The Collected Joe Abercrombie (6 page)

‘Farewell then, Ninefingers,’ said the spirit on the right, ‘perhaps for the last time.’

‘I’ll try to struggle on without you.’

Logen’s wit was wasted on them. They rose and moved away from the fire, fading gradually into the darkness. Soon they were gone, but Logen had to admit they had been more use than he dared to hope. They had given him a purpose.

He would head south in the morning, head south and find this Magus. Who knew? He might be a good talker. Had to be better than being shot full of arrows for nothing, at least. Logen looked into the flames, nodding slowly to himself.

He remembered other times and other campfires, when he had not been alone.

Playing With Knives

I
t was a beautiful spring day in Adua, and the sun shone pleasantly through the branches of the aromatic cedar, casting a dappled shade on the players beneath. A pleasing breeze fluttered through the courtyard, so the cards were clutched tightly or weighted down with glasses or coins. Birds twittered from the trees, and the shears of a gardener clacked across from the far side of the lawn, making faint, agreeable echoes against the tall white buildings of the quadrangle. Whether or not the players found the large sum of money in the centre of the table pleasant depended, of course, on the cards they held.

Captain Jezal dan Luthar certainly liked it. He had discovered an uncanny talent for the game since he gained his commission in the King’s Own, a talent which he had used to win large sums of money from his comrades. He didn’t really need the money, of course, coming from such a wealthy family, but it had allowed him to maintain an illusion of thrift while spending like a sailor. Whenever Jezal went home, his father bored everyone on the subject of his good fiscal planning, and had rewarded him by buying his Captaincy just six months ago. His brothers had not been happy. Yes, the money was certainly useful, and there’s nothing half so amusing as humiliating one’s closest friends.

Jezal half sat, half lay back on his bench with one leg stretched out, and allowed his eyes to wander over the other players. Major West had rocked his chair so far onto its back legs that he looked in imminent danger of tipping over entirely. He was holding his glass up to the sun, admiring the way that the light filtered through the amber spirit inside. He had a faint, mysterious smile which seemed to say, ‘I am not a nobleman, and may be your social inferior, but I won a Contest and the King’s favour on the battlefield and that makes me the better man, so you children will damn well do as I say.’ He was out of this hand though, and, in Jezal’s opinion, far too cautious with his money anyway.

Lieutenant Kaspa was sitting forward, frowning and scratching his sandy beard, staring intently at his cards as though they were sums he didn’t understand. He was a good-humoured young man but an oaf of a card player, and was always most appreciative when Jezal bought him drinks with his own money. Still, he could well afford to lose it: his father was one of the biggest landowners in the Union.

Jezal had often observed that the ever so slightly stupid will act more stupidly in clever company. Having lost the high ground already they scramble eagerly for the position of likeable idiot, stay out of arguments they will only lose, and can hence be everyone’s friend. Kaspa’s look of baffled concentration seemed to say, ‘I am not clever, but honest and likeable, which is much more important. Cleverness is overrated. Oh, and I’m very, very rich, so everyone likes me regardless.’

‘I believe I’ll stay with you,’ said Kaspa, and tossed a small stack of silver coins onto the table. They broke and flashed in the sun with a cheerful jingle. Jezal absently added up the total in his head. A new uniform perhaps? Kaspa always got a little quivery when he really held good cards, and he was not trembling now. To say that he was bluffing was to give him far too much credit; more likely he was simply bored with sitting out. Jezal had no doubt that he would fold up like a cheap tent on the next round of betting.

Lieutenant Jalenhorm scowled and tossed his cards onto the table. ‘I’ve had nothing but shit today!’ he rumbled. He sat back in his chair and hunched his brawny shoulders with a frown that said, ‘I am big and manly, and have a quick temper, so I should be treated with respect by everyone.’ Respect was precisely what Jezal never gave him at the card table. A bad temper might be useful in a fight, but it’s a liability where money is concerned. It was a shame his hand hadn’t been a little better, or Jezal could’ve bullied him out of half his pay. Jalenhorm drained his glass and reached for the bottle.

