The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  The Lord Governor was keeping him waiting. Trying to let me know he’s still in charge, whatever the Closed Council might say. But Glokta didn’t mind being still for a while. The day had been a tiring one. Slogging round the city in the baking heat, examining the walls, the gates, the troops. Asking questions. Questions to which no one has satisfactory answers. His leg was throbbing, his back was aching, his hand was raw from gripping his cane. But no worse than usual. I am still standing. A good day, all in all.

  The glowing sun was shrouded in lines of orange cloud. Beneath it a long wedge of sea glittered silver in the last light of the day. The land walls had already plunged half the ramshackle buildings of the Lower City into deep gloom, and the shadows of the tall spires of the great temple stretched out across the roofs of the Upper City, creeping up the slopes of the rock towards the citadel. The hills on the mainland were nothing more than a distant suggestion, full of shadows. And crawling with Gurkish soldiers. Watching us, as we watch them, no doubt. Seeing us dig our ditches, patch our walls, shore up our gates. How long will they be content to watch, I wonder? How long before the sun goes down for us?

  The door opened and Glokta turned his head, wincing as his neck clicked. It was the Lord Governor’s son, Korsten dan Vurms. He shut the door behind him and strode purposefully into the room, metal heel tips clicking on the mosaic floor. Ah, the flower of the Union’s young nobility. The sense of honour is almost palpable. Or did someone fart?

  ‘Superior Glokta! I hope I have not kept you waiting.’

  ‘You have,’ said Glokta as he shuffled to the table. ‘That is what happens when one comes late to a meeting.’

  Vurms frowned slightly. ‘Then I apologise,’ he said, in the most unapologetic tone imaginable. ‘How are you finding our city?’

  ‘Hot and full of steps.’ Glokta dumped himself into one of the exquisite chairs. ‘Where is the Lord Governor?’

  The frown turned down further. ‘I am afraid that my father is unwell, and cannot attend. You understand that he is an old man, and needs his rest. I can speak for him however.’

  ‘Can you indeed? And what do the two of you have to say?’

  ‘My father is most concerned about the work that you are undertaking on the defences. I am told that the King’s soldiers have been set to digging holes on the peninsula, rather than defending the walls of the Upper City. You realise that you are leaving us at the mercy of the natives!’

  Glokta snorted. ‘The natives are citizens of the Union, no matter how reluctant. Believe me, they are more inclined to mercy than the Gurkish.’ Of their mercy I have first-hand experience.

  ‘They are primitives!’ sneered Vurms, ‘and dangerous to boot! You have not been here long enough to understand the threat they pose to us! You should talk to Harker. He’s got the right ideas as far as the natives are concerned.’

  ‘I talked to Harker, and I didn’t like his ideas. I suspect he may have been forced to rethink them, in fact, downstairs, in the dark.’ I suspect he is rethinking even now, and as quickly as his pea of a brain will allow. ‘As for your father’s worries, he need no longer concern himself with the defence of the city. Since he is an old man, and in need of rest, I have no doubt he will be happy to pass the responsibility to me.’

  A spasm of anger passed across Vurms’ handsome features. He opened his mouth to hiss some curse, but evidently thought better of it. As well he should. He sat back in his chair, rubbing one thumb and one finger thoughtfully together. When he spoke, it was with a friendly smile and a charming softness. Now comes the wheedling. ‘Superior Glokta, I feel we have got off on the wrong foot—’

  ‘I only have one that works.’

  Vurms’ smile slipped somewhat, but he forged on. ‘It is plain that you hold the cards, for the time being, but my father has many friends back in Midderland. I can be a significant hindrance to you, if I have the mind. A significant hindrance or a great help—’

  ‘I am so glad that you have chosen to cooperate. You can begin by telling me what became of Superior Davoust.’

  The smile slipped off entirely. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘Everyone knows something.’ And someone knows more than the rest. Is it you, Vurms?

  The Lord Governor’s son thought about it for a moment. Dense, or guilty? Is he trying to think of ways to help me, or ways to cover his tracks? ‘I know the natives hated him. They were forever plotting against us, and Davoust was tireless in his pursuit of the disloyal. I have no doubt he fell victim to one of their schemes. I’d be asking questions down in the Lower City, if I was you.’

