Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

She spluttered with laughter. “You really are an ass,” she said. Despair. He was utterly crushed. He couldn’t breathe for disappointment. His face screwed up, his head drooped and he stared down at the ground. There were tears in his eyes. Actual tears. Pitiful. “But I’ll wait.” Joy. It swelled in his chest and burst out in a little girlish sob. He was helpless. It was ridiculous the power she had over him. The difference between misery and happiness was the right word from her. She laughed again. “Look at you, you fool.”

She reached up and touched his face, rubbed a tear from his cheek with her thumb. “I’ll wait,” she said, and she smiled at him. That crooked smile.

The people had faded, the park, the city, the world. Jezal stared down at Ardee, for how long he could not have said, trying to stamp every detail of her face into his mind. He had a feeling, for some reason, that the memory of that smile might have to get him through a lot.

The docks were heaving with activity, even for the docks. The wharves boiled with people, the air shook and rattled with their din. Soldiers and supplies poured endlessly up the slippery gangways and onto the ships. Crates were hauled, barrels were rolled, hundreds of horses were dragged and pushed and kicked aboard, eyes bulging, mouths frothing. Men grunted and groaned, heaved at wet ropes, strained at wet beams, sweating and shouting in the spitting rain, slipping around on the slick decks, running here and there in epic confusion.

Everywhere people embraced, kissed, waved to each other. Wives saying goodbye to husbands, mothers to sons, children to fathers, all equally bedraggled. Some put a brave face on it, some wept and wailed. Others did not care: spectators come simply to witness the madness.

It all meant nothing to Jezal, leaning on the weathered rail of the ship that would carry him to Angland. He was sunk in a terrible gloom, nose running, hair plastered to his scalp with wet. Ardee was not there, and yet she was everywhere. He would hear her voice above the din, calling his name. He would glimpse her out of the corner of his eye, looking at him, and his breath would catch in his throat. He would smile, half-raise his hand to wave, then he would see it was not her. Some other dark-haired woman, smiling at some other soldier. His shoulders would slump again. Each time the disappointment was sharper.

He realised now that he had made a terrible mistake. Why the hell had he asked her to wait for him? Wait for what? He could not marry her, that was a fact. Impossible. But the thought of her even looking at another man made him feel sick. He was wretched.

Love. He hated to admit it, but it had to be. He had always regarded the whole notion with contempt. A stupid word. A word for bad poets to harp on, and foolish women to chatter about. A thing found in childish stories and with no relevance to the real world, where relationships between men and women were simple matters of fucking and money. Yet here he was, mired in a horrible bog of fear and guilt, lust and confusion, loss and pain. Love. What a curse.

“I’d like to see Ardee,” murmured Kaspa, wistfully.

Jezal turned to stare at him. “What? What did you say?”

“It’s quite a sight to see,” said the Lieutenant, holding his hands up, “that’s all.” Everyone was a little careful around him since that card game, as if he might blow up at any moment.

Jezal turned sullenly back to the crowds. There was some kind of a commotion down below them. A single horseman was forcing his way through the chaos, spurring a well-lathered horse with frequent shouts of “Move!” Even in the rain, the wings on the rider’s helmet glittered. A Knight Herald.

“Bad news for someone,” murmured Kaspa.

Jezal nodded. “Looks like us.” He was indeed making directly for their ship, leaving a trail of bemused and angry soldiers and workmen behind him. He swung out of the saddle and strode purposefully up the gangplank towards them, face grim, bright-polished armour covered with moisture and jingling with every step.

“Captain Luthar?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jezal, “I’ll fetch the Colonel.”

“No need. My message is for you.”

“It is?”

“High Justice Marovia requires your presence at his offices. Immediately. It would be best if you took my mount.”

Jezal frowned. He did not like the taste of this at all. There was no reason that he could see for a Knight Herald to be bringing messages to him, except that he had been inside the House of the Maker. He wanted nothing more to do with that. He wanted it in the past, forgotten, along with Bayaz, and his Northman, and that disgusting cripple.

“The High Justice is waiting, Captain.”

“Yes, of course.” It seemed there was nothing to be done.

“Ah, Captain Luthar! An honour to see you again!” Jezal was hardly surprised to run into the madman Sulfur, even here outside the offices of the High Justice. He no longer even seemed a madman, just another part of a world gone entirely mad. “An absolute honour!” he frothed.

“Likewise,” said Jezal numbly.

“I’m so lucky I caught you, what with both of us leaving so soon! My master has all manner of errands for me.” He gave a deep sigh. “Never the slightest peace, eh?”

“No, I know what you mean.”

“Still, an honour indeed to see you, and victorious at the Contest! I saw the whole thing, you know, it was a privilege to bear witness.” He smiled broadly, different coloured eyes glittering. “And to think, you were set on giving it up. Hah! But you stuck at it, just as I said you would! Yes you did, and now you reap the rewards! The edge of the World,” he whispered softly, as though to say the words out loud was to invite disaster. “The edge of the World. Can you imagine? I envy you, indeed I do!”

Jezal blinked. “What?”

“What! Hah! ‘What’, he says! You are dauntless, sir! Dauntless!” And Sulfur strode off across the wet Square of Marshals, chuckling to himself. Jezal was so bemused that he had not even the presence of mind to call him a damn idiot once he was out of earshot.

One of Marovia’s many clerks ushered him through an empty, echoing hallway towards a pair of enormous doors. He stopped before them, knocked. At an answering cry he turned the handle and pulled one of the doors back, standing aside politely for Jezal to pass through.

“You may go in,” he said quietly, after they had been stood there for a while.

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The cavernous chamber beyond was eerily silent. Furniture was strangely sparse in that huge, panelled space, and what there was seemed oversized, as though for the use of people much bigger than Jezal. It gave him the distinct feeling that he was arriving at his own trial.

High Justice Marovia sat behind an enormous table, its surface polished to mirror brightness, smiling at Jezal with a kindly, if slightly pitying expression. Marshal Varuz was seated to his left, staring down guiltily at his own blurry reflection. Jezal had not thought he could feel more depressed, but on seeing the third member of the group he realised he had been wrong. Bayaz, wearing a self-satisfied smirk. He felt a mild surge of panic as the door shut behind him: the clicking of the latch felt like the clank of the heavy bolt on a prison cell.

Bayaz started up from his chair and came round the table. “Captain Luthar, I am so glad you could join us.” The old man took Jezal’s damp hand in both of his and squeezed it firmly, leading him forward into the room. “Thank you for coming. Thank you indeed.”

“Er, of course.” As if he had been given a choice.

“Well now, you’re probably wondering what this is all about. Allow me to explain.” He stepped back and perched on the edge of the table, like a kindly uncle holding forth to a child. “I and a few brave companions—chosen people, you understand, people of quality—are engaging on a great journey! An epic voyage! A grand adventure! I have little doubt that, should we be successful, there will be stories told of this for years to come. Very many years.” Bayaz’ forehead crinkled as he raised his white eyebrows. “Well? What do you think?”