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

by Joe Abercrombie

  ‘Have we got him?’

  ‘Of course. Soon as he stepped out of the audience chamber.’

  Vitari’s hand had gone limp, and Glokta brushed it off and began to shuffle towards the cells. ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ he called over his shoulder, having to stop himself rubbing the bruised flesh on his arm. ‘You can put this in your next report to Sult.’

  Shabbed al Islik Burai looked considerably less majestic sitting down. Particularly in a scarred, stained chair in one of the close and sweaty cells beneath the Citadel.

  ‘Now isn’t this better, to speak on level terms? Quite disconcerting, having you looming over me like that.’ Islik sneered and looked away, as though talking to Glokta were a task far beneath him. A rich man, harassed by beggars in the street, but we’ll soon cure him of that illusion.

  ‘We know we have a traitor within our walls. Within the ruling council itself. Most likely one of those three worthies to whom you were just now giving your little ultimatum. You will tell me who.’ No response. ‘I am merciful,’ exclaimed Glokta, waving his hand airily, as the ambassador himself had done but a few short minutes before, ‘but my mercy has limits. Speak.’

  ‘I am here under a flag of parley, on a mission from the Emperor himself! To harm an unarmed emissary would be expressly against the rules of war!’

  ‘Parley? Rules of war?’ Glokta chuckled. Severard chuckled. Vitari chuckled. Frost was silent. ‘Do they even have those any more? Save that rubbish for children like Vissbruck, that’s not the way grownups play the game. Who is the traitor?’

  ‘I pity you, cripple! When the city falls—’

  Save your pity. You’ll need it for yourself. Frost’s fist scarcely made any sound as it sank into the ambassador’s stomach. His eyes bulged out, his mouth hung open, he coughed a dry cough, somewhere close to vomiting, tried to breathe and coughed again.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it,’ mused Glokta as he watched him struggle for air. ‘Big men, small men, thin men, fat men, clever men, stupid men, they all respond the same to a fist in the guts. One minute you think you’re the most powerful man in the world. The next you can’t even breathe by yourself. Some kinds of power are nothing but tricks of the mind. Your people taught me that, below your Emperor’s palace. There were no rules of war there, I can tell you. You know all about certain engagements, and certain bridges, and certain young officers, so you know that I’ve been just where you are now. There is one difference, however. I was helpless, but you can stop this unpleasantness at any time. You need only tell me who the traitor is, and you will be spared.’

  Islik had got his breath back now. Though a good deal of his arrogance is gone, one suspects for good. ‘I know nothing of any traitor!’

  ‘Really? Your master the Emperor sends you here to negotiate without all the facts? Unlikely. But if it’s true, you really aren’t any use to me at all, are you?’

  Islik swallowed. ‘I know nothing of any traitor.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  Frost’s big white fist clubbed him in the face. It would have thrown him sideways if the albino’s other fist hadn’t caught his head before it fell, smashed his nose and knocked him clean over the back of the chair. Frost and Severard dragged him up between them, righted the chair and dumped him gasping into it. Vitari looked on, arms folded.

  ‘All very painful,’ said Glokta, ‘but pain can be put to one side, if one knows that it will not last long. If it cannot last, say, past sunset. To truly break a man quickly, you have to threaten to deprive him of something. To hurt him in a way that will never heal. I should know.’

  ‘Gah!’ squawked the ambassador, thrashing in his chair. Severard wiped his knife on the shoulder of the man’s white robe, then tossed his ear onto the table. It lay there, on the wood: a forlorn and bloody half-circle of flesh. Glokta stared at it. In a baking cell just like this, over the course of long months, the Emperor’s servants turned me into this revolting, twisted mockery of a man. One might have hoped that the chance at doing the same to one of them, the chance at cutting out vengeance, pound for pound, would provide some dull flicker of pleasure. And yet he felt nothing. Nothing but my own pain. He winced as he stretched his leg out and felt the knee click, hissed air through his empty gums. So why do I do this?

