The Collected Joe Abercrombie (335 page)

The only other occupant of the chamber had his well-dressed back to Morveer, prostrate upon one knee on the strip of crimson carpet, clutching his hat in one hand. Even from the very back of the hall the gleaming sheen of sweat across his bald patch was most evident.

‘What help from my son-in-law,’ Orso was demanding in stentorian tones, ‘the High King of the Union?’

The voice of the ambassador, for it appeared to be none other, had the whine of a well-whipped dog expecting further punishment. ‘Your son-in-law sends his earnest regrets—’

‘Indeed? But no soldiers! What would he have me do? Shoot his regrets at my enemies?’

‘His armies are all committed in our unfortunate Northern wars, and a revolt in the city of Rostod causes further difficulties. The nobles, meanwhile, are reluctant. The peasantry are again restless. The merchants—’

‘The merchants are behind on their payments. I see. If excuses were soldiers he would have sent a mighty throng indeed.’

‘He is beset by troubles—’

‘He is beset? He is? Are his sons murdered? Are his soldiers butchered? Are his hopes all in ruins?’

The ambassador wrung his hands. ‘Your Excellency, he is spread thin! His regrets have no end, but—’

‘But his help has no beginning! High King of the Union! A fine talker, and a goodly smile when the sun is up, but when the clouds come in, look not for shelter in Adua, eh? My intervention on his behalf was timely, was it not? When the Gurkish horde clamoured at his gates! But now I need his help . . . forgive me, Father, I am spread thin. Out of my sight, bastard, before your master’s regrets cost you your tongue! Out of my sight, and tell the Cripple that I see his hand in this! Tell him I will whip the price from his twisted hide!’ The grand duke’s furious screams echoed out over the hurried footsteps of the ambassador, edging backwards as quickly as he dared, bowing profusely and sweating even more. ‘Tell him I will be revenged!’

The ambassador genuflected his way past Morveer, and the double doors were heaved booming shut upon him.

‘Who is that skulking at the back of the chamber?’ Orso’s voice was no more reassuring for its sudden calmness. Quite the reverse.

Morveer swallowed as he processed down the blood-red strip of carpet. Orso’s eye held a look of the most withering command. It reminded Morveer unpleasantly of his meeting with the headmaster of the orphanage, when he was called to account for the dead birds. His ears burned with shame and horror at the memory of that interview, more even than his legs burned at the memory of his punishment. He swept out his lowest and most sycophantic bow, unfortunately spoiling the effect by rapping his knuckles against the floor in his nervousness.

‘This is one Castor Morveer, your Excellency,’ intoned the chamberlain, peering down his bulbous nose.

Orso leaned forwards. ‘And what manner of a man is Castor Morveer?’

‘A poisoner.’

‘Master . . . Poisoner,’ corrected Morveer. He could be as obsequious as the next man, when it was required, but he flatly insisted on his proper title. Had he not earned it, after all, with sweat, danger, deep wounds both physical and emotional, long study, short mercy and many, many painful reverses?

‘Master, is it?’ sneered Orso. ‘And what great notables have you poisoned to earn the prefix?’

Morveer permitted himself the faintest of smiles. ‘Grand Duchess Sefeline of Ospria, your Excellency. Count Binardi of Etrea, and both his sons, though their boat subsequently sank and they were never found. Ghassan Maz, Satrap of Kadir, and then, when further problems presented themselves, his successor Souvon-yin-Saul. Old Lord Isher, of Midderland, he was one of mine. Prince Amrit, who would have been heir to the throne of Muris—’

‘I understood he died of natural causes.’

‘What could be a more natural death for a powerful man than a dose of Leopard Flower administered into the ear by a dangling thread? Then Admiral Brant, late of the Murisian fleet, and his wife. His cabin boy too, alas, who happened by, a young life cut regrettably short. I would hate to prevail upon your Excellency’s valuable time, the list is long indeed, most distinguished and . . . entirely dead. With your permission I will add only the most recent name upon it.’

Orso gave the most minute inclination of his head, sneering no longer, Morveer was pleased to note. ‘One Mauthis, head of the Westport office of the Banking House of Valint and Balk.’

