right because his mouth was all squashed in on itself. ‘Thith ith whath hurts lookth like!’ He gave the Feared a pointless shove. ‘Why couldn’t you win, you thtupid half-devil bathtard?’

‘I’m dreaming,’ Shivers said to himself, trying to think his way through it, but his face was throbbing, throbbing. ‘I must be dreaming.’

Someone was singing. ‘I . . . am made . . . of death!’ Hammer banging on a nail. ‘I am the Great Leveller!’ Bang, bang, bang, each time sending a jolt of pain through Shivers’ face. ‘I am the storm in the High Places!’ The Bloody-Nine hummed to himself as he cut the corpse of Shivers’ brother into bits, stripped to the waist, body a mass of scars and twisted muscle all daubed-up with blood. ‘So you’re the good man, eh?’ He waved his knife at Shivers, grinning. ‘You need to fucking toughen up, boy. You should’ve killed me. Now help me get his arms off, optimist.’

‘The dead know I don’t like this bastard any, but he’s got a point.’ Shivers’ brother’s head peered down at him from its place nailed to Bethod’s standard. ‘You need to toughen up. Mercy and cowardice are the same. You reckon you could get this nail out?’

‘You’re a fucking embarrassment!’ His father, slack face streaked with tears, waving his jug around. ‘Why couldn’t you be the one dead, and your brother lived? You useless little fuck! You useless, gutless, disappointing speck o’ shit!’

‘This is rubbish,’ snarled Shivers through gritted teeth, sitting down on his crossed legs by the fire. His whole head was pulsing. ‘This is just . . . just rubbish!’

‘What’s rubbish?’ gurgled Tul Duru, blood leaking from his cut throat as he spoke.

‘All this. Faces from the past, saying meaningful stuff. Bit fucking obvious, ain’t it? Couldn’t you do better’n this shit?’

‘Uh,’ said Grim.

Black Dow looked a bit put out. ‘Don’t blame us, boy. Your dream, no? You cut your hair?’

Dogman shrugged. ‘If you was cleverer, maybe you’d have cleverer dreams.’

He felt himself grabbed from behind, face twisted round. The Bloody-Nine was there beside him, hair plastered to his head with blood, scarred face all dashed with black. ‘If you was cleverer, maybe you wouldn’t have got your eye burned out.’ And he ground his thumb into Shivers’ eye, harder and harder. Shivers thrashed, and twisted, and screamed, but there was no way free. It was already done.

He woke up screaming, ’course. He always did now. You could hardly call it a scream any more, his voice was worn down to a grinding stub, gravel in his raw throat.

It was dark. Pain tore at his face like a wolf at a carcass. He thrashed free of the blankets, reeled to nowhere. Like the iron was still pressed against him, burning. He crashed into a wall, fell on his knees. Bent over, hands squeezing the sides of his skull like they might stop his head from cracking open. Rocking, every muscle flexed to bursting. He groaned and moaned, whimpered and snarled, spat and blubbered, drooled and gibbered, mad from it, mindless with it. Touch it, press it. He held his quivering fingers to the bandages.

‘Shhhh.’ He felt a hand. Monza, pawing at his face, pushing back his hair.

Pain split his head where his eye used to be like an axe splitting a log, split his mind too, broke it open, thoughts all spilling out in a mad splatter. ‘By the dead . . . make it stop . . . shit, shit.’ He grabbed her hand and she winced, gasped. He didn’t care. ‘Kill me! Kill me. Just make it stop.’ He wasn’t even sure what tongue he was talking. ‘Kill me. By the . . .’ He was sobbing, tears stinging the eye he still had. She tore her hand away and he was rocking again, rocking, pain ripping through his face like a saw through a tree-stump. He’d tried to be a good man, hadn’t he?

‘I tried, I fucking tried. Make it stop . . . please, please, please, please—’

‘Here.’ He snatched hold of the pipe and sucked at it, greedy as a drunkard at the bottle. He hardly even marked the smoke biting, just heaved in air until his lungs were full, and all the while she held him, arms tight around him, rocking him back and forward. The darkness was full of colours, now. Covered with glittering smears. The pain was a step away, ’stead of pressed burning against him. His breathing had softened to a whimper, aching body all washed out.

She helped him up, dragging him to his feet, pipe clattering from his limp hand. The open window swayed, a painting of another world. Hell maybe, red and yellow spots of fire leaving long brushstrokes through the dark. The bed came up and swallowed him, sucked him down. His face throbbed still, pulsed a dull ache. He remembered, remembered why.

‘The dead . . .’ he whispered, tears running down his other cheek. ‘My eye. They burned my eye out.’

‘Shhhh,’ she whispered, gently stroking the good side of his face. ‘Quiet now, Caul. Quiet.’

The darkness was reaching for him, wrapping him up. Before it took him he twisted his fingers clumsily in her hair and dragged her face towards his, close enough almost to kiss his bandages.

‘Should’ve been you,’ he whispered at her. ‘Should’ve been you.’

Other People’s Scores

‘T
hat’s his place,’ said the one with the sore on his cheek. ‘Sajaam’s place.’ A stained door in a stained wall, pasted with fluttering old bills decrying the League of Eight as villains, usurpers and common criminals. A pair of caricature faces stared from each one, a bloated Duke Salier and a sneering Duke Rogont. A pair of common criminals stood at the doorway, scarcely less caricatures themselves. One dark-skinned, the other with a heavy tattoo down one arm, both sweeping the street with identical scowls.