That just left Brint, the youngest and poorest of the group. He licked his lips with an expression at once careful and slightly desperate, an expression which seemed to say, ‘I am not young or poor. I can afford to lose this money. I am every bit as important as the rest of you.’ He had a lot of money today; perhaps his allowance had just come in. Perhaps that was all he had to live on for the next couple of months. Jezal planned to take that money away from him and waste it all on women and drink. He had to stop himself giggling at the thought. He could giggle when he’d won the hand. Brint sat back and considered carefully. He might be some time making his decision, so Jezal took his pipe from the table.

He lit it at the lamp provided especially for that purpose and blew ragged smoke rings up into the branches of the cedar. He wasn’t half as good at smoking as he was at cards, unfortunately, and most of the rings were no more than ugly puffs of yellow-brown vapour. If he was being completely honest, he didn’t really enjoy smoking. It made him feel a bit sick, but it was very fashionable and very expensive, and Jezal would be damned if he would miss out on something fashionable just because he didn’t like it. Besides, his father had bought him a beautiful ivory pipe the last time he was in the city, and it looked very well on him. His brothers had not been happy about that either, come to think of it.

‘I’m in,’ said Brint.

Jezal swung his leg off the bench. ‘Then I raise you a hundred marks or so.’ He shoved his whole stack into the centre of the table. West sucked air through his teeth. A coin fell from the top of the pile, landed on its edge and rolled along the wood. It dropped to the flags beneath with the unmistakeable sound of falling money. The head of the gardener on the other side of the lawn snapped up instinctively, before he returned to his clipping of the grass.

Kaspa shoved his cards away as though they were burning his fingers and shook his head. ‘Damn it but I’m an oaf of a card player,’ he lamented, and leaned back against the rough brown trunk of the tree.

Jezal stared straight at Lieutenant Brint, a slight smile on his face, giving nothing away. ‘He’s bluffing,’ rumbled Jalenhorm, ‘don’t let him push you around, Brint.’

‘Don’t do it, Lieutenant,’ said West, but Jezal knew he would. He had to look as if he could afford to lose. Brint didn’t hesitate, he pushed all his own coins in with a careless flourish.

‘That’s a hundred, give or take.’ Brint was trying his hardest to sound masterful in front of the older officers, but his voice had a charming note of hysteria.

‘Good enough,’ said Jezal, ‘we’re all friends here. What do you have, Lieutenant?’

‘I have earth.’ Brint’s eyes had a slightly feverish look to them as he showed his cards to the group.

Jezal savoured the tense atmosphere. He frowned, shrugged, raised his eyebrows. He scratched his head thoughtfully. He watched Brint’s expression change as he changed his own. Hope, despair, hope, despair. At length Jezal spread his cards out on the table. ‘Oh look. I have suns, again.’

Brint’s face was a picture. West gave a sigh and shook his head. Jalenhorm frowned. ‘I was sure he was bluffing,’ he said.

‘How does he do it?’ asked Kaspa, flicking a stray coin across the table.

Jezal shrugged. ‘It’s all about the players, and nothing about the cards.’ He began to scoop up the heap of silver while Brint looked on, teeth gritted, face pale. The money jingled into the bag with a pleasant sound. Pleasant to Jezal, anyway. A coin dropped from the table and fell next to Brint’s boot. ‘You couldn’t fetch that for me could you Lieutenant?’ asked Jezal, with a syrupy smile.

Brint stood up quickly, knocking into the table and making the coins and glasses jump and rattle. ‘I’ve things to do,’ he said in a thick voice, then shouldered roughly past Jezal, barging him against the trunk of the tree, and strode off toward the edge of the courtyard. He disappeared into the officers’ quarters, head down.

‘Did you see that?’ Jezal was becoming ever more indignant with each passing moment. ‘Barging me like that, it’s damn impolite! And me his superior officer as well! I’ve a good mind to put him on report!’ A chorus of disapproving sounds greeted this mention of reports. ‘Well, he’s a bad loser is all!’

Jalenhorm looked sternly out from beneath his brows. ‘You shouldn’t bite him so hard. He isn’t rich. He can’t afford to lose.’

‘Well if he can’t afford to lose he shouldn’t play!’ snapped Jezal, upset. ‘Who’s the one told him I was bluffing? You should keep your big mouth shut!’

‘He’s new here,’ said West, ‘he just wants to fit in. Weren’t you new once?’

