The Collected Joe Abercrombie (38 page)

‘Gifts,’ he said sourly, ‘from our friend in the north, Bethod.’

‘Gifts?’

‘For the King, it seems.’ The Marshal scowled and sucked at his teeth. ‘Why don’t you have a look at what he sent us, Major?’

West walked over to the table, reached out and cautiously opened the lid of one of the boxes. An unpleasant smell flowed out, like well-rotted meat, but there was nothing inside but some brown dirt. He opened the next box. The smell was worse. More brown dirt, caked around the inside, and some hair, some strands of yellow hair. West swallowed, looked up at the frowning Lord Marshal. ‘Is this all, sir?’

Burr snorted. ‘If only. The rest we had to bury.’

‘Bury?’

The Marshal picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. ‘Captain Silber, Captain Hoss, Colonel Arinhorm. Those names mean anything to you?’

West felt sick. That smell. It reminded him of Gurkhul somehow, of the battlefield. ‘Colonel Arinhorm, I know,’ he mumbled, staring at the three boxes, ‘by reputation. He’s commander of the garrison at Dunbrec.’

‘Was,’ corrected Burr, ‘and the other two commanded small outposts nearby, on the frontier.’

‘The frontier?’ mumbled West, but he already guessed what was coming.

‘Their heads, Major. The Northmen sent us their heads.’ West swallowed, looking at the yellow hairs stuck to the inside of the box. ‘Three signs, they said, when it was time.’ Burr got up from his chair and stood, looking out of the window. ‘The outposts were nothing: wooden buildings mostly, a palisade wall, ditches and so on, lightly manned. Little strategic importance. Dunbrec is another matter.’

‘It commands the fords on the Whiteflow,’ said West numbly, ‘the best way out of Angland.’

‘Or in. A vital point. Considerable time and resources were spent on the defences there. The very latest designs were used, our finest architects. A garrison of three hundred men, with stores of weapons and food to stand a year of siege. It was considered impregnable, the lynchpin of our plans for the defence of the frontier.’ Burr frowned, deep grooves appearing across the bridge of his nose. ‘Gone.’

West’s head had started hurting again. ‘When, sir?’

‘When is the question. It must have been at least two weeks ago, for these “gifts” to have reached us. I am being called defeatist,’ said Burr sourly, ‘but I guess that the Northmen are loose and that, by now, they have overrun half of northern Angland. A mining community or two, several penal colonies, nothing so far of major importance, no towns to speak of, but they are coming, West, and fast, you may be sure of that. You don’t send heads to your enemy, then wait politely for a reply.’

‘What is being done?’

‘Precious little! Angland is in uproar, of course. Lord Governor Meed is raising every man, determined to march out and beat Bethod on his own, the idiot. Varying reports place the Northmen anywhere and everywhere, with a thousand men or a hundred thousand. The ports are choked with civilians desperate to escape, rumours are rife of spies and murderers loose in the country, and mobs seek out citizens with Northern blood and beat them, rob them, or worse. Put simply, it is chaos. Meanwhile we sit here on our fat arses, waiting.’

‘But . . . weren’t we warned? Didn’t we know?’

‘Of course!’ Burr threw his broad hand up in the air, ‘but no one took it very seriously, would you believe! Damn painted savage stabs himself on the floor of the Open Council, challenges us before the King, and nothing is done! Government by committee! Everyone pulling their own way! You can only react, never prepare!’ The Marshal coughed and burped, spat on the floor. ‘Gah! Damn it! Damn indigestion!’ He sat back in his chair, rubbing his stomach unhappily.

West hardly knew what to say. ‘How do we proceed?’ he mumbled.

‘We’ve been ordered north immediately, meaning as soon as anyone can be bothered to supply me with men and arms. The King, meaning that drunkard Hoff, has commanded me to bring these Northmen to heel. Twelve regiments of the King’s Own – seven of foot and five of horse, to be fleshed out with levies from the aristocracy, and whatever the Anglanders haven’t squandered before we get there.’

West shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘That should be an overwhelming force.’

‘Huh,’ grunted the Marshal. ‘It better be. It’s everything we have, more or less, and that worries me.’ West frowned. ‘Dagoska, Major. We cannot fight the Gurkish and the Northmen both at once.’

