The Collected Joe Abercrombie (9 page)

‘Malacus what?’

‘Quai,’ he said, making for the fire.

‘What kind of a name is that?’

‘I am from the Old Empire.’

Logen had never heard of any such place. ‘An empire, eh?’ ‘Well, it was, once. The mightiest nation in the Circle of the World.’ The young man squatted down stiffly by the fire. ‘But the glory of the past is long faded. It’s not much more than a huge battlefield now.’ Logen nodded. He knew well enough what one of those looked like. ‘It’s far away. In the west of the world.’ The apprentice waved his hand vaguely.

Logen laughed again. ‘That’s east.’

Quai smiled sadly. ‘I am a seer, though not, it seems, a very good one. Master Bayaz sent me to find you, but the stars have not been auspicious and I became lost in the bad weather.’ He pushed his hair out of his eyes and spread his hands. ‘I had a packhorse, with food and supplies, and another horse for you, but I lost them in a storm. I fear I am no outdoorsman.’

‘Seems not.’

Quai took a flask from his pocket and leaned across with it. Logen took it from him, opened it, took a swig. The hot liquor ran down his throat, warmed him to the roots of his hair. ‘Well, Malacus Quai, you lost your food but you kept hold of what really mattered. It takes an effort to make me smile these days. You’re right welcome at my fire.’

‘Thank you.’ The apprentice paused and held his palms out to the meagre flames. ‘I haven’t eaten for two days.’ He shook his head, hair flapping back and forth. ‘It has been . . . a difficult time.’ He licked his lips and looked at the pot.

Logen passed him the spoon. Malacus Quai stared at it with big round eyes. ‘Have you eaten?’

Logen nodded. He hadn’t, but the wretched apprentice looked famished and there was barely enough for one. He took another swig from the flask. That would do for him, for now. Quai attacked the stew with relish. When it was done he scraped the pot out, licked the spoon, then licked the edge of the pot for good measure. He sat back against a big rock. ‘I am forever in your debt, Logen Ninefingers, you’ve saved my life. I hardly dared hope you’d be so gracious a host.’

‘You’re not quite what I expected either, being honest.’ Logen pulled at the flask again, and licked his lips. ‘Who is this Bayaz?’

‘The First of the Magi, great in High Art and learned in deep wisdom. I fear he will be most seriously displeased with me.’

‘He’s to be feared, then?’

‘Well,’ replied the apprentice weakly, ‘he does have a bit of a temper.’

Logen took another swallow. The warmth was spreading through his body now, the first time he had felt warm in weeks. There was a pause. ‘What does he want from me, Quai?’

There was no reply. The soft sound of snoring came from across the fire. Logen smiled and, wrapping himself in his coat, lay down to sleep as well.

The apprentice woke with a sudden fit of coughing. It was early morning and the dingy world was thick with mist. It was probably better that way. There was nothing to see but miles of mud, rock, and miserable brown gorse. Everything was coated in cold dew, but Logen had managed to get a sad tongue of fire going. Quai’s hair was plastered to his pallid face. He rolled onto his side and coughed phlegm onto the ground.

‘Aaargh,’ he croaked. He coughed and spat again.

Logen secured the last of his meagre gear on the unhappy horse. ‘Morning,’ he said, looking up at the white sky, ‘though not a good one.’

‘I will die. I will die, and then I will not have to move.’

‘We’ve got no food, so if we stay here you will die. Then I can eat you and go back over the mountains.’

The apprentice smiled weakly. ‘What do we do?’

What indeed? ‘Where do we find this Bayaz?’

‘At the Great Northern Library.’

Logen had never heard of it, but then he’d never been that interested in books. ‘Which is where?’

‘It’s south of here, about four days’ ride, beside a great lake.’

‘Do you know the way?’

The apprentice tottered to his feet and stood, swaying slightly, breathing fast and shallow. He was ghostly pale and his face had a sheen of sweat. ‘I think so,’ he muttered, but he hardly looked certain.

Neither Quai nor his horse would make four days without food, even providing they didn’t get lost. Food had to be the first thing. To follow the road through the woods to the south was the best option, despite the greater risk. They might get killed by bandits, but the forage would be better, and the hunger would likely kill them otherwise.

