The Collected Joe Abercrombie (313 page)

‘I need no military genius to tell me this.’

‘I’ll find a place, somewhere between, and bring Carpi out. With two-score men I can get him killed. Small risk for either one of you.’

Rogont cleared his throat. ‘If you can bring that loyal old hound out of his kennel, then I can surely spare some men to put him down.’

Ishri watched Monza, just as Monza might have watched an ant. ‘And once he is at peace, if you can buy the Thousand Swords then I can furnish the money.’

If, if, if. But that was more than Monza had any right to hope for here. She could just as easily have left the meeting feet first. ‘Then it’s as good as done. To strange companions, eh?’

‘Indeed. God has truly blessed you.’ Ishri gave an extravagant yawn. ‘You came looking for one friend, and you leave with two.’

‘Lucky me,’ said Monza, far from sure she was leaving with any. She turned towards the gate, boot heels scraping against the worn marble, hoping she didn’t start shaking before she got there.

‘One more thing, Murcatto!’ She looked back to Rogont, standing alone now by his maps. Ishri had vanished as suddenly as she’d appeared. ‘Your position is weak, and so you are obliged to play at strength. I see that. You are what you are, bold beyond recklessness. I would not have it any other way. But I am what I am, also. Some more respect, in future, will make our marriage of mutual desperation run ever so much more smoothly.’

Monza gave an exaggerated curtsey. ‘Your Resplendence, I am not only weak, but abject with regret.’

Rogont slowly shook his head. ‘That officer of mine really should have drawn and run you through.’

‘Is that what you’d have done?’

‘Oh, pity, no.’ He looked back to his charts. ‘I’d have asked for more spit.’

Neither Rich nor Poor

S
henkt hummed to himself as he walked down the shabby corridor, his footfalls making not the slightest sound. The exact tune always somehow eluded him. A nagging fragment of something his sister sang when he was a child. He could see the sunlight still, through her hair, the window at her back, face in shadow. All long ago, now. All faded, like cheap paints in the sun. He had never been much of a singer himself. But he hummed, at least, and imagined his sister’s voice singing along with him, and that was some comfort.

He put his knife away, and the carved bird too, almost finished now, though the beak was giving him some trouble and he did not wish to break it by rushing. Patience. As vital to the wood-carver as it is to the assassin. He stopped before the door. Soft, pale pine, full of knots, badly jointed, light shining through a split. He wished, sometimes, that his work took him to better places. He raised one boot, and burst the lock apart with a single kick.

Eight sets of hands leaped to weapons as the door splintered from its hinges. Eight hard faces snapped towards him, seven men and a woman. Shenkt recognised most of them. They had been among the kneeling half-circle in Orso’s throne room. Killers, sent after Prince Ario’s murderers. Comrades, of a kind, in the hunt. If the flies on a carcass can be said to be comrades to the lion that made the kill. He had not expected such as these to beat him to his quarry, but he was long past being surprised by the turns life took. His twisted like a snake in its death throes.

‘Have I come at a bad time?’ he asked.

‘It’s him.’

‘The one who wouldn’t kneel.’

‘Shenkt.’ This last from the man who had blocked his path in Orso’s throne room. The one he had advised to pray. Shenkt hoped he had taken the advice, but did not think it likely. A couple of them relaxed when they recognised his face, pushed back their half-drawn blades, thinking him one of their number.

‘Well, well.’ A man with a pockmarked face and long, black hair seemed to be in charge. He reached out and gently pushed the woman’s bow towards the floor with one finger. ‘My name’s Malt. You’re just in time to help us bring them in.’

‘Them?’

‘The ones his Excellency Duke Orso’s paying us to find, who do you think? Over there, in the smoke-house yonder.’

‘All of them?’

‘The leader, anyway.’

‘How do you know you have the right man?’

‘Woman. Pello knows, don’t you, Pello?’

Pello was possessed of a ragged moustache and a look of sweaty desperation. ‘It’s Murcatto. The same one who led Orso’s army at Sweet Pines. She was in Visserine, not but a month ago. Took her prisoner. Questioned her myself. That’s where the Northman lost his eye.’ The Northman called Shivers, that Sajaam had spoken of. ‘In Salier’s palace. She killed Ganmark there, that general of Orso’s, few days afterward.’

‘The Snake of Talins herself,’ said Malt proudly, ‘and still alive. What do you think of that?’

‘I am all amaze.’ Shenkt walked slowly to the window and peered out across the street. A shabby-looking place for a famous general, but such was life. ‘She has men with her?’

‘Just this Northman. Nothing we can’t deal with. Lucky Nim and two of her boys are waiting in the alley at the back. When the big clock next chimes, we go in the front. They won’t be getting away.’

Shenkt looked slowly round at each suspicious face, and gave each man a chance. ‘You all are determined to do this? All of you?’

‘Of fucking course we are. You’ll find no faint hearts here, my friend.’ Malt looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You want to come in with us?’

‘With you?’ Shenkt took a long breath, then sighed. ‘Great tempests wash up strange companions.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘We don’t need this fucker.’ The one Shenkt had told to pray, again, making a great show of a curved knife. A man of small patience, evidently. ‘I say we cut his throat, and one less share to pay.’

Malt gently pushed his knife down. ‘Come now, no need to be greedy. I’ve been on jobs like that before, everyone stuck on the money not the work, watching their backs every minute. Bad for your health and your business. We’ll do this civilised, or not at all. What do you say?’

‘I say civilised,’ said Shenkt. ‘For pity’s sake, let’s kill like honest men.’

‘Exactly so. With what Orso’s paying, there’ll be enough for everyone. Equal shares all round, and we can all be rich.’

‘Rich?’ Shenkt smiled sadly as he shook his head. ‘The dead are neither rich nor poor.’ The look of mild surprise was just forming on Malt’s face when Shenkt’s pointing finger split it neatly in half.

