The Collected Joe Abercrombie (310 page)

Shivers was walking slowly over from one of the doorways. He barely even glanced at Ganmark’s impaled corpse as he passed. ‘None left?’

‘Not in here.’ Friendly nodded towards the gate. ‘Some out there, though.’

‘Reckon so.’ The Northman stopped not far away. His hanging axe, his dented shield, his pale face and the bandages across one half of it were all dashed and speckled dark red.

‘You alright?’ asked Monza

‘Don’t rightly know what I am.’

‘Are you hurt, I’m asking?’

He touched one hand to the bandages. ‘No worse’n before we started . . . reckon I must be beloved o’ the moon today, as the hillmen say.’ His eye rolled down to her bloody shoulder, her bloody hand. ‘You’re bleeding.’

‘My fencing lesson turned ugly.’

‘You need a bandage?’

She nodded towards the gateway, the noise of the Talinese soldiers on the other side getting louder with every moment. ‘We’ll be lucky if we get the time to bleed to death.’

‘What now, then?’

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. There was no use fighting, even if she’d had the strength. The palace would be swarming with Orso’s soldiers. There was no use surrendering, even if she’d been the type. They’d be lucky if they made it back to Fontezarmo to be killed. Benna had always warned her she didn’t think far enough ahead, and it seemed he’d had a point—

‘I’ve an idea.’ Day’s face had broken out in an unexpected smile. Monza followed her pointing finger, up to the roofline above the garden, and squinted into the sun. A black figure crouched there against the bright sky.

‘A fine afternoon to you!’ She never thought she’d be glad to hear Castor Morveer’s scraping whine. ‘I was hoping to view the Duke of Visserine’s famous collection and I appear to have become entirely lost! I don’t suppose any of you kind gentlefolk know where I might find it? I hear he has Bonatine’s greatest work!’

Monza jerked her bloody thumb at the ruined statue. ‘Not all it’s cracked up to be!’

Vitari had appeared beside the poisoner now, was smoothly lowering a rope. ‘We’re rescued,’ grunted Friendly, in just the same tone as he might have said, ‘We’re dead.’

Monza hardly had the energy even to feel pleased. She hardly knew if she was pleased. ‘Day, Shivers, get up there.’

‘No doubt.’ Day tossed her bow away and ran for it. The Northman frowned at Monza for a moment, then followed.

Friendly was looking down at Cosca. ‘What about him?’ The old mercenary seemed to have dozed off for a moment, eyelids flickering.

‘We’ll have to pull him up. Get a hold.’

The convict slid one arm around his back and started to lift him. Cosca woke with a jolt, grimaced. ‘Dah! No, no, no, no, no.’ Friendly let him carefully back down and Cosca shook his scabby head, breathing ragged. ‘I’m not screaming my way up a rope just so I can die on a roof. Here’s as good a place as any, and this as good a time. I’ve been promising to do it for years. Might as well keep my word this once.’

She squatted down beside him. ‘I’d rather call you a liar one more time, and keep you watching my back.’

‘I only stayed there . . . because I like looking at your arse.’ He bared his teeth, winced, gave a long growl. The clanging at the gate was getting louder.

Friendly offered Cosca’s sword to him. ‘They’ll be coming. You want this?’

‘Why would I? It was messing with those things got me into this fix in the first place.’ He tried to shift, winced and sagged back, his skin already carrying that waxy sheen that corpses have.

Vitari and Morveer had bundled Shivers over the gutter and onto the roof. Monza jerked her head at Friendly. ‘Your turn.’

He crouched there for a moment, not moving, then looked to Cosca. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

The old mercenary took Friendly’s big hand and smiled as he gave it a squeeze. ‘I am touched beyond words to hear you make the offer. But no, my friend. This I had better handle alone. Give your dice a roll for me.’

‘I will.’ Friendly stood and strode off towards the rope without a backward glance. Monza watched him go. Her hands, her shoulder, her leg burned, her battered body ached. Her eyes slunk over the bodies scattered across the garden. Sweet victory. Sweet vengeance. Men turned into meat.

