The Collected Joe Abercrombie (56 page)

‘Up, man!’ laughed her brother, ‘up and at her! There’s still a chance!’ The soldier thrashed on the ground. Ferro’s sword hacked into his face, putting a sharp end to his screams. Nearby the second rider was still in his saddle, face twisted, gasping his last breaths, hand clutched around the bloody shaft of her arrow. His horse put its head down and started nibbling at the dry grass by its hooves.

‘That’s all of them,’ said the woman.

‘I know.’ Her brother sighed deep. ‘Must one do everything oneself?’

Ferro glanced up at them as she pushed the bloody sword back through her belt. They were sitting carelessly on their horses not far off, the sun bright behind them, smiles on their cruel, handsome faces. They were dressed like lords, silk flapping round them in the breeze, heavy with jewellery, but neither one was armed. Ferro scrambled for her bow.

‘Be careful, brother,’ said the woman, examining her fingernails. ‘She fights well.’

‘Like a devil! But she is no match for me, sister, have no fear.’ He sprang down from his saddle. ‘So then, Maljinn, shall we . . .’

The arrow stuck him through the chest, deep through, with a hollow thud.

‘. . . begin?’ The shaft quivered, its point glittering behind him, dry and bloodless. He began to walk towards her. Her next arrow caught him through the shoulder, but he only came on faster, breaking into a run, bounding forward with enormous strides. She dropped the bow, fingers fumbling for the grip of her sword. Too slow. His outstretched arm caught her across the chest with terrible force, slamming her into the earth.

‘Oh, well done, brother!’ The woman clapped her hands with delight. ‘Well done!’

Ferro rolled coughing in the dust. She saw the man watching her as she struggled to her feet, the sword clutched in both hands. She swung it at him, a great overhead arc. It bit deep into the earth. Somehow he had already danced aside. A foot came out of nowhere and sank into her stomach. She doubled over, powerless, the air driven from her body. Her fingers twitched, the sword was left stuck in the ground, her knees wobbled.

‘And now . . .’ Something crunched into her nose. Her legs buckled and the ground hit her hard in the back. She rolled groggily to her knees, the world turning over around her. There was blood on her face. She blinked and shook her head, trying to stop the world from spinning. The man was moving towards her, tipping, blurry. He jerked her arrow out of his chest and tossed it away. There was no blood, just a little dust. Just dust, curling in the air.

An Eater. He had to be.

Ferro stumbled up, pulling the knife from her belt. She thrust at him, missed, thrust again, missed again. Her head was swimming. She screamed, slashing at him with all her might.

He caught her wrist in his hand. Their faces were less than a foot apart. His skin was perfect, smooth, like dark glass. He looked young, almost like a child, but his eyes were old. Hard eyes. He watched her – curious, amused, like a boy who found an interesting beetle. ‘She doesn’t give up, does she, sister?’

‘Very fierce! The Prophet will be delighted with her!’

The man sniffed at Ferro and wrinkled his nose. ‘Ugh. She’d better be washed first.’

She butted him in the face. His head snapped back but he only giggled. He caught her round the throat with his free hand, shoved her out to arm’s length. She clawed at his face but his arm was too long, she couldn’t reach. He was prising her fingers from the handle of the knife. His grip was iron around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. She bared her teeth, struggling, snarling, thrashing. All in vain.

‘Alive, brother! We want her alive!’

‘Alive,’ murmured the man, ‘but not unharmed.’

The woman giggled. Ferro’s feet left the ground, kicking at the air. She felt one of her fingers snap and the knife dropped to the grass. The hand gripped tighter round her neck, and she tore at it with broken nails. All in vain. The bright world began to turn dark.

Ferro heard the woman laughing, far away. A face swam out of the darkness, a hand stroked Ferro’s cheek. The fingers were soft, warm, gentle.

‘Be still, child,’ whispered the woman. Her eyes were dark and deep. Ferro could feel her breath, hot and fragrant on her face. ‘You are hurt, you must rest. Be still now . . . sleep.’ Ferro’s legs were heavy as lead. She kicked weakly, one last time, then her body sagged. Her heart beat slow . . .

‘Rest now.’ Ferro’s eyelids began to droop, the woman’s beautiful face grew blurred.