‘But surely, sir, the Gurkish, they wouldn’t risk another war so soon? I thought it was all idle talk?’

‘I hope so, I hope so.’ Burr pushed some papers absently around his desk. ‘But this new Emperor, Uthman, is not what we were expecting. He was the youngest son, but when he heard of his father’s death . . . he had all his brothers strangled. Strangled them himself, some say. Uthman-ul-Dosht, they are calling him. Uthman the Merciless. He has already declared his intention to recapture Dagoska. Empty talk, perhaps. Perhaps not.’ Burr pursed his lips. ‘They say he has spies everywhere. He might even now be learning of our troubles in Angland, might even now be preparing to take advantage of our weakness. We must be done quickly with these Northmen. Very quickly. Twelve regiments and levies from the noblemen. And from that point of view it could not be a worse time.’

‘Sir?’

‘This business with the Mercers. A bad business. Some of the big noblemen got stung. Brock, Isher, Barezin, and others. Now they’re dragging their feet with the levies. Who knows what they’ll send us, or when? Bunch of half-starved, unarmed beggars probably, an excuse to clean the scrapings from their land. A useless crowd of extra mouths to feed, and clothe, and arm, and we are desperately short of good officers.’

‘I have some good men in my battalion.’

Burr twitched impatiently. ‘Good men, yes! Honest men, enthusiastic men, but not experienced! Most of those who fought in the South did not enjoy it. They have left the army, and have no intention of returning. Have you seen how young the officers are these days? We’re a damn finishing school! And now His Highness the Prince has expressed his interest in a command. He doesn’t even know which end of a sword to hold, but he is set on glory and I cannot refuse him!’

‘Prince Raynault?’

‘If only!’ shouted Burr. ‘Raynault might actually be of some use! It’s Ladisla I’m talking of! Commanding a division! A man who spends a thousand marks a month on clothes! His lack of discipline is notorious! I’ve heard it said that he’s forced himself on more than one servant in the palace, but that the Arch Lector was able to silence the girls.’

‘Surely not,’ said West, although he had actually heard such a rumour himself.

‘The heir to the throne, in harm’s way, when the King is in poor health? A ludicrous notion!’ Burr got up, burping and wincing. ‘Damn this stomach!’ He stalked over to the window and frowned out across the Agriont.

‘They think it will be easily settled,’ he said quietly. ‘The Closed Council. A little jaunt in Angland, done with before the first snow falls. In spite of this shock with Dunbrec. They never learn. They said the same about our war with the Gurkish, and that nearly finished us. These Northmen are not the primitives they think. I fought with Northern mercenaries in Starikland: hard men used to hard lives, raised on warfare, fearless and stubborn, expert at fighting in the hills, in the forests, in the cold. They do not follow our rules, or even understand them. They will bring a violence and a savagery to the battlefield that would make the Gurkish blush.’ Burr turned away from the window, back to West. ‘You were born in Angland, weren’t you, Major?’

‘Yes, sir, in the south, near Ostenhorm. My family’s farm was there, before my father died . . .’ He trailed off.

‘You were raised there?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know the land then?’

West frowned. ‘In that region, sir, but I have not been back for—’

‘Do you know these Northmen?’

‘Some. There are still many living in Angland.’

‘You speak their tongue?’

‘Yes, a little, but they speak many—’

‘Good. I am putting together a staff, good men I can rely on to carry out my orders, and see to it that this army of ours does not fall apart before it even comes into contact with the enemy.’

‘Of course, sir.’ West racked his brains. ‘Captain Luthar is a capable and intelligent officer, Lieutenant Jalenhorm—’

‘Bah!’ shouted Burr, waving his hand in frustration, ‘I know Luthar, the boy’s a cretin! Just the sort of bright-eyed child that I was talking about! It’s you I need, West.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you! Marshal Varuz, the Union’s most famous soldier no less, has given you a glowing report. He says you are a most committed, tenacious, and hard-working officer. The very qualities I need! As a Lieutenant you fought in Gurkhul under Colonel Glokta, did you not?’

West swallowed. ‘Well, yes.’

‘And it is well known you were first through the breach at Ulrioch.’

‘Well, among the first, I was—’

‘You have led men in the field, and your personal courage is beyond question! There is no need to be modest, Major, you are the man for me!’ Burr sat back, a smile on his face, confident he had made his point. He burped again, holding up his hand. ‘My apologies . . . damn indigestion!’

