Joe Abercrombie - Best Served Cold

“In settling yours, it seems you have made me some powerful enemies.”

“In settling yours, it seems you have plunged Styria into chaos.”

That was true enough. “Not quite my intention.”

“Once you choose to open the box, your intentions mean nothing. And the box is yawning wide as a grave now. I wonder what will spill from it? Will righteous leaders rise from the madness to light the way to a brighter, fairer Styria, a beacon for all the world? Or will we get ruthless shadows of old tyrants, treading circles in the bloody footsteps of the past?” Shenkt’s bright eyes did not leave hers. “Which will you be?”

“I suppose we’ll see.”

“I suppose we will.” He turned, his footfalls making not the slightest sound, and pulled the doors silently shut behind him, leaving her alone.

All Change

Y ou need not do this, you know.”

“I know.” But Friendly wanted to do it.

Cosca squirmed in his saddle with frustration. “If only I could make you see how the world out here… swarms with infinite possibilities!” He had been trying to make Friendly see it the entire way from the unfortunate village where the Thousand Swords were camped. He had failed to realise that Friendly saw it with perfect, painful clarity already. And he hated it. As far as he was concerned, fewer possibilities was better. And that meant infinite was far, far too many for comfort.

“The world changes, alters, is born anew and presents a different face each day! A man never knows what each moment will bring!”

Friendly hated change. The only thing he hated more was not knowing what each moment might bring.

“There are all manner of pleasures to sample out here.”

Different men take pleasure in different things.

“To lock yourself away from life is… to admit defeat!”

Friendly shrugged. Defeat had never scared him. He had no pride.

“I need you. Desperately. A good sergeant is worth three generals.”

There was a long moment of silence while their horses’ hooves crunched on the dry track.

“Well, damn it!” Cosca took a swig from his flask. “I have made every effort.”

“I appreciate it.”

“But you are resolved?”

“I am.”

Friendly’s worst fear had been that they might not let him back in. Until Murcatto had given him a document with a great seal for the authorities of the city of Musselia. It detailed his convictions as an accomplice in the murders of Gobba, Mauthis, Prince Ario, General Ganmark, Faithful Carpi, Prince Foscar and Grand Duke Orso of Talins, and sentenced him to imprisonment for life. Or until such time as he desired to be released. Friendly was confident that would be never. It was the only payment he had asked for, the best gift he had ever been given, and sat now neatly folded in his inside pocket, just beside his dice.

“I will miss you, my friend, I will miss you.”

“And I you.”

“But not so much I can persuade you to remain in my company?”

“No.”

For Friendly, this was a homecoming long anticipated. He knew the number of trees on the road leading to the gate, the warmth welling up in his chest as he counted them off. He stood eagerly in his stirrups, caught a tingling glimpse of the gatehouse, a looming corner of dark brickwork above the greenery. Hardly architecture to fill most convicted men with joy, but Friendly’s heart leaped at the sight of it. He knew the number of bricks in the archway, had been waiting for them, longing for them, dreaming of them for so long. He knew the number of iron studs on the great doors, he knew Friendly frowned as the track curved about to face the gate. The doors stood open. A terrible foreboding crowded his joy away. What could be more wrong in a prison than that its doors should stand open and unlocked? That was not part of the grand routine.

He slid from his horse, wincing at the pain in his stiff right arm, still healing even though the splints were off. He walked slowly to the gate, almost scared to look inside. A ragged-looking man sat on the steps of the hut where the guards should have been watching, all alone.

“I’ve done nothing!” He held up his hands. “I swear!”

“I have a letter signed by the Grand Duchess of Talins.” Friendly unfolded the treasured document and held it out, still hoping. “I am to be taken into custody at once.”

The man stared at him for a moment. “I’m no guard, friend. Just using the hut to sleep in.”

“Where are the guards?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“With riots in Musselia I reckon no one was paying ’em, so… they up and left.”

Friendly felt a cold prickle of horror on the back of his neck. “The prisoners?”

“They got free. Most of ’em ran right off. Some of ’em waited. Shut ’emselves into their own cells at night, only imagine that!”

“Only imagine,” said Friendly, with deep longing.

“Didn’t know where to run to, I guess. But they got hungry, in the end. Now they’ve gone too. There’s no one here.”

“No one?”

“Only me.”

Friendly looked up the narrow track to the archway in the rocky hillside. All empty. The halls were silent. The circle of sky still looked down into the old quarry, maybe, but there was no rattling of bars as the prisoners were locked up safe and sound each night. No comforting routine, enfolding their lives as tightly as a mother holds her child. No more would each day, each month, each year be measured out into neat little parcels. The great clock had stopped.

“All change,” whispered Friendly.

He felt Cosca’s hand on his shoulder. “The world is all change, my friend. We all would like to go back, but the past is done. We must look forwards. We must change ourselves, however painful it may be, or be left behind.”

So it seemed. Friendly turned his back on Safety, clambered dumbly up onto his horse. “Look forwards.” But to what? Infinite possibilities? He felt panic gripping him. “Forwards all depends on which way you face. Which way should I face now?”

Cosca grinned as he turned his own mount about. “Making that choice is what life is. But if I may make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“I will be taking the Thousand Swords-or those who have not retired on the plunder of Fontezarmo, at least, or found regular employment with the Duchess Monzcarro-down towards Visserine to help me press my claims on Salier’s old throne.” He unscrewed the cap of his flask. “My entirely righteous claims.” He took a swig and burped, blasting Friendly with an overpowering reek of strong spirits. “A title promised me by the King of Styria, after all. The city is in chaos, and those bastards need someone to show them the way.”

“You?”

“And you, my friend, and you! Nothing is more valuable to the ruler of a great city than an honest man who can count.”

Friendly took one last longing look back, the gatehouse already disappearing into the trees. “Perhaps they’ll start it up again, one day.”

“Perhaps they will. But in the meantime I can make noble use of your talents in Visserine. I have entirely rightful claims. Born in the city, you know. There’ll be work there. Lots of… work.”

Friendly frowned sideways. “Are you drunk?”

“Ludicrously, my friend, quite ludicrously so. This is the good stuff. The old grape spirit.” Cosca took another swig and smacked his lips. “Change, Friendly… change is a funny thing. Sometimes men change for the better. Sometimes men change for the worse. And often, very often, given time and opportunity…” He waved his flask around for a moment, then shrugged. “They change back.”

Happy Endings

F ew days after they’d thrown him in there, they’d set up a gallows just outside. He could see it from the little window in his cell, if he climbed up on the pallet and pressed his face to the bars. A man might wonder why a prisoner would go to all that trouble to taunt himself, but somehow he had to. Maybe that was the point. It was a big wooden platform with a crossbeam and four neat nooses. Trapdoors in the floor so they only had to kick a lever to snap four necks at a go, easy as snapping twigs. Quite a thing. They had machines for planting crops, and machines for printing paper, and it seemed they had machines for killing folk too. Maybe that’s what Morveer had meant when he spouted off about science, all those months ago.