Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“We are?” A group of sour young men stared suspiciously at Logen as he passed them. “Will they let us in?”

“Oh yes. But they won’t like it.”

Logen struggled on through the crowds. Everywhere the sun twinkled on the panes of glass windows, hundreds of them. Carleon had a few glass windows in the grandest buildings, at least before they’d sacked the city. Precious few afterwards, it had to be admitted. Precious little of anything. The Dogman had loved the sound the glass made as it broke. He’d prodded at the windows with a spear, a great big smile on his face, delighted by the crash and tinkle.

That had hardly been the worst of it. Bethod had given the city to his Carls for three days. That was his custom, and they loved him for it. Logen had lost his finger in the battle the day before, and they’d closed the wound with hot iron. It throbbed, and throbbed, and the pain had made him savage. As though he’d needed an excuse for violence back then. He remembered the stink of blood, and sweat, and smoke. The sounds of screaming, and crashing, and laughter.

“Please…” Logen tripped, nearly fell. There was something clinging to his leg. A woman, sitting on the ground beside a wall. Her clothes were dirty, ragged, her face was pale, pinched with hunger. She had something in her arms. A bundle of rags. A child. “Please…” Nothing else. The people laughed and chattered and surged around them, just as if they weren’t there. “Please…”

“I don’t have anything,” he muttered. No more than five strides away a man in a tall hat sat at a table and chuckled with a friend as he tucked into a steaming plate of meat and vegetables. Logen looked at the plate of food, at the starving woman.

“Logen! Come on!” Bayaz had taken him by the elbow and was drawing him away.

“But shouldn’t we—”

“Haven’t you noticed? They’re everywhere! The King needs money, so he squeezes the nobles. The nobles squeeze their tenants, the tenants squeeze the peasants. Some of them, the old, the weak, the extra sons and daughters, they get squeezed right out the bottom. Too many mouths to feed. The lucky ones make thieves or whores, the rest end up begging.”

“But—”

“Clear the road!” Logen stumbled to the wall and pressed himself against it, Malacus and Bayaz beside him. The crowds parted and a long column of men tramped by, shepherded by armoured guards. Some were young, mere boys, some were very old. All were dirty and ragged, and few of them looked healthy. A couple were clearly lame, hobbling along as best they could. One near the front had only one arm. A passer-by in a fabulous crimson jacket held a square of cloth over his wrinkled nose as the beggars shuffled past.

“What are these?” Logen whispered to Bayaz. “Law-breakers?”

The Magus chuckled. “Soldiers.”

Logen stared at them—filthy, coughing, limping, some without boots. “Soldiers? These?”

“Oh yes. They go to fight Bethod.”

Logen rubbed at his temples. “A clan once sent their poorest warrior, a man called Forley the Weakest, to fight me in a duel. They meant it by way of surrender. Why does this Union send their weakest?” Logen shook his head grimly. “They won’t beat Bethod with such as these.”

“They will send others.” Bayaz pointed out another, smaller gathering. “Those are soldiers too.”

“Those?” A group of tall youths, dressed in gaudy suits of red or bright green cloth, a couple with outsize hats. They were at least wearing swords, of a kind, but they hardly looked like fighting men. Fighting women, maybe. Logen frowned, staring from one group to the other. The dirty beggars, the gaudy lads. It was hard for him to say which were the stranger.

A tiny bell jingled as the door opened, and Logen followed Bayaz through the low archway, Malacus behind him. The shop was dim after the bright street and it took Logen’s eyes a moment to adjust. Leaning against a wall were sheets of wood, childishly daubed with pictures of buildings, forests, mountains. Strange clothes were draped over stands beside them—flowing robes, lurid gowns, suits of armour, enormous hats and helmets, rings and jewellery, even a heavy crown. Weapons occupied a small rack, swords and spears richly decorated. Logen stepped closer, frowning. They were fakes. Nothing was real. The weapons were painted wood, the crown was made of flaking tin, the jewels were coloured glass.

“What is this place?”

Bayaz was casting an eye over the robes by the wall. “A theatrical outfitters.”

“A what?”

“The people of this city love spectacle. Comedy, drama, theatre of all kinds. This shop provides equipment for the mounting of plays.”

“Stories?” Logen poked at a wooden sword. “Some people have too much time on their hands.”

A small, plump man emerged from a door at the back of the shop, looking Bayaz, Malacus and Logen over suspiciously. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Of course.” Bayaz stepped forward, switching effortlessly to the common tongue. “We are mounting a production, and require some costumes. We understand you are the foremost theatrical outfitter’s in all of Adua.”

The shopkeeper smiled nervously, taking in their grimy faces and travel stained clothes. “True, true, but… er… quality is expensive, gentlemen.”

“Money is no object.” Bayaz took out a bulging purse and tossed it absently on the counter. It sagged open, heavy golden coins scattering across the wood.

The shopkeeper’s eyes lit with an inner fire. “Of course! What precisely did you have in mind?”

“I need a magnificent robe, suitable for a Magus, or a great sorcerer, or some such. Something of the arcane about it, certainly. Then we’ll have something similar, if less impressive, for an apprentice. Finally we need something for a mighty warrior, a prince of the distant North. Something with fur, I imagine.”

“Those should be straightforward. I will see what we have.” The shopkeeper disappeared through the door behind the counter.

“What is all this shit?” asked Logen.

The wizard grinned. “People are born to their station here. They have commoners, to fight, and farm the land, and do the work. They have gentry, to trade, and build and do the thinking. They have nobility, to own the land and push the others around. They have royalty…” Bayaz glanced at the tin crown “…I forget exactly why. In the North you can rise as high as your merits will take you. Only look at our mutual friend, Bethod. Not so here. A man is born in his place and is expected to stay there. We must seem to be from a high place indeed, if we are to be taken seriously. Dressed as we are we wouldn’t get past the gates of the Agriont.”

The shopkeeper interrupted him by reappearing through the door, his arms heaped with bright cloth. “One mystical robe, suitable for the most powerful of wizards! Used last year for a Juvens in a production of The End of the Empire , during the spring festival. It is, if I may say so, some of my best work.” Bayaz held the shimmering swathe of crimson cloth up to the faint light, gazing at it admiringly. Arcane diagrams, mystical lettering, and symbols of sun, moon and stars, glittered in silver thread.

Malacus ran a hand over the shining cloth of his own absurd garment. “I don’t think you’d have laughed me off so quickly, eh, Logen, if I’d arrived at your campfire dressed in this?”

Logen winced. “I reckon I might’ve.”

“And here we have a splendid piece of barbarian garb.” The shopkeeper hefted a black leather tunic onto the counter, set with swirls of shiny brass, trimmed with pointless tissues of delicate chain-mail. He pointed at the matching fur cloak. “This is real sable!” It was a ludicrous piece of clothing, equally useless for warmth or protection.