‘Do me one favour.’ Cosca had a sad smile, almost as if he guessed her thoughts.

‘You came back for me, didn’t you? I can stretch to one.’

‘Forgive me.’

She made a sound – half-snort, half-retch. ‘I thought I was the one betrayed you?’

‘What does it matter now? Treachery is commonplace. Forgiveness is rare. I’d rather go without any debts. Except all the money I owe in Ospria. And Adua. And Dagoska.’ He weakly waved one bloody hand. ‘Let’s say no debts to you, anyway, and leave it at that.’

‘That I can do. We’re even.’

‘Good. I lived like shit. Glad to see at least I got the dying right. Get on.’

Part of her wanted to stay with him, to be with him when Orso’s men broke through the gate, make sure there really were no debts. But not that big a part. She’d never been prone to sentiment. Orso had to die, and if she was killed here, who’d get it done? She pulled the Calvez from the ground, slid it back into its sheath and turned without another word. Words are poor tools at a time like that. She limped to the rope, tied it off under her hips the best she could, twisted it around her wrist.

‘Let’s go!’

From the roof Monza could see right across the city. The wide curve of the Visser and its graceful bridges. The many towers poking at the sky, dwarfed by pillars of smoke still rising from the scattered fires. Day had already got a pear from somebody and was biting happily into it, yellow curls blowing on the breeze, juice gleaming on her chin.

Morveer raised one eyebrow at the carnage down in the garden. ‘I am relieved to observe that, in my absence, you succeeded in keeping the slaughter under tight control.’

‘Some things never change,’ she snapped at him.

‘Cosca?’ asked Vitari.

‘Not coming.’

Morveer gave a sickening little grin. ‘He failed to save his own skin this time? So a drunkard can change after all.’

Rescue or not, Monza would have stabbed him at that moment if she’d had a good hand to do it with. From the way Vitari scowled at the poisoner, she was feeling much the same. She jerked her spiky head towards the river instead. ‘We should have the tearful reunion down in the boat. The city’s full of Orso’s troops. High time we were floating out to sea.’

Monza took one last look back. All was still down in the garden. Salier had slid from the fallen statue’s pedestal and rolled onto his back, arms outstretched as if welcoming a dear old friend. Ganmark knelt in a wide slick of blood, impaled on The Warrior’s great bronze blade, head dangling. Cosca’s eyes were closed, hands resting in his lap, a slight smile still on his tipped-back face. Cherry blossom wafted down and settled across his stolen uniform.

‘Cosca, Cosca,’ she murmured. ‘What will I do without you?’

V

PURANTI

‘For mercenaries are disunited, thirsty for power, undisciplined, and disloyal; they are brave among their friends and cowards before the enemy; they have no fear of God, they do not keep faith with their fellow men; they avoid defeat just as long as they avoid battle; in peacetime you are despoiled by them and in wartime by the enemy’

Niccolò Machiavelli

F
or two years, half the Thousand Swords pretended to fight the other half.
Cosca, when he was sober enough to speak, boasted that never before in history had men made so much for doing so little. They sucked the coffers of Nicante and Affoia bone dry, then turned north when their hopes were dashed by the sudden outbreak of peace, seeking new wars to profit from, or ambitious employers to begin them.

No employer was more ambitious than Orso, the new Grand Duke of Talins, kicked to power after his elder brother was kicked by his favourite horse. He was all too eager to sign a Paper of Engagement with the well-known mercenary Monzcarro Murcatto. Especially since his enemies in Etrea had but lately hired the infamous Nicomo Cosca to lead their troops.

It proved difficult to bring the two to battle, however. Like two cowards circling before a brawl, they spent a whole season in ruinously expensive manoeuvrings, doing much harm to the farmers of the region but little to each other. They were finally urged together in ripe wheat-fields near the village of Afieri, where a battle seemed sure to follow. Or something that looked very like one.