  ‘Oh, I am quite confident the answers lie here in the Citadel.’

  ‘Not with me,’ snapped Vurms, looking Glokta up and down. ‘Believe me when I say, I would be much happier if Davoust was still with us.’

  Perhaps, or perhaps not, but we will get no answers today. ‘Very well. Tell me about the city’s stores.’

  ‘The stores?’

  ‘Food, Korsten, food. I understand that, since the Gurkish closed the land routes, everything must be brought in by sea. Feeding the people is surely one of a governor’s most pressing concerns.’

  ‘My father is mindful of his people’s needs in any eventuality!’ snapped Vurms. ‘We have provisions for six months!’

  ‘Six months? For all the inhabitants?’

  ‘Of course.’ Better than I expected. One less thing to worry about, at least, from this vast tangle of worries. ‘Unless you count the natives,’ added Vurms, as though it was of no importance.

  Glokta paused. ‘And what will they eat, if the Gurkish lay siege to the city?’

  Vurms shrugged. ‘I really hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘Indeed? What will happen, do you suppose, when they begin to starve?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Chaos is what will happen! We cannot hold the city with four fifths of the population against us!’ Glokta sucked at his empty gums in disgust. ‘You will go to the merchants, you will secure provisions for six months! For everyone! I want six months’ supplies for the rats in the sewers!’

  ‘What am I?’ sneered Vurms. ‘Your grocery boy?’

  ‘I suppose you’re whatever I tell you to be.’

  All trace of friendliness had vanished from Vurms’ face now. ‘I am the son of a Lord Governor! I refuse to be addressed in this manner!’ The legs of his chair squealed furiously as he sprang up and made for the door.

  ‘Fine,’ murmured Glokta. ‘There’s a boat that goes to Adua every day. A fast boat, and it takes its cargo straight to the House of Questions. They’ll address you differently there, believe me. I could easily arrange a berth for you.’

  Vurms stopped in his tracks. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

  Glokta smiled. His most revolting, leering, gap-toothed smile. ‘You’d have to be a bold man to bet your life on what I’d dare. How bold are you?’ The young man licked his lips, but he did not meet Glokta’s gaze for long. I thought not. He reminds me of my friend Captain Luthar. All flash and arrogance, but with no kind of character to hang it on. Prick him with a pin, and he sags like a punctured wineskin.

  ‘Six months’ food. Six months for everyone. And see that it’s done promptly.’ Grocery boy.

  ‘Of course,’ growled Vurms, still staring grimly at the floor.

  ‘Then we can get started on the water. The wells, the cisterns, the pumps. People will need something to wash all your hard work down with, eh? You will report to me every morning.’

  Vurms’ fists clenched and unclenched by his sides, his jaw muscles worked with fury. ‘Of course,’ he managed to splutter.

  ‘Of course. You may go.’

  Glokta watched him stalk away. And I have talked to two out of four. Two of four, and I have made two enemies. I will need allies if I am to succeed here. Without allies, I will not last, regardless of what documents I hold. Without allies I will not keep the Gurkish out, if they decide to try and come in. Worse yet, I still know nothing of Davoust. A
Superior of the Inquisition, disappeared into thin air. Let us hope the Arch Lector will be patient.

  Hope. Arch Lector. Patience. Glokta frowned. Never have three ideas belonged together less.

  The Thing About Trust

  The wheel on the cart turned slowly round, and squeaked.

  It turned round again, and squeaked. Ferro scowled at it. Damn wheel. Damn cart. She shifted her scorn from the cart to its driver.

  Damn apprentice. She didn’t trust him a finger’s breadth. His eyes flickered over to her, lingered an insulting moment, then darted off. As if he knew something about Ferro that she did not know herself. That made her angry. She looked away from him to the first of the horses, and its rider.

  Damn Union boy with his stiff back, sitting in his saddle like a King sits on his throne, as though being born with a good-shaped face was an achievement to be endlessly proud of. He was pretty, and neat, and dainty as a princess. Ferro smiled grimly to herself. The princess of the Union, that’s what he was. She hated fine-looking people even more than ugly ones. Beauty was never to be trusted.

