Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“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.