But that evening Monza had an unexpected visitor to her tent. None other than Duke Orso himself.

‘Your Excellency, I had not expected—’

‘No need for pleasantries. I know what Nicomo Cosca has planned for tomorrow.’

Monza frowned. ‘I imagine he plans to fight, and so do I.’

‘He plans no such thing, and neither do you. The pair of you have been making fools of your employers for the past two years. I do not care to be made a fool of. I can see fake battles in the theatre at a fraction of the cost. That is why I will pay you twice to fight him in earnest.’

Monza had not been expecting this. ‘I . . .’

‘You have loyalty to him, I know. I respect that. Everyone must stick at something in their lives. But Cosca is the past, and I have decided that you are the future. Your brother agrees with me.’

Monza had certainly not been expecting that. She stared at Benna, and he grinned back. ‘It’s better like this. You deserve to lead.’

‘I can’t . . . the other captains will never—’

‘I spoke to them already,’ said Benna. ‘All except Faithful, and that old dog will follow along when he sees how the wind’s blowing. They’re sick of Cosca, and his drinking, and his foolishness. They want a long contract and a leader they can be proud of. They want you.’

The Duke of Talins was watching. She could not afford to seem reluctant. ‘Then I accept, of course. You had me at paid twice,’ she lied.

Orso smiled. ‘I have a feeling you and I will do well for one another, General Murcatto. I will look forward to news of your victory tomorrow.’ And he left.

When the tent flap dropped Monza cuffed her brother across the face and knocked him to the ground. ‘What have you done, Benna? What have you done?’

He looked sullenly up at her, one hand to his bloody mouth. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘No you fucking didn’t! You thought you’d be. I hope you are.’

But there was nothing she could do but forgive him, and make the best of it. He was her brother. The only one who really knew her. And Sesaria, Victus, Andiche and most of the other captains had agreed. They were tired of Nicomo Cosca. So there could be no turning back. The next day, as dawn slunk out of the east and they prepared for the coming battle, Monza ordered her men to charge in earnest. What else could she do?

By evening she was sitting in Cosca’s chair, with Benna grinning beside her and her newly enriched captains drinking to her first victory. Everyone laughed but her. She was thinking of Cosca, and all he had given her, what she had owed him and how she had paid him back. She was in no mood to celebrate.

Besides, she was captain general of the Thousand Swords. She could not afford to laugh.

Sixes

T
he dice came up a pair of sixes. In the Union they call that score suns, like the sun on their flag. In Baol they call it twice won, because the house pays double on it. In Gurkhul they call it the Prophet or the Emperor, depending where a man’s loyalty lies. In Thond it is the golden dozen. In the Thousand Isles, twelve winds. In Safety they call two sixes the jailer, because the jailer always wins. All across the Circle of the World men cheer for that score, but to Friendly it was no better than any other. It won him nothing. He turned his attention back to the great bridge of Puranti, and the men crossing it.

The faces of the statues on their tall columns might have worn to pitted blobs, the roadway might have cracked with age and the parapet crumbled, but the six arches still soared tall and graceful, scornful of the dizzy drop below. The great piers of rock from which they sprang, six times six strides high, still defied the battering waters. Six hundred years old and more, but the Imperial bridge was still the only way across the Pura’s deep gorge at this time of year. The only way to Ospria by land.

The army of Grand Duke Rogont marched across it in good order, six men abreast. The regular tramp, tramp of their boots was like a mighty heartbeat, accompanied by the jingle and clatter of arms and harness, the occasional calls of officers, the steady murmur of the watching crowd, the rushing throb of the river far below. They had been marching across it all morning, now, by company, by battalion, by regiment. Moving forests of spear tips, gleaming metal and studded leather. Dusty, dirty, determined faces. Proud flags hanging limp on the still air. Their six-hundredth rank had passed not long before. Some four thousand men across already and at least as many more to follow. Six, by six, by six, they came.