  You would have had to look far and wide to find anyone less beautiful than the big nine-fingered bastard. He sat in his saddle slumped over like some great sack of rice. Slow-moving, scratching, sniffing, chewing like a big cow. Trying to look like he had no killing in him, no mad fury, no devil. She knew better. He nodded to her and she scowled back. He was a devil wearing a cow’s skin, and she was not fooled.

  Better than that damn Navigator, though. Always talking, always smiling, always laughing. Ferro hated talk, and smiles, and laughter, each one more than the last. Stupid little man with his stupid tales. Underneath all his lies he was plotting, watching, she could feel it.

  That left the First of the Magi, and she trusted him least of all. She saw his eyes sliding to the cart. Looking at the sack he’d put the box in. Square, grey, dull, heavy box. He thought no one had seen, but she had. Full of secrets is what he was. Bald bastard, with his thick neck and his wooden pole, acting as if he had done nothing but good in his life, as if he would not know where to begin at making a man explode.

  ‘Damn fucking pinks,’ she whispered to herself. She leaned over and spat onto the track, glowered at their five backs as they rode ahead of her. Why had she let Yulwei talk her into this madness? A voyage way off into the cold west where she had no business. She should have been back in the South, fighting the Gurkish.

  Making them pay what they owed her.

  Cursing the name of Yulwei silently to herself, she followed the others up to the bridge. It looked ancient – pitted stones splattered with stains of lichen, the surface of it rutted deep where a cart’s wheels would roll. Thousands of years of carts, rolling back and forward. The stream gurgled under its single arch, bitter cold water, flowing fast. A low hut stood beside the bridge, settled and slumped into the landscape over long years. Some wisps of smoke were snatched from its chimney and out across the land in the cutting wind.

  One soldier stood outside, alone. Drew the short straw, maybe. He’d pressed himself against the wall, swathed in a heavy cloak, horse-hair on his helmet whipping back and forth in the gusts, his spear ignored beside him. Bayaz reined his horse in before the bridge and nodded across.

  ‘We’re going up onto the plain. Out towards Darmium.’

  ‘Can’t advise it. Dangerous up there.’

  Bayaz smiled. ‘Dangers mean profits.’

  ‘Profits won’t stop an arrow, friend.’ The soldier looked them up and down, one by one, and sniffed. ‘Varied crowd, aren’t you?’

  ‘I take good fighters wherever I can find them.’

  ‘Course.’ He looked over at Ferro and she scowled back. ‘Very tough, I’m sure, but the fact is the plains are deadly, and more than ever now. Some traders are still going up there, but they’re not coming back. That madman Cabrian has raiders out there, I reckon, keen for plunder. Scario and Goltus too, they’re little better. We keep some shred of law on this side of the stream, but once you’re up there, you’re on your own. There’ll be no help for you if you’re caught out on the plain.’ He sniffed again. ‘No help at all.’

  Bayaz nodded grimly. ‘We ask for none.’ He spurred his horse and it began to trot over the bridge, onto the track on the other side. The others followed behind, Longfoot first, then Luthar, then Ninefingers. Quai shook the reins and the cart clattered across. Ferro brought up the rear.

  ‘No help at all!’ the soldier called after her, before he wedged himself back against the rough wall of his hut.

  The great plain.

  It should have been good land for riding, reassuring land. Ferro could have seen an enemy coming from miles away, but she saw no one. Only the vast carpet of tall grass, waving and thrashing in the wind, stretching away in every direction, to the far, far, horizon. Only the track broke the monotony, a line of shorter, drier grass, pocked with patches of bare black earth, cutting across the plain straight as an arrow flies.

  Ferro did not like it, this vast sameness. She frowned as they rode, peering left and right. In the Badlands of Kanta, the barren earth was full of features – broken boulders, withered valleys, dried-up trees casting their clawing shadows, distant creases in the earth full of shade, bright ridges doused in light. In the Badlands of Kanta, the sky above would be empty, still, a bright bowl holding nothing but the blinding sun in the day, the bright stars at night.