The duke’s face had gone blank as a stone slab. ‘Who was your employer for that last?’

‘I make it a point of professionalism never to mention the names of my employers . . . but I believe these are exceptional circumstances. I was hired by none other than Monzcarro Murcatto, the Butcher of Caprile.’ His blood was up now, and he could not resist a final flourish. ‘I believe you are acquainted.’

‘Some . . . what,’ whispered Orso. The duke’s dozen guards stirred ominously as if controlled directly by their master’s mood. Morveer became aware that he might have gone a flourish too far, felt his bladder weaken and was forced to press his knees together. ‘You infiltrated the offices of Valint and Balk in Westport?’

‘Indeed,’ croaked Morveer.

Orso glanced sideways at the man with the curly hair. ‘I congratulate you on the achievement. Though it has been the cause of some considerable discomfort to me and my associates. Pray explain why I should not have you killed for it.’

Morveer attempted to pass it off with a vivacious chuckle, but it died a slow death in the chilly vastness of the hall. ‘I . . . er . . . had no notion, of course, that you were in any way to be discomfited. None. Really, it was all due to a regrettable failing, or indeed a wilful oversight, deliberate dishonesty, a lie, even, on the part of my cursed assistant that I took the job in the first place. I should never have trusted that greedy bitch . . .’ He realised he was doing himself no good by blaming the dead. Great men want living people to hold responsible, that they might have them tortured, hanged, beheaded and so forth. Corpses offer no recompense. He swiftly changed tack. ‘I was but the tool, your Excellency. Merely the weapon. A weapon I now offer for your own hand to wield, as you see fit.’ He bowed again, even lower this time, muscles in his rump, already sore from climbing the cursed mountainside to Fontezarmo, trembling in their efforts to prevent him from pitching on his face.

‘You seek a new employer?’

‘Murcatto proved as treacherous towards me as she did towards your illustrious Lordship. The woman is a snake indeed. Twisting, poisonous and . . . scaly,’ he finished lamely. ‘I was lucky to escape her toxic clutches with my life, and now seek redress. I am prepared to seek it most earnestly, and will not be denied!’

‘Redress would be a fine thing for us all,’ murmured the man with the curly hair. ‘News of Murcatto’s survival spreads through Talins like wild-fire. Papers bearing her face on every wall.’ A fact, Morveer had seen them as he passed through the city. ‘They say you stabbed her through the heart but she lived, your Excellency.’

The duke snorted. ‘Had I stabbed her, I would never have aimed for her heart. Without doubt her least vulnerable organ.’

‘They say you burned her, drowned her, cut her into quarters and tossed them from your balcony, but she was stitched back together and lived again. They say she killed two hundred men at the fords of the Sulva. That she charged alone into your ranks and scattered them like chaff on the wind.’

‘The stamp of Rogont’s theatrics,’ hissed the duke through gritted teeth. ‘That bastard was born to be an author of cheap fantasies rather than a ruler of men. We will hear next that Murcatto has sprouted wings and given birth to the second coming of Euz!’

‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Bills are posted on every street corner proclaiming her an instrument of the Fates, sent to deliver Styria from your tyranny.’

‘Tyrant, now?’ The duke barked a grim chuckle. ‘How quickly the wind shifts in the modern age!’

‘They say she cannot be killed.’

‘Do . . . they . . . indeed?’ Orso’s red-rimmed eyes swivelled to Morveer. ‘What do you say, poisoner?’

‘Your Excellency,’ and he plunged down into the lowest of bows once more, ‘I have fashioned a successful career upon the principle that there is nothing that lives that cannot be deprived of life. It is the remarkable ease of killing, rather than the impossibility of it, that has always caused me astonishment.’

‘Do you care to prove it?’

‘Your Excellency, I humbly entreat only the opportunity.’ Morveer swept out another bow. It was his considered opinion that one could never bow too much to men of Orso’s stamp, though he did reflect that persons of huge ego were a great drain on the patience of bystanders.

‘Then here it is. Kill Monzcarro Murcatto. Kill Nicomo Cosca. Kill Countess Cotarda of Affoia. Kill Duke Lirozio of Puranti. Kill First Citizen Patine of Nicante. Kill Chancellor Sotorius of Sipani. Kill Grand Duke Rogont, before he can be crowned. Perhaps I will not have Styria, but I will have revenge. On that you can depend.’

