Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“Er…” Jezal glanced nervously over at Marovia and Varuz, but they were giving no clues as to what was going on. “If I may?”

“Of course, Jezal—I may call you Jezal, may I?”

“Yes, er, well, yes, I suppose. Er, the thing is… I was wondering what all this has to do with me?”

Bayaz smiled. “We are short a man.”

There was a long, heavy silence. A drop of water trickled down Jezal’s scalp, dripped from his hair, ran down his nose and pattered against the tiles beneath his feet. Horror crept slowly through his body, from his gut to the very tips of his fingers. “Me?” he croaked.

“The road will be a long and difficult one, most likely beset with dangers. We have enemies out there, you and I. More enemies than you would believe. Who could be more useful than a proven swordsman, such as yourself? The winner of the Contest, no less!”

Jezal swallowed. “I appreciate the offer, really I do, but I am afraid I must decline. My place is with the army, you understand.” He took a hesitant step back towards the door. “I must go north. My ship will soon be sailing and—”

“I am afraid it has sailed already, Captain,” said Marovia, his warm voice stopping Jezal dead in his tracks. “You need not concern yourself with that any longer. You will not be going to Angland.”

“But, your Worship, my company—”

“Will find another commander,” smiled the High Justice: understanding, sympathetic, but horribly firm. “I appreciate your feelings, indeed I do, but we consider this more urgent. It is important that the Union be represented in this matter.”

“Terribly important,” murmured Varuz, half-heartedly. Jezal blinked at the three old men. There was no escape. So this was his reward for winning the Contest? Some crackpot voyage to who-knew-where in the company of a demented old man and a pack of savages? How he wished now that he had never started fencing! That he had never even seen a steel in his life! But wishing was useless. There was no way back.

“I need to serve my country—” mumbled Jezal.

Bayaz laughed. “There are other ways to serve your country, my boy, than being one corpse in a pile, up there in the frozen North. We leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But my things are—”

“Don’t worry, Captain,” and the old man slipped off the table and clapped him enthusiastically on the shoulder, “everything is arranged. Your boxes were brought off the ship before it left. You have this evening to pick out some things for our journey, but we must travel light. Weapons, of course, and stout clothes for travelling. Make sure you pack a good pair of boots, eh? No uniforms, I’m afraid, they might attract the wrong kind of attention where we’re going.”

“No, of course,” said Jezal miserably. “Might I ask… where are we going?”

“The edge of the World, my boy, the edge of the World!” Bayaz’ eyes twinkled. “And back, of course… I hope.”

Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say that he’s happy. They were leaving, at last. Beyond some vague talk about the Old Empire, and the edge of the World, he had no idea where they were going and he didn’t care. Anywhere but this cursed place would do for him, and the sooner the better.

The latest member of the group didn’t seem to share his good spirits. Luthar, the proud young man from the gate. The one who’d won the sword-game, thanks to Bayaz’ cheating. He’d barely said two words together since he arrived. Just stood there, face rigid and chalky pale, staring out of the window, bolt upright like he had a spear all the way up his arse.

Logen ambled over to him. If you’re going to travel with a man, and maybe fight alongside him, it’s best to talk, and laugh if you can. That way you can get an understanding, and then a trust. Trust is what binds a band together, and out there in the wilds that can make the difference between living or dying. Building that kind of trust takes time, and effort. Logen reckoned it was best to get started early, and today he had good humour to spare, so he stood next to Luthar and looked out at the park, trying to dream up some common ground in which to plant the seeds of an unlikely friendship.

“Beautiful, your home.” He didn’t think it was, but he was short on ideas.

Luthar turned from the window, looked Logen haughtily up and down. “What would you know about it?”

“I reckon one man’s thoughts are worth about as much as another’s.”

“Huh,” sneered the young man coldly. “Then I suppose that’s where we differ.” He turned back to the view.

Logen took a deep breath. The trust might be a while coming. He abandoned Luthar and tried Quai instead, but the apprentice was scarcely more promising: slumped in a chair, frowning at nothing.

Logen sat down next to him. “Aren’t you looking forward to going home?”

“Home,” mumbled the apprentice listlessly.

“That’s right, the Old Empire… or wherever.”

“You don’t know what it’s like there.”

“You could tell me,” said Logen, hoping to hear something about the peaceful valleys, cities, rivers and whatnot.

“Bloody. It’s bloody there, and lawless, and life is cheap as dirt.”

Bloody and lawless. That all had an unpleasantly familiar smack to it. “Isn’t there an Emperor, or something?”

“There are many, always making war on one another, forging alliances that last a week, or a day, or an hour, before they scramble to be first to stab each other in the back. When one Emperor falls another rises, and another, and another, and meanwhile the hopeless and the dispossessed scavenge and loot and kill on the fringes. The cities dwindle, the great works of the past fall into ruin, the crops go unharvested and the people go hungry. Bloodshed and betrayal, hundreds of years of it. The feuds have become so deep, so complicated, that few can tell any longer who hates who, and no one can say why. There’s no need for reasons any more.”

Logen made one last effort. “You never know. Things might have got better.”

“Why?” muttered the apprentice. “Why?”

Logen was fumbling for a reply when one of the doors swung briskly open. Bayaz frowned around the room. “Where’s Maljinn?”

Quai swallowed. “She left.”

“I can see she left! I thought I told you to keep her here!”

“You didn’t tell me how,” muttered the apprentice.

His master ignored him. “What the hell has become of that bloody woman? We must be away by noon! Three days I’ve known her, and she already has me at the end of my rope!” He clenched his teeth and took a deep breath. “Find her, will you, Logen? Find her and bring her back.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come back?”

“I don’t know, pick her up and carry her! You can kick her all the way back here as far as I’m concerned!”

Easy to say, but Logen didn’t fancy trying it. Still, if it had to be done before they could leave, it was best done now. He sighed, got up from his chair and made for the door.

Logen pressed himself into the shadows by the wall, watching.

“Shit,” he whispered to himself. It would have to be now, just as they were about to leave. Ferro was twenty strides away, standing up tall with a deeper than usual scowl on her dark face. There were three men gathered round her. Masked men, all in black. Their sticks were down by their legs, behind their backs, kept half out of sight, but Logen had no doubt about what they had in mind. He could hear one of them talking, hissing through his mask, something about coming quietly. He winced. Coming quietly didn’t sound like Ferro’s style.

He wondered whether he should slip away and tell the others. He couldn’t really say he liked the woman much, not near enough to get his head broken for her. But if he left them to it, three against one, the chances were they’d have knocked her to pieces by the time he got back, however tough she was, and dragged her off to who knew where. He might never get out of this damn city then.