‘Sleep.’ Ferro bit down hard on her tongue, and her mouth turned salty.

‘Be still.’ Ferro spat blood in the woman’s face.

‘Gah!’ she shouted in disgust, wiping blood from her eyes. ‘She fights me!’

‘Her kind fight everything,’ came the man’s voice, just behind Ferro’s ear.

‘Now listen to me, whore!’ hissed the woman, clutching Ferro’s jaw with steely fingers and yanking her face this way and that. ‘You are coming with us! With us! One way or another! You hear me?’

‘She goes nowhere.’ Another voice, deep and mellow. It seemed familiar. Ferro blinked, shook her head groggily. The woman had turned, looking at an old man, not far away. Yulwei. His bangles jingled as he padded softly across the grass. ‘Are you alive, Ferro?’

‘Gugh,’ she croaked.

The woman sneered at Yulwei. ‘Who are you, old bastard?’

Yulwei sighed. ‘I am an old bastard.’

‘Get you gone, dog!’ shouted the man. ‘We come from the Prophet. From Khalul himself!’

‘And she comes with us!’

Yulwei looked sad. ‘I cannot change your minds?’

They laughed together. ‘Fool!’ cried the man. ‘Our minds never change!’ He let go of one of Ferro’s arms, took a wary step forwards, dragging her with him.

‘A shame,’ said Yulwei, shaking his head. ‘I would have had you carry my respects to Khalul.’

‘The Prophet does not walk with the likes of you, beggar!’

‘I might surprise you. We knew each other well, long ago.’

‘I will give our master your respects then,’ jeered the woman, ‘with the news of your recent death!’ Ferro twisted her wrist, felt the knife drop into her palm.

‘Oh, Khalul would enjoy that news, but he will not receive it yet. The two of you have cursed yourselves. You have broken the Second Law. You have eaten the flesh of men, and there must be a reckoning.’

‘Old fool!’ sneered the woman. ‘Your laws do not apply to us!’

Yulwei slowly shook his head. ‘The word of Euz governs all. There can be no exceptions. Neither one of you will leave this place alive.’ The air around the old man shimmered, twisted, blurred. The woman gave a gurgle and dropped suddenly to the earth, more than falling – melting, flopping, dark silk flapping around her collapsing body.

‘Sister!’ The man let go of Ferro, sprang at Yulwei, arms outstretched. He got no further than a stride. He gave a sudden, shrill scream and dropped to his knees, clutching at his head. Ferro forced her stumbling feet forward, grabbed hold of his hair with her broken hand and drove the knife into his neck. Dust blew out into the wind. A fountain of dust. Flames flickered around his mouth, charring his lips black, licking burning hot at her fingers. She dropped on top of him, bearing him back onto the ground, choking, snorting. The blade opened up his stomach, scraped against his ribs, snapped off in his chest. Fire licked out. Fire and dust. She hacked at the body mindlessly with the broken knife, long after it had stopped moving.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. ‘He is dead, Ferro. They both are dead.’ She saw it was true. The man lay on his back, staring up at the sky, face charred round his nose and mouth, dust blowing from the gaping wounds.

‘I killed him.’ Her voice cracked and broken in her throat.

‘No, Ferro. I did that. They were young Eaters, weak and foolish. Still, you are lucky they wanted only to catch you.’

‘I am lucky,’ she mumbled, dribbling bloody spit onto the Eater’s corpse. She dropped the broken knife, crawled away on all fours. The body of the woman lay next to her, if you could call it that. A shapeless, lumpy mass of flesh. She saw long hair, and an eye, and lips.

‘What did you do?’ she croaked through her bloody mouth.

‘I turned her bones to water. And burned him from the inside. Water for one, fire for the other. Whatever works, for their kind.’ Ferro rolled over on the grass, looked up at the bright sky. She held her hand in front of her face, shook it. One of her fingers flopped back and forth.

Yulwei’s face appeared above, staring down at her. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘No,’ she whispered, letting her arm drop back to the earth. ‘It never does.’ She blinked up at Yulwei. ‘Why does it never hurt?’

The old man frowned. ‘They will not stop seeking for you, Ferro. Do you see now, why you have to come with me?’

She nodded slowly. The effort was immense. ‘I see,’ she whispered. ‘I see . . .’ The world grew dark again.