  Here all was strangely reversed.

  The earth was featureless, but the sky was full of movement, full of chaos. Towering clouds loomed over the plain, dark and light swirling together into colossal spirals, sweeping over the grassland with the raking wind, shifting, turning, ripping apart and flooding back together, casting monstrous, flowing shadows onto the cowering earth, threatening to crush the six tiny riders and their tiny cart with a deluge to sink the world. All hanging over Ferro’s hunched up shoulders, the wrath of God made real.

  This was a strange land, one in which she had no place. She needed reasons to be here, and good ones. ‘You, Bayaz!’ she shouted, drawing up level with him. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Huh,’ he grunted, frowning out across the waving grass, from nothing, to nothing. ‘We are going westwards, across the plain, over the great river Aos, as far as the Broken Mountains.’

  ‘Then?’

  She saw the faint lines around his eyes, across the bridge of his nose, grow deeper, watched his lips press together. Annoyance. He did not like her questions. ‘Then we go further.’

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘All of winter and into spring,’ he snapped. ‘And then we must come back.’ He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and trotted away from her, up the track towards the front of the group.

  Ferro was not so easily put off. Not by this shifty old pink. She dug in her own heels and drew up level with him. ‘What is the First Law?’

  Bayaz looked sharply over at her. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Not enough. I heard you and Yulwei talking, through the door.’

  ‘Eavesdropping, eh?’

  ‘You have loud voices and I have good ears.’ Ferro shrugged. ‘I am not sticking a bucket on my head just to keep your secrets. What is the First Law?’

  The lines round Bayaz’ forehead grew deeper, the corners of his mouth turned down. Anger. ‘A stricture that Euz placed on his sons, the first rule made after the chaos of ancient days. It is forbidden to touch the Other Side direct. Forbidden to communicate with the world below, forbidden to summon demons, forbidden to open gates to hell. Such is the First Law, the guiding principle of all magic.’

  ‘Uh,’ snorted Ferro. It meant nothing to her. ‘Who is Khalul?’

  Bayaz’ thick brows drew in together, his frown deepened, his eyes narrowed. ‘Is there no end to your questions, woman?’ Her questions galled him. That was good. That meant they were the right questions.

  ‘You’ll know if I stop asking them. Who is Khalul?’

  ‘Khalul was one o
f the order of Magi,’ growled Bayaz. ‘One of my order. The second of Juvens’ twelve apprentices. He was always jealous of my place, always thirsty for power. He broke the Second Law to get it. He ate the flesh of men, and persuaded others to do the same. He made of himself a false prophet, tricked the Gurkish into serving him. That is Khalul. Your enemy, and mine.’

  ‘What is the Seed?’

  The Magus’ face gave a sudden twitch. Fury, and perhaps the slightest trace of fear. Then his face softened. ‘What is it?’ He smiled at her, and his smile worried her more than all his anger could have. He leaned towards her, close enough that no one else could hear. ‘It is the instrument of your vengeance. Of our vengeance. But it is dangerous. Even to speak of it is dangerous. There are those who are always listening. It would be wise for you to shut the door on your questions, before the answers to them burn us all.’ He spurred his horse once again, trotting out ahead of the party on his own.

  Ferro stayed behind. She had learned enough for now. Learned enough to trust this First of the Magi less than ever.

  A hollow in the ground, no more than four strides across. A sink in the soil, ringed by a low wall of damp, dark earth, full of tangled grass roots. That was the best place they had found to camp for the night, and they had been lucky to find it.

  It was as big a feature in the landscape as Ferro had seen all day.

  The fire that Longfoot had made was burning well now, flames licking bright and hungry at the wood, rustling and flickering out sideways as a gust of wind swept down into the hollow. The five pinks sat clustered around it, hunched and huddled for warmth, light from it bright on their pinched-up faces.

  Longfoot was the only one speaking. His talk was all of his own great achievements. How he had been to this place or that. How he knew this thing or that. How he had a remarkable talent for this, or for that. Ferro was sick of it already, and had told him so twice. The first time she thought she had been clear. The second time she had made sure of it. He would not be talking to her of his idiot travels again, but the others still suffered in silence.