Morveer had been warmly smiling as the list began. By its end he was smiling no longer, unless one could count the fixed rictus he maintained across his trembling face only by the very greatest of efforts. It appeared his bold gambit had spectacularly oversucceeded. He was forcibly reminded of his attempt to discomfort four of his tormentors at the orphanage by placing Lankam salts in the water, which had ended, of course, with the untimely deaths of all the establishment’s staff and most of the children too.

‘Your Excellency,’ he croaked, ‘that is a significant quantity of murder.’

‘And some fine names for your little list, no? The rewards will be equally significant, on that you can rely, will they not, Master Sulfur?’

‘They will.’ Sulfur’s eyes moved from his fingernails to Morveer’s face. Different-coloured eyes, Morveer now noticed, one green, one blue. ‘I represent, you see, the Banking House of Valint and Balk.’

‘Ah.’ Suddenly, and with profound discomfort, Morveer placed the man. He had seen him talking with Mauthis in the banking hall in Westport but a few short days before he had filled the place with corpses. ‘Ah. I really had not the slightest notion, you understand . . .’ How he wished now that he had not killed Day. Then he could have noisily denounced her as the culprit and had something tangible with which to furnish the duke’s dungeons. Fortunately, it seemed Master Sulfur was not seeking scapegoats. Yet.

‘Oh, you were but the weapon, as you say. If you can cut as sharply on our behalf you have nothing to worry about. And besides, Mauthis was a terrible bore. Shall we say, if you are successful, the sum of one million scales?’

‘One . . . million?’ muttered Morveer.

‘There is nothing that lives that cannot be deprived of life.’ Orso leaned forwards, eyes fixed on Morveer’s face. ‘Now get about it!’

Night was falling when they came to the place, lamps lit in the grimy windows, stars spilled out across the soft night sky like diamonds on a jeweller’s cloth. Shenkt had never liked Affoia. He had studied there, as a young man, before he ever knelt to his master and before he swore never to kneel again. He had fallen in love there, with a woman too rich, too old and far too beautiful for him, and been made a whining fool of. The streets were lined not only with old pillars and thirsty palms, but with the bitter remnants of his childish shame, jealousy, weeping injustice. Strange, that however tough one’s skin becomes in later life, the wounds of youth never close.

Shenkt did not like Affoia, but the trail had led him here. It would take more than ugly memories to make him leave a job half-done.

‘That is the house?’ It was buried in the twisting backstreets of the city’s oldest quarter, far from the thoroughfares where the names of men seeking public office were daubed on the walls along with their great qualities and other, less complimentary words and pictures. A small building, with slumping lintels and a slumping roof, squeezed between a warehouse and a leaning shed.

‘That’s the house.’ The beggar’s voice was soft and stinking as rotten fruit.

‘Good.’ Shenkt pressed five scales into his scabby palm. ‘This is for you.’ He closed the man’s fist around the money then held it with his own. ‘Never come back here.’ He leaned closer, squeezed harder. ‘Not ever.’

He slipped across the cobbled street, over the wall before the house. His heart was beating unusually fast, sweat prickling his scalp. He crept across the overgrown front garden, old boots finding the silent spaces between the weeds, and to the lighted window. Reluctant, almost afraid, he peered through. Three children sat on a worn red carpet beside a small fire. Two girls and a boy, all with the same orange hair. They were playing with a brightly painted wooden horse on wheels. Clambering onto it, pushing each other around on it, pushing each other off it, to faint squeals of amusement. He squatted there, fascinated, and watched them.

Innocent. Unformed. Full of possibilities. Before they began to make their choices, or had their choices made for them. Before the doors began to close, and sent them down the only remaining path. Before they knelt. Now, for this briefest spell, they could be anything.

‘Well, well. What have we here?’

She was crouching above him on the low roof of the shed, her head on one side, a line of light from a window across the way cutting hard down her face, strip of spiky red hair, red eyebrow, narrowed eye, freckled skin, corner of a frowning mouth. A chain hung gleaming down from one fist, cross of sharpened metal swinging gently on the end of it.