‘You’d better ride,’ said Logen.

‘I lost the horses, I should be the one to walk.’

Logen put his hand on Quai’s forehead. It was hot and clammy. ‘You’ve a fever. You’d better ride.’

The apprentice didn’t try to argue. He looked down at Logen’s ragged boots. ‘Can you take my boots?’

Logen shook his head. ‘Too small.’ He knelt down over the smouldering remains of the fire and pursed his lips.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Fires have spirits. I will keep this one under my tongue, and we can use it to light another fire later.’ Quai looked too ill to be surprised. Logen sucked up the spirit, coughed on the smoke, shuddered at the bitter taste. ‘You ready to leave?’

The apprentice raised his arms in a hopeless gesture. ‘I am packed.’

Malacus Quai loved to talk. He talked as they made their way south across the moors, as the sun climbed into the grimy skies, as they entered the woods toward evening time. His illness did nothing to stop his chatter, but Logen didn’t mind. It was a long time since anyone had talked to him, and it helped to take his mind off his feet. He was starving and tired, but it was his feet that were the problem. His boots were tatters of old leather, his toes cut and battered, his calf was still burning from the Shanka’s teeth. Every step was an ordeal. Once they had called him the most feared man in the North. Now he was afraid of the smallest sticks and stones in the road. There was a joke in there somewhere. He winced as his foot hit a pebble.

‘ . . . so I spent seven years studying with Master Zacharus. He is great among the Magi, the fifth of Juvens’ twelve apprentices, a great man.’ Everything connected with the Magi seemed to be great in Quai’s eyes. ‘He felt I was ready to come to the Great Northern Library and study with Master Bayaz, to earn my staff. But things have not been easy for me here. Master Bayaz is most demanding and ...’

The horse stopped and snorted, shied and took a hesitant step back. Logen sniffed the air and frowned. There were men nearby, and badly washed ones. He should have noticed it sooner but his attention had been on his feet. Quai looked down at him. ‘What is it?’

As if in answer a man stepped out from behind a tree perhaps ten strides ahead, another a little further down the road. They were scum, without a doubt. Dirty, bearded, dressed in ragged bits of mismatched fur and leather. Not, on the whole, unlike Logen. The skinny one on the left had a spear with a barbed head. The big one on the right had a heavy sword speckled with rust, and an old dented helmet with a spike on top. They moved forward, grinning. There was a sound behind and Logen looked over his shoulder, his heart sinking. A third man, with a big boil on his face, was making his way cautiously down the road toward them, a heavy wood axe in his hands.

Quai leaned down from his saddle, eyes wide with fear. ‘Are they bandits?’

‘You’re the fucking seer,’ hissed Logen through gritted teeth.

They stopped a stride or two in front. The one with the helmet seemed to be in charge. ‘Nice horse,’ he growled. ‘Would you lend it to us?’ The one with the spear grinned as he took hold of the bridle.

Things had taken a turn for the worse alright. A moment ago that had hardly seemed possible, but fate had found a way. Logen doubted that Quai would be much use in a fight. That left him alone against three or more, and with only a knife. If he did nothing him and Malacus would end up robbed, and more than likely killed. You have to be realistic about these things.

He looked the three bandits over again. They didn’t expect a fight, not from two unarmed men – the spear was sideways on, the sword pointed at the ground. He didn’t know about the axe, so he’d have to trust to luck with that one. It’s a sorry fact that the man who strikes first usually strikes last, so Logen turned to the one with the helmet and spat the spirit in his face.

It ignited in the air and pounced on him hungrily. His head burst into spitting flames, the sword clattered to the ground. He clawed desperately at his face and his arms caught fire as well. He reeled screaming away.

Quai’s horse startled at the flames and reared up, snorting. The skinny man stumbled back with a gasp and Logen leaped at him, grabbed the shaft of the spear with one hand and butted him in the face. His nose crunched against Logen’s forehead and he staggered away with blood streaming down his chin. Logen jerked him back with the spear, swung his right arm round in a wide arc and punched him in the neck. He went down with a gurgle and Logen tore the spear from his hands.

