Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“Alwaysh,” giggled Kaspa.

West looked up briefly from his glass. “You’re both drunk.”

“Not our fault.” Jalenhorm groped for his stool. “It’s him!” He pointed an unsteady finger at Jezal.

“He won!” gurgled Kaspa. “You won, didn’t you, and now we got to celebrate!”

Jezal wished they didn’t have to celebrate quite so much. It was becoming embarrassing.

“My cousin Ariss wa’ there—saw whole thing. She was ver’ impressed.” Kaspa flung his arm round Jezal’s shoulder. “Think she’s quite shmitten with you… shmitten… shmitten.” He worked his wet lips in Jezal’s face, trying to get his mouth round the word. “She’s ver’ rich you know, ver’ rich indeed. Shmitten.”

Jezal wrinkled his nose. He had not the slightest interest in that ghostly simpleton of a cousin, however rich she was, and Kaspa’s breath stank. “Good… lovely” He disentangled himself from the Lieutenant and shoved him away, none too gently.

“So, when are we starting on this business in the North?” demanded Brint, a little too loud, as though he for one couldn’t wait to get underway. “Soon I hope, home before winter, eh, Major?”

“Huh,” snorted West, frowning to himself, “we’ll be lucky to have left before winter, the rate we’re going.”

Brint looked a little taken aback. “Well, I’m sure we’ll give these savages a thrashing, whenever we get there.”

“Give ’em a thrashing!” cried Kaspa.

“Aye.” Jalenhorm nodded his agreement.

West was not in the mood. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Have you seen the state of some of these levies? They can hardly walk, let alone fight. It’s a disgrace.”

Jalenhorm dismissed all this with an angry wave of his hand. “They’re nothing but fucking savages, the lot of ’em! We’ll knock ’em on their arses, like Jezal did that idiot today, eh, Jezal? Home before winter, everyone says so!”

“Do you know the land up there?” asked West, leaning across the table. “Forests, mountains, rivers, on and on. Precious little open space to fight in, precious few roads to march on. You’ve got to catch a man before the thrashing can start. Home before winter? Next winter, maybe, if we come back at all.”

Brint’s eyes were wide open and horrified. “You can’t mean that!”

“No… no, you’re right.” West sighed and shook himself. “I’m sure it’ll all turn out fine. Glory and promotions all round. Home before winter. I’d take a coat with you though, just in case.”

An uneasy silence descended on the group. West had that hard frown on his face that he got sometimes, the frown that said they’d get no more fun out of him tonight. Brint and Jalenhorm looked puzzled and surly. Only Kaspa maintained his good humour, and he was lolling back in his chair, eyes half closed, blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

Some celebration.

Jezal himself felt tired, annoyed, and worried. Worried about the Contest, worried about the war… worried about Ardee. The letter was still there, folded up in his pocket. He glanced sidelong at West, then quickly away. Damn, he felt guilty. He had never really felt guilty before, and he didn’t like it one bit. If he didn’t meet her, he would feel guilty for leaving her on her own. If he did, he’d feel guilty for breaking his word to West. It was a dilemma alright. Jezal chewed at his thumb-nail. What the hell was it about this damn family?

“Well,” said West sharply, “I have to be going. Early start tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” muttered Brint.

“Right,” said Jalenhorm.

West looked Jezal right in the eye. “Can I have a word?” His expression was serious, grave, angry even. Jezal’s heart lurched. What if West had found out about the letter? What if Ardee had told him? The Major turned away, moved over towards a quiet corner. Jezal stared around, desperately seeking for some way out.

“Jezal!” called West.

“Yes, yes.” He got up with the greatest reluctance and followed his friend, flashing what he hoped was an innocent-seeming smile. Perhaps it was something else. Nothing to do with Ardee. Please let it be something else.

“I don’t want anyone else to know about this…” West looked round to make sure no one was watching. Jezal swallowed. Any moment now he would get a punch in the face. At least one. He had never been punched in the face, not properly. A girl slapped him pretty hard once, but that was hardly the same. He prepared himself as best he could, gritting his teeth, wincing slightly. “Burr has set a date. We’ve got four weeks.”

Jezal stared back. “What?”

“Until we embark.”

“Embark?”

“For Angland, Jezal!”

“Oh, yes… Angland, of course! Four weeks you say?”

“I thought you ought to know, since you’re busy with the Contest, so you’d have time to get ready. Keep it to yourself, though.”

“Yes, of course.” Jezal wiped his sweaty forehead.

“You alright? You look pale.”

“I’m fine, fine.” He took a deep breath. “All this excitement, you know, the fencing and… everything.”

“Don’t worry, you did well today.” West clapped him on the shoulder. “But there’s a lot more to do. Three more bouts before you can call yourself a champion, and they’ll only get harder. Don’t get lazy, Jezal—and don’t get too drunk!” he threw over his shoulder as he made for the door. Jezal breathed a long sigh of relief as he returned to the table where the others were sitting. His nose was still intact.

Brint had already started to complain, now he could see that West wasn’t coming back. “What the hell was all that?” he asked, frowning and jabbing his thumb at the door. “I mean to say, well, I know he’s supposed to be the big hero and all of that but, well, I mean to say!”

Jezal stared down at him. “What do you mean to say?”

“Well, to talk that way! It’s, it’s defeatist!” The drink was lending him courage now, and he was warming to his topic. “It’s… well, I mean to say… it’s cowardly talk is what it is!”

“Now, look here, Brint,” snapped Jezal, “he fought in three pitched battles, and he was first through the breach at Ulrioch! He may not be a nobleman, but he’s a damn courageous fellow! Added to that he knows soldiering, he knows Marshal Burr, and he knows Angland! What do you know, Brint?” Jezal curled his lip. “Except how to lose at cards and empty a wine bottle?”

“That’s all a man needs to know in my book,” laughed Jalenhorm nervously, doing his best to calm the situation. “More wine!” he bellowed at no one in particular.

Jezal dropped down on his stool. If the company had been subdued before West left, it was even more so now. Brint was sulking. Jalenhorm was swaying on his stool. Kaspa had fallen soundly asleep, sprawled out on the wet table top, his breathing making quiet slurping sounds.

Jezal drained his wine glass, and stared round at the unpromising faces. Damn, he was bored. It was a fact, he was only now beginning to realise, that the conversation of the drunk is only interesting to the drunk. A few glasses of wine can be the difference between finding a man a hilarious companion or an insufferable moron. He wondered if he himself was as tedious drunk as Kaspa, or Jalenhorm, or Brint.

Jezal gave a thin smile as he looked over at the sulking bastard. If he were King, he mused, he would punish poor conversation with death, or at least a lengthy prison term. He stood up from his chair.

Jalenhorm stared up at him. “What you doing?”

“Better get some rest,” snapped Jezal, “need to train tomorrow.” It was the most he could do not to just run out of the place.

“But you won! Ain’t you going to celebrate?”