‘What are you, my father?’ Jezal remembered being new with painful clarity, and the mention of it made him feel just a little ashamed.

Kaspa waved his hand. ‘I’ll lend him some money, don’t worry.’

‘He won’t take it,’ said Jalenhorm.

‘Well, that’s his business.’ Kaspa closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. ‘Hot. Winter is truly over. Must be getting past midday.’

‘Shit!’ shouted Jezal, starting up and gathering his things. The gardener paused in his trimming of the lawn and looked over at them. ‘Why didn’t you say something, West?’

‘What am I, your father?’ asked the Major. Kaspa sniggered.

‘Late again,’ said Jalenhorm, blowing out his cheeks. ‘The Lord Marshal will not be happy!’

Jezal snatched up his fencing steels and ran for the far side of the lawn. Major West ambled after him. ‘Come on!’ shouted Jezal.

‘I’m right behind you, Captain,’ he said. ‘Right behind you.’

‘Jab, jab, Jezal, jab, jab!’ barked Lord Marshal Varuz, whacking him on the arm with his stick.

‘Ow,’ yelped Jezal, and hefted the metal bar again.

‘I want to see that right arm moving, Captain, darting like a snake! I want to be blinded by the speed of those hands!’

Jezal made a couple more clumsy lunges with the unwieldy lump of iron. It was utter torture. His fingers, his wrist, his forearm, his shoulder, were burning with the effort. He was soaked to the skin with sweat; it flew from his face in big drops. Marshal Varuz flicked his feeble efforts away. ‘Now, cut! Cut with the left!’

Jezal swung the big smith’s hammer at the old man’s head with all the strength in his left arm. He could barely lift the damn thing on a good day. Marshal Varuz stepped effortlessly aside and whacked him in the face with the stick.

‘Yow!’ wailed Jezal, as he stumbled back. He fumbled the hammer and it dropped on his foot. ‘Aaargh!’ The iron bar clanged to the floor as he bent down to grab his screaming toes. He felt a stinging pain as Varuz whacked him across the arse, the sharp smack echoing across the courtyard, and he sprawled onto his face.

‘That’s pitiful!’ shouted the old man. ‘You are embarrassing me in front of Major West!’ The Major had rocked his chair back and was shaking with muffled laughter. Jezal stared at the Marshal’s immaculately polished boots, seeing no pressing need to get up.

‘Up, Captain Luthar!’ shouted Varuz. ‘My time at least is valuable! ’

‘Alright! Alright!’ Jezal clambered wearily to his feet and stood there swaying in the hot sun, panting for air, running with sweat.

Varuz stepped close to him and sniffed at his breath. ‘Have you been drinking today already?’ he demanded, his grey moustaches bristling. ‘And last night too, no doubt!’ Jezal had no reply. ‘Well damn you, then! We have work to do, Captain Luthar, and I cannot do it alone! Four months until the Contest, four months to make a master swordsman of you!’

Varuz waited for a reply, but Jezal could not think of one. He was only really doing this to make his father happy, but somehow he didn’t think that was what the old soldier wanted to hear, and he could do without being hit again. ‘Bah!’ Varuz barked in Jezal’s face, and turned away, stick clenched tight behind him in both hands.

‘Marshal Var—’ Jezal began, but before he could finish the old soldier span around and jabbed him right in the stomach.

‘Gargh,’ said Jezal as he sank to his knees. Varuz stood over him.

‘You are going to go on a little run for me, Captain.’

‘Aaaargh.’

‘You are going to run from here to the Tower of Chains. You are going to run up the tower to the parapet. We will know when you have arrived, as the Major and I will be enjoying a relaxing game of squares on the roof,’ he indicated the six-storey building behind him, ‘in plain view of the top of the tower. I will be able to see you with my eye-glass, so there will be no cheating this time!’ and he whacked Jezal on the top of the head.

‘Ow,’ said Jezal, rubbing his scalp.

‘Having shown yourself on the roof, you will run back. You will run as fast as you can, and I know this to be true, because if you have not returned by the time we have finished our game, you will go again.’ Jezal winced. ‘Major West is an excellent hand at squares, so it should take me half an hour to beat him. I suggest you begin at once.’