He felt movement behind him and dropped to the ground, rolling away to his left. The axe whistled through the air above his head and cut a long slash in the horse’s side, spattering drops of blood across the ground and ripping the buckle on the saddle girth open. Boil-face tottered away, spinning around after his axe. Logen sprang at him but his ankle twisted on a stone and he tottered like a drunkard, yelping at the pain. An arrow hummed past his face from somewhere in the trees behind and was lost in the bushes on the other side of the road. The horse snorted and kicked, eyes rolling madly, then took off down the road at a crazy gallop. Malacus Quai wailed as the saddle slid off its back and he was flung into the bushes.

There was no time to think about him. Logen charged at the axe-man with a roar, aiming the spear at his heart. He brought his axe up in time to nudge the point away, but not far enough. The spear spitted him through the shoulder, spun him round. There was a sharp crack as the shaft snapped, Logen lost his balance and pitched forward, bearing Boil-face down into the road. The spear-point sticking out of his back cut a deep gash into Logen’s scalp as he fell on top of him. Logen seized hold of the axe-man’s matted hair with both hands, pulled his head back and mashed his face into a rock.

He lurched to his feet, head spinning, wiping blood out of his eyes just in time to see an arrow zip out of the trees and thud into a trunk a stride or two away. Logen hurtled at the archer. He saw him now, a boy no more than fourteen, reaching for another arrow. Logen pulled out his knife. The boy was nocking the arrow to his bow, but his eyes were wide with panic. He fumbled the string and drove the arrow through his hand, looking greatly surprised.

Logen was on him. The boy swung the bow at him but he ducked below it and jumped forward, driving the knife up with both hands. The blade caught the boy under the chin and lifted him into the air, then snapped off in his neck. He dropped on top of Logen, the jagged shard of the knife cutting a long gash in his arm. Blood splattered everywhere, from the cut on Logen’s head, from the cut on Logen’s arm, from the gaping wound in the boy’s throat.

He shoved the corpse away, staggered against a tree and gasped for breath. His heart was pounding, the blood roaring in his ears, his stomach turning over. ‘I am still alive,’ he whispered, ‘I am still alive.’ The cuts on his head and his arm were starting to throb. Two more scars. It could have been a lot worse. He scraped the blood from his eyes and limped back to the road.

Malacus Quai was standing, staring ashen-faced at the three corpses. Logen took him by the shoulders, looked him up and down. ‘You hurt?’

Quai only stared at the bodies. ‘Are they dead?’

The corpse of the big one with the helmet was still smoking, making a disgustingly appetising smell. He had a good pair of boots on, Logen noticed, a lot better than his own. The one with the boil had his neck turned too far around to be alive, that and he had the broken spear through him. Logen rolled the skinny one over with his foot. He still had a look of surprise on his bloody face, eyes staring up at the sky, mouth open.

‘Must’ve crushed his windpipe,’ muttered Logen. His hands were covered in blood. He grabbed one with the other to stop them from trembling.

‘What about the one in the trees?’

Logen nodded. ‘What happened to the horse?’

‘Gone,’ muttered Quai hopelessly. ‘What do we do?’

‘We see if they’ve got any food.’ Logen pointed to the smoking corpse. ‘And you help me get his boots off.’

Fencing Practice

‘
P
ress him, Jezal, press him! Don’t be shy!’ Jezal was only too willing to oblige. He sprang forward, lunging with his right. West was already off balance and he stumbled back, all out of form, only just managing to parry with his short steel. They were using half-edged blades today, to add a little danger to the proceedings. You couldn’t really stab a man with one, but you could give him a painful scratch or two, if you tried hard enough. Jezal intended to give the Major a scratch for yesterday’s humiliation.

‘That’s it, give him hell! Jab, jab, Captain! Jab, jab!’

West made a clumsy cut, but Jezal saw it coming and swatted the steel aside, still pressing forward, jabbing for all he was worth. He slashed with the left, and again. West blocked desperately, staggered back against the wall. Jezal had him at last. He cackled with glee as he lunged forward again with the long steel, but his opponent had come suddenly and surprisingly alive. West slipped away, shoved the lunge aside with disappointing firmness. Jezal stumbled forward, off balance, gave a shocked gasp as the point of his sword found a gap between two stones and his steel was wrenched out of his numb hand, lodged there wobbling in the wall.