She Loves Me . . . Not

‘A
h!’ cried Jezal, as the point of Filio’s steel dug hard into his shoulder. He stumbled back, wincing and cursing, and the Styrian smiled at him and flourished his steels.

‘A touch to Master Filio!’ bellowed the referee. ‘That’s two each!’ There was some scattered clapping as Filio strutted back to the contestant’s enclosure with an irritating smile across his face. ‘Slippery bastard,’ Jezal hissed to himself as he followed. He should have seen that lunge coming. He had been careless, and he knew it.

‘Two apiece?’ hissed Varuz, as Jezal flopped down into his chair, breathing hard. ‘Two apiece? Against this nobody? He’s not even from the Union!’

Jezal knew better than to point out that Westport was supposed to be a part of the Union these days. He knew what Varuz meant, and so did everyone else in the arena. The man was an outsider as far as they were concerned. He grabbed the cloth from West’s outstretched hands and wiped his sweaty face. Five touches was a long match, but Filio looked far from exhausted. He was springing up and down on his toes as Jezal glanced across, nodding his head to the noisy Styrian advice spilling from his trainer.

‘You can beat him!’ West murmured, as he handed Jezal the water bottle. ‘You can beat him, and then it’s the final.’ The final. That meant Gorst. Jezal wasn’t entirely sure he wanted any of that.

But Varuz was in no doubt. ‘Just damn well beat him!’ hissed the Marshal, as Jezal took a swig from the bottle, swilled it round in his mouth. ‘Just beat him!’ Jezal spat half out into the bucket and swallowed the rest. Just beat him. Easy to say, but he was a devious bastard, this Styrian.

‘You can do it!’ said West again, rubbing Jezal’s shoulder. ‘You’ve come this far!’

‘Kill him! Just kill him!’ Marshal Varuz stared into Jezal’s eyes. ‘Are you a nobody, Captain Luthar? Did I waste my time on you? Or are you somebody? Eh? Now’s the time to decide!’

‘Gentlemen, please!’ called the referee, ‘the deciding touch!’

Jezal blew out hard, took his steels from West, got to his feet. He could hear Filio’s trainer shouting encouragements over the swelling noise of the crowd. ‘Just kill him!’ shouted Varuz one last time, then Jezal was off on his way to the circle.

The deciding touch. The decider. In so many ways. Whether Jezal would be in the final or not. Whether he would be somebody or not. He was tired though, very tired. He had been fencing solidly for nearly half an hour, in the heat, and that takes it out of you. He was sweating again already. He could feel it leaking out of his face in big drops.

He moved towards his mark. A bit of chalk on some dry grass. Filio was standing there waiting, still smiling, anticipating his triumph. The little shit. If Gorst could club those others around the circle, then surely Jezal could grind this fool’s face in the turf. He squeezed the grips of his steels and concentrated on that nauseating little smile. He wished for a moment that the steels weren’t blunted, until it occurred to him that he might be the one who got stabbed.

‘Begin!’

Jezal sorted through his cards, shuffling them this way and that in his hands, barely even looking at the symbols on them, barely caring whether he kept them out of sight of the others.

‘I’ll raise you ten,’ said Kaspa, sliding some coins across the table with a look that said . . . oh, something probably, Jezal didn’t care what, he really wasn’t concentrating. There was a lengthy pause.

‘It’s your bet, Jezal,’ grumbled Jalenhorm.

‘It is? Oh, er . . .’ He scanned across the meaningless symbols, unable to take any of it too seriously. ‘Erm, oh . . . I’ll fold.’ He tossed the cards on to the table. He was down today, well down, for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long. Ever probably. He was too busy thinking about Ardee: wondering how he could bed her without doing either one of them lasting harm, most particularly without his being killed by West. He was still no closer to an answer, unfortunately.

Kaspa swept up the coins, smiling broadly at his most unlikely victory. ‘So that was well fought today, Jezal. A close one, but you came through, eh?’

‘Uh,’ said Jezal. He took his pipe from the table.

‘I swear, I thought he had you for a minute there, but then,’ and he snapped his fingers under Brint’s nose, ‘just like that! Knocked him right over. The crowd loved it! I laughed so hard I nearly wet myself, I swear!’