Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

Quai played his part well. He continued to peer at the root, brow knitted in thought. “Is it Crow’s Foot?” he ventured.

Bayaz raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes it is. Well done, Malacus. And can you tell me its uses?”

Logen coughed again. “Wounds,” he whispered, looking carelessly off into the bushes, one hand shielding his mouth. He might not know too much about plants, but on the subject of wounds he had a wealth of experience.

“I believe it’s good for wounds,” said Quai slowly.

“Excellent, Master Quai. Crow’s Foot is correct. And it is good for wounds. I am glad to see we are making some progress after all.” He cleared his throat. “It does seem curious that you should use that name however. They only call this Crow’s Foot north of the mountains. I certainly never taught you that name. I wonder who it is you know, from that part of the world?” He glanced over at Logen. “Have you ever considered a career in the magical arts, Master Ninefingers?” He narrowed his eyes at Quai once more. “I may have space for an apprentice.”

Malacus hung his head. “Sorry, Master Bayaz.”

“You are indeed. Perhaps you could clean the pots for us. That task may be better suited to your talents.”

Quai reluctantly shrugged off his blanket, collected the dirty bowls and shuffled off through the brush towards the stream. Bayaz bent over the pot on the fire, adding some dried-up leaves to the bubbling water. The flickering light of the flames caught the underside of his face, the steam curled around his bald head. All in all, he looked quite the part.

“What is that?” asked Logen, reaching for his pipe. “Some spell? Some potion? Some great work of High Art?”

“Tea.”

“Eh?”

“Leaves of a certain plant, boiled up in water. It is considered quite a luxury in Gurkhul.” He poured some of the brew out into a cup. “Would you like to try it?”

Logen sniffed at it suspiciously. “Smells like feet.”

“Suit yourself.” Bayaz shook his head and sat back down beside the fire, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. “But you’re missing out on one of nature’s greatest gifts to man.” He took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Calming to the mind, invigorating to the body. There are few ills a good cup of tea won’t help with.”

Logen pressed a lump of chagga into the bowl of his pipe. “How about an axe in the head?”

“That’s one of them,” admitted Bayaz with a grin. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, why all the blood between you and Bethod? Did you not fight for him many times? Why do you hate each other so?”

Logen paused as he was sucking smoke from the pipe, let his breath out. “There are reasons,” he said stiffly. The wounds of that time were still raw. He didn’t like anyone picking at them.

“Ah, reasons.” Bayaz looked down at his tea-cup. “And what of your reasons? Does this feud not cut both ways?”

“Perhaps.”

“But you are willing to wait?”

“I’ll have to be.”

“Hmm. You are very patient, for a Northman.”

Logen thought of Bethod, and his loathsome sons, and the many good men they’d killed for their ambitions. The men he’d killed for their ambitions. He thought of the Shanka, and his family, and the ruins of the village by the sea. He thought of all his dead friends. He sucked at his teeth and stared at the fire.

“I’ve settled a few scores in my time, but it only led to more. Vengeance can feel fine, but it’s a luxury. It doesn’t fill your belly, or keep the rain off. To fight my enemies I need friends behind me, and I’m clean out of friends. You have to be realistic. It’s been a while since my ambitions went beyond getting through each day alive.”

Bayaz laughed, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “What?” asked Logen, handing the pipe across to him.

“No offence, but you are an endless source of surprises. Not at all what I was expecting. You are quite the riddle.”

“Me?”

“Oh yes! The Bloody-Nine,” he whispered, opening his eyes up wide. “That’s one bastard of a reputation you’re carrying, my friend. The stories they tell! One bastard of a name! Why, mothers scare their children with it!” Logen said nothing. There was no denying it. Bayaz sucked slowly on the pipe, then blew out a long plume of smoke. “I’ve been thinking about the day that Prince Calder paid us a visit.”

Logen snorted. “I try not to spare him too much thought.”

“Nor I, but it wasn’t his behaviour that interested me, it was yours.”

“It was? I don’t remember doing a thing.”

Bayaz pointed the stem of the pipe at Logen from across the fire. “Ah, but that is my point exactly. I have known many fighting men, soldiers and generals and champions and whatnot. A great fighter must act quickly, decisively, whether with his own arm or with an army, for he who strikes first often strikes last. So fighters come to rely on their baser instincts, to answer always with violence, to become proud and brutal.” Bayaz passed the pipe back to Logen. “But whatever the stories, you are not such a one.”

“I know plenty who’d disagree.”

“Perhaps, but the fact remains, Calder slighted you, and you did nothing. So you know when you should act, and act quickly, but you also know when not to. That shows restraint, and a calculating mind.”

“Perhaps I was just afraid.”

“Of him? Come now. You didn’t seem afraid of Scale and he’s a deal more worrying. And you walked forty miles with my apprentice over your back, and that shows courage, and compassion too. A rare combination, indeed. Violence and restraint, calculation and compassion—and you speak to the spirits too.”

Logen raised an eyebrow. “Not often, and only when there’s no one else around. Their talk is dull, and not half so flattering as yours.”

“Hah. That’s true. The spirits have little to say to men, I understand, though I have never spoken with them; I have not the gift. Few have these days.” He took another swallow from his cup, peering at Logen over the rim. “I can scarcely think of another one alive.”

Malacus stumbled from the trees, shivering, and set the wet bowls down. He grabbed his blanket, wrapped it tightly around him, then peered hopefully at the steaming pot on the fire. “Is that tea?”

Bayaz ignored him. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, in all the time since you arrived at my library, you have never once asked me why I sent for you, or why now we are wandering through the North in peril of our lives. That strikes me as odd.”

“Not really. I don’t want to know.”

“Don’t want to?”

“All my life I’ve sought to know things. What’s on the other side of the mountains? What are my enemies thinking? What weapons will they use against me? What friends can I trust?” Logen shrugged. “Knowledge may be the root of power, but each new thing I’ve learned has left me worse off.” He sucked again on the pipe, but it was finished. He tapped the ashes out onto the ground. “Whatever it is you want from me I will try to do, but I don’t want to know until it’s time. I’m sick of making my own decisions. They’re never the right ones. Ignorance is the sweetest medicine, my father used to say. I don’t want to know.”

Bayaz stared at him. It was the first time Logen had seen the First of the Magi look at all surprised. Malacus Quai cleared his throat. “I’d like to know,” he said in a small voice, looking hopefully up at his master.

“Yes,” murmured Bayaz, “but you don’t get to ask.”

It was around midday that it all went wrong. Logen was just starting to think that they might make it to the Whiteflow, maybe even live out the week. It felt as if he lost his concentration for just a moment. Unfortunately, it was the one moment that mattered.