Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

He looked down at his hands, pink and clean on the stone. “There are few men with more blood on their hands than me. None, that I know of. The Bloody-Nine they call me, my enemies, and there’s a lot of ’em. Always more enemies, and fewer friends. Blood gets you nothing but more blood. It follows me now, always, like my shadow, and like my shadow I can never be free of it. I should never be free of it. I’ve earned it. I’ve deserved it. I’ve sought it out. Such is my punishment.”

And that was all. Logen breathed a deep, ragged sigh and stared out at the lake. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man beside him, didn’t want to see the expression on his face. Who wants to learn he’s keeping company with the Bloody-Nine? A man who’s wrought more death than the plague, and with less regret. They could never be friends now, not with all those corpses between them.

Then he felt Quai’s hand clap him on the shoulder. “Well, there it is,” he said, grinning from ear to ear, “but you saved me, and I’m right grateful for it!”

“I’ve saved a man this year, and only killed four. I’m born again.” And they both laughed for a while, and it felt good.

“So, Malacus, I see you are back with us.”

They turned, Quai stumbling on his blanket and looking a touch sick. The First of the Magi was standing in the doorway, dressed in a long white shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He still looked more like a butcher than a wizard to Logen.

“Master Bayaz… er… I was just coming to see you,” stuttered Quai.

“Indeed? How fortunate for us both then, that I have come to you.” The Magus stepped out onto the balcony. “It occurs to me that a man who is well enough to talk, and laugh, and venture out of doors, is doubtless well enough to read, and study, and expand his tiny mind. What would you say to that?”

“Doubtless…”

“Doubtless, yes! Tell me, how are your studies progressing?”

The wretched apprentice looked utterly confused. “They have been somewhat… interrupted?”

“You made no progress with Juvens’ Principles of Art while you were lost in the hills in bad weather?”

“Er… no progress… no.”

“And your knowledge of the histories. Did that develop far, while Master Ninefingers was carrying you back to the library?”

“Er… I must confess… it didn’t.”

“Your exercises and meditations though, surely you have been practising those, while unconscious this past week?”

“Well, er… no, the unconsciousness was… er…”

“So, tell me, would you say that you are ahead of the game, so to speak? Or have your studies fallen behind?”

Quai stared down at the floor. “They were behind when I left.”

“Then perhaps then you could tell me where you plan to spend the day?”

The apprentice looked up hopefully. “At my desk?”

“Excellent!” Bayaz smiled wide. “I was about to suggest it, but you have anticipated me! Your keenness to learn does you much credit!” Quai nodded furiously and hurried towards the door, the hem of his blanket trailing on the flags.

“Bethod is coming,” murmured Bayaz. “He will be here today.” Logen’s smile vanished, his throat felt suddenly tight. He remembered their last meeting well enough. Stretched out on his face on the floor of Bethod’s hall at Carleon, beaten and broken and well chained up, dribbling blood into the straw and hoping the end wouldn’t be too long coming. Then, no reason given, they’d let him go. Flung him out the gates with the Dogman, Threetrees, the Weakest and the rest, and told him never to come back. Never. The first time Bethod ever showed a grain of mercy, and the last, Logen didn’t doubt.

“Today?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Yes, and soon. The King of the Northmen. Hah! The arrogance of him!” Bayaz glanced sidelong at Logen. “He is coming to ask me for a favour, and I would like you to be there.”

“He won’t like that.”

“Exactly.”

The wind felt colder than before. If Logen never saw Bethod again it would be far too soon. But some things have to be done. It’s better to do them, than to live with the fear of them. That’s what Logen’s father would have said. So he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I’ll be there.”

“Excellent. Then there is but one thing missing.”

“What?”

Bayaz smirked. “You need a weapon.”

It was dry in the cellars beneath the library. Dry and dark and very, very confusing. They’d gone up and down steps, around corners, past doors, taking here or there a turning to the left or right. The place was a warren. Logen hoped he didn’t lose sight of the wizard’s flickering torch, or he could easily be stuck beneath the library for ever.

“Dry down here, nice and dry,” Bayaz was saying to himself, voice echoing down the passageway and merging with their flapping footfalls. “There’s nothing worse than damp for books.” He pulled up suddenly next to a heavy door. “Or for weapons.” He gave the door a gentle shove and it swung silently open.

“Look at that! Hasn’t been opened for years, but the hinges still move smooth as butter! That’s craftsmanship for you! Why does no one care about craftsmanship anymore?” Bayaz stepped over the threshold without waiting for an answer, and Logen followed close behind.

The wizard’s torch lit up a long, low hall with walls of rough stone blocks, the far end lost in shadows. The room was lined with racks and shelves, the floor littered with boxes and stands, everything heaped and bursting with a mad array of arms and armour. Blades and spikes and polished surfaces of wood and metal caught the flickering torchlight as Bayaz paced slowly across the stone floor, weaving between the weapons and casting around.

“Quite a collection,” muttered Logen, as he followed the Magus through the clutter.

“A load of old junk mostly, but there should be a few things worth the finding.” Bayaz took a helmet from a suit of ancient, gilded plate armour and looked it over with a frown. “What do you make of that?”

“I’ve never been much for armour.”

“No, you don’t strike me as the type. All very well on horseback, I dare say, but it’s a pain in the arse when you’ve a journey to make on foot.” He tossed the helmet back onto its stand, then stood there staring at the armour, lost in thought. “Once you’ve got it on, how do you piss?”

Logen frowned. “Er…” he said, but Bayaz was already moving off down the room, and taking the light with him.

“You must have used a few weapons in your time, Master Ninefingers. What’s your preference for?”

“I’ve never really had one,” said Logen, ducking under a rusty halberd leaning out from a rack. “A champion never knows what he might be called on to fight with.”

“Of course, of course.” Bayaz took up a long spear with a vicious barbed head, and wafted it around a bit. Logen stepped back cautiously. “Deadly enough. You could keep a man at bay with one of these. But a man with a spear needs a lot of friends, and they all need spears as well.” Bayaz shoved it back on the rack and moved on.

“This looks fearsome.” The Magus took hold of the gnarled shaft of a huge double-bladed axe. “Shit!” he said as he lifted it up, veins bulging out of his neck. “It’s heavy enough!” He set it down with a thump, making the rack wobble. “You could kill a man with that! You could cut him clean in half! If he was standing still.”

“This is better,” said Logen. It was a simple, solid-looking sword, in a scabbard of weathered brown leather.

“Oh, yes indeed. Much, much better. That blade is the work of Kanedias, the Master Maker himself.” Bayaz handed his torch to Logen and took the long sword from the rack.