‘Sir, may I be blunt?’

‘I am no courtier, West. You must always be blunt with me. I demand it!’

‘An appointment on a Lord Marshal’s staff, sir, you must understand. I am a gentleman’s son. A commoner. As commander of a battalion, I already have difficulty gaining the respect of the junior officers. The men I would have to give orders to if I were on your staff, sir, senior men with good blood . . .’ He paused, exasperated. The Marshal gazed blankly at him. ‘They will not permit it!’

Burr’s eyebrows drew together. ‘Permit it?’

‘Their pride will not allow it, sir, their—’

‘Damn their pride!’ Burr leaned forward, his dark eyes fixed on West’s face. ‘Now listen to me, and listen carefully. Times are changing. I don’t need men with good blood. I need men who can plan, and organise, give orders, and follow them. There will be no room in my army for those who cannot do as they are told, I don’t care how noble they are. As a member of my staff you represent me, and I will not be slighted or ignored.’ He burped suddenly, and smashed the table with his fist. ‘I will see to it!’ he roared. ‘Times are changing! They may not smell it yet, but they soon will!’

West stared dumbly back. ‘In any case,’ and Burr waved a dismissive hand, ‘I am not consulting with you, I am informing you. This is your new assignment. Your King needs you, your country needs you, and that is all. You have five days to hand over command of your battalion.’ And the Lord Marshal turned back to his papers.

‘Yes, sir,’ muttered West.

He fumbled the door shut behind him with numb fingers, walked slowly down the hallway, staring at the floor. War. War in the North. Dunbrec fallen, the Northmen loose in Angland. Officers hurried around him. Someone brushed past, but he hardly noticed. There were people in danger, mortal danger! People he knew maybe, neighbours from home. There was fighting even now, inside the Union’s borders! He rubbed his jaw. This war could be a terrible thing. Worse than Gurkhul had been, even, and he would be at the heart of it. A place on a Lord Marshal’s staff. Him? Collem West? A commoner? He still could hardly believe it.

West felt a sneaking, guilty glow of satisfaction. It was for just such an appointment that he had been working like a dog all these years. If he did well there was no telling where he might go. This war was a bad thing, a terrible thing, no doubt. He felt himself grinning. A terrible thing. But it just might be the making of him.

The Theatrical Outfitter’s

T
he deck creaked and shifted beneath his feet, the sail-cloth flapped gently, sea birds crowed and called in the salty air above.

‘I never thought to see such a thing,’ muttered Logen.

The city was a huge white crescent, stretching all round the wide blue bay, sprawling across many bridges, tiny in the distance, and onto rocky islands in the sea. Here and there green parks stood out from the confusion of buildings, the thin grey lines of rivers and canals shone in the sun. There were walls too, studded with towers, skirting the distant edge of the city and striking boldly through the jumble of houses. Logen’s jaw hung stupidly open, his eyes darted here and there, unable to take in the whole.

‘Adua,’ murmured Bayaz. ‘The centre of the world. The poets call her the city of white towers. Beautiful, isn’t she, from a distance?’ The Magus leaned towards him. ‘Believe me, though, she stinks when you get close.’

A vast fortress rose up from within the city, its sheer white walls towering above the carpet of buildings outside, bright sunlight glinting on shining domes within. Logen had never dreamed of a man-made thing so great, so proud, so strong. One tower in particular rose high, high over all the others, a tapering cluster of smooth, dark pillars, seeming to support the very sky.

‘And Bethod means to make war on this?’ he whispered. ‘He must be mad.’

‘Perhaps. Bethod, for all his waste and pride, understands the Union.’ Bayaz nodded towards the city. ‘They are jealous of one another, all those people. It may be a union in name, but they fight each other tooth and nail. The lowly squabble over trifles. The great wage secret wars for power and wealth, and they call it government. Wars of words, and tricks, and guile, but no less bloody for that. The casualties are many.’ The Magus sighed. ‘Behind those walls they shout and argue and endlessly bite one another’s backs. Old squabbles are never settled, but thrive, and put down roots, and the roots grow deeper with the passing years. It has always been so. They are not like you, Logen. A man here can smile, and fawn, and call you friend, give you gifts with one hand and stab you with the other. You will find this a strange place.’