Shivers sat on the greasy bed, back pressed to the dirty wall, with Monza sprawled on top of him. Her head lay in his lap, breath hissing shallow, in and out. The pipe was still in her bandaged left hand, smoke twisting from the embers in a brown streak. He frowned at it creeping through the shafts of light, rippling, spreading, filling the room with sweet haze.

Husk was good stuff for pain. Too good, to Shivers’ mind. So good you always needed more. So good that after a while stubbing your toe seemed like excuse enough. Took your edge off, all that smoking, left you soft. Maybe Monza had more edge than she wanted, but he didn’t trust it. The smoke was tickling at his nose, making him feel sick and needy both together. His eye was itching under the bandages. Would’ve been easy to do it. Where was the harm . . . ?

He had a sudden panic, wriggling out from under her like he was buried alive. Monza gave an irritated burble then fell back, eyelids flickering, hair stuck across her clammy face. Shivers ripped back the bolt on the window and pulled the wonky shutters open, getting a nice view of the rotting alley behind the building and a face full of cold, piss-smelling air. At least that smell was honest.

There were two men down there by a back door, and a woman holding one hand up. A bell rang out, from a high clock tower in the next street. The woman nodded, the men pulled out a bright sword and a heavy mace. She opened the door and they hurried in.

‘Shit,’ hissed Shivers, hardly able to believe it. Three of ’em and, from the way they’d been waiting, most likely more coming in the front. Too late to run. But then Shivers was sick of running anyway. He had his pride, still, didn’t he? Running from the North and down here to fucking Styria was what landed him in this one-eyed mess in the first place.

He reached towards Monza, but stopped short. State she was in she’d be no use. So he let her be, slid out the heavy knife she’d given him the first day they met. The grip was firm in his hand and he squeezed it tight. They were better armed, maybe, but big weapons and small rooms don’t mix. Surprise was on his side, and that’s the best weapon a man can have. He pressed himself into the shadows behind the door, feeling his heart thumping, the breath burning in his throat. No fear, no doubt, just furious readiness.

He heard their soft steps on the stairs and had to stop himself laughing. A bit of a giggle crept out all the same, and he didn’t know why, ’cause there was nothing funny. A creak and a muttered curse. Not the sharpest assassins in the whole Circle of the World. He bit on his lip, trying to stop his ribs shaking. Monza stirred, stretched out smiling on the greasy blanket.

‘Benna . . .’ she murmured. The door was yanked open and the swordsman sprang in. Monza’s eyes came blearily open. ‘Whathe—’

The second man barged in like a fool, knocking his mate off balance, lifting his mace over his head, tip scraping a little shower of plaster from the low ceiling. It was almost like he was offering it up. Would’ve seemed rude to turn it down, so Shivers snatched it from his hand while he stabbed the first one in the back.

The blade slid in and out of him. Quick, quiet scrapes, up to the hilt. Shivers growled through his teeth, half-sniggering with the leftover shreds of laughter, arm pumping in and out. The stabbed man made a shocked little hoot each time, not sure what was happening yet, twisted round, jerking the knife out of Shivers’ hand.

The other one turned, eyes wide, too close to swing at. ‘Wha—’

Shivers thumped him in the nose with the butt of the mace and felt it pop, sent him reeling towards the empty fireplace. The stabbed man’s knees went, he caught his sword point on the wall above Monza and pitched on top of her. No need to worry about him. Shivers took a short stride, dropping onto his knees so the mace wouldn’t hit the ceiling, roaring as he swung the big lump of metal. It hit its previous owner in the forehead with a meaty crunch, stove his skull in, spattered the ceiling with spots of blood.

He heard a scream behind, twisted round. The woman sprang through the door, a short blade in each hand. Monza’s kicking leg tripped her as she struggled out from under the dying swordsman. Happy chance, the woman’s scream switching from fury to shock as she blundered into Shivers’ arms, fumbling one of her knives. He grabbed her other wrist as he went down under her, on top of the maceman’s corpse, his head smacking against the side of the fireplace and leaving him blinded for a moment.

He kept his grip on her wrist, felt her nails tearing at his bandages. They growled stupidly at each other, her hair hanging down and tickling at him, tongue stuck between her teeth with the effort as she tried to push the blade into his neck with all her weight. Her breath smelled of lemons. He wrenched himself round and punched her under the jaw, snapped her head up, teeth sinking deep into her tongue.

Same moment the sword hacked clumsily into her arm, the point almost catching Shivers’ shoulder, making him jerk back. Monza’s white face behind her, eyes hardly focused. The woman howled, tried to drag herself free. Another fumbling sword blow caught the top of her head with the flat and knocked her sideways. Monza floundered into the wall, tripped over the bed, almost stabbing herself as the sword clattered from her hand. Shivers twisted the blade from the woman’s limp grip and stabbed her under the jaw right to the hilt, blood spraying out across Monza’s shirt and up the wall.

He kicked himself free of the tangle of limbs, scrabbling up the mace, pulling his knife from the dead swordsman’s back and pushing it into his belt, stumbling for the door. The corridor outside was empty. He grabbed

Monza’s wrist and dragged her up. She was staring down at herself, soaked with the woman’s blood.

‘Wha . . . wha . . .’

He pulled her limp arm over his shoulder and hauled her through the door, bundled her down the stairs, her boots clattering against the treads. Out through the open back door into sunlight. She tottered a step and blew thin vomit down the wall. Groaned and heaved again. He pushed the haft of the mace up his sleeve, the bloody head in his fist, ready to let it drop if he needed to. He realised he was sniggering again as he did it. Couldn’t see why. Still nothing funny. Quite the opposite, far as he could tell. Still laughing, though.