  Glokta sighed. ‘Next will come a toe. Then a finger, an eye, a hand, your nose, and so on, do you see? It’ll be at least an hour before you’re missed, and we are quick workers.’ Glokta nodded at the severed ear. ‘We could have a pile of your flesh a foot high by that time. I’ll carve you until you’re nothing but a tongue and a bag of guts, if that’s what it takes, but I’ll know who the traitor is, that I promise you. Well? Do you know anything yet?’

  The ambassador stared at him, breathing hard, dark blood running from his magnificent nose, down his chin, dripping from the side of his head. Speechless with shock, or thinking on his next move? It hardly matters. ‘I grow bored. Start on his hands, Frost.’ The albino seized hold of his wrist.

  ‘Wait!’ wailed the ambassador, ‘God help me, wait! It was Vurms. Korsten dan Vurms, the governor’s own son!’

  Vurms. Almost too obvious. But then again, the most obvious answers are usually the right ones. That little bastard would sell his own father if he only thought that he could find a buyer—

  ‘And the woman, Eider!’

  Glokta frowned. ‘Eider? You sure?’

  ‘She planned it! She planned the whole thing!’ Glokta sucked slowly at his empty gums. They tasted sour. An awful sense of disappointment, or an awful sense of having known all along? She was always the only one with the brains, or the guts, or the resources, for treason. A shame. But we know better than to hope for happy endings.

  ‘Eider and Vurms,’ muttered Glokta. ‘Vurms and Eider. Our sordid little mystery comes to a close.’ He looked up at Frost. ‘You know what to do.’

  Long Odds

  The hill rose out of the grass, a round, even cone like a thing man-made. Strange, this one great mound standing out in the midst of the level plain. Ferro did not trust it. Weathered stones stood in a rough circle around its top and scattered about the slopes, some up on end, some lying on their sides, the smallest no more than knee high, the biggest twice as tall as a man. Dark, bare stones, standing defiant against the wind. Ancient, cold, angry. Ferro frowned at them.

  It felt as though they frowned back.

  ‘What is this place?’ asked Ninefingers.

  Quai shrugged. ‘Old is what this place is, terribly old. Older than the Empire itself. Built before the time of Euz, perhaps, when devils roamed the earth.’ He grinned. ‘Built by devils, for all I know. Who can say? Some temple to forgotten gods? Some tomb?’

  ‘Our tomb,’ whispered Ferro.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Good place to stop,’ she said out loud. ‘Get a look across the plain.’

  Ninefingers frowned up at it. ‘Alright. We stop.’

  Ferro stood on one of the stones, hands on hips, staring out across the plain through narrowed eyes. The wind tore at the grass and made waves from it, like the waves on the sea. It tore at the great clouds too, twisting them, ripping them open, dragging them through the sky. It lashed at Ferro’s face, nipped at her eyes, but she ignored it.

  Damn wind, just like always.

  Ninefingers stood beside her, squinting into the cold sun. ‘Anything out there?’

  ‘We are followed.’ They were far away, but she could see them. Tiny dots in the far distance. Tiny riders moving on the ocean of grass.

  Ninefingers grimaced. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes. You surprised?’

  ‘No.’ He gave up looking and rubbed at his eyes. ‘Bad news is never a surprise. Just a disappointment.’

  ‘I count thirteen.’

  ‘You can count ’em? I can’t even see ’em. They coming for us?’ She raised her arms. ‘You see anything else out here? Might be that laughing bastard Finnius found some more friends.’

  ‘Shit.’ He look
ed down at the cart, drawn up at the base of the hill. ‘We can’t outrun them.’

  ‘No.’ She curled her lip. ‘You could ask the spirits for their opinion.’

  ‘So they could tell us what? That we’re fucked?’ Silence for a moment. ‘Better to wait, and fight them here. Bring the cart up to the top. At least we’ve got a hill, and a few rocks to hide behind.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking. Gives us some time to prepare the ground.’

  ‘Alright. We’d best get to it.’

  The point of the shovel bit into the ground with the sharp scrape of metal on earth. An all too familiar sound. Digging pits and digging graves. What was the difference?

  Ferro had dug graves for all kinds of people. Companions, or as close as she had come to companions. Friends, or as close as she had come to friends. A lover or two, if you could call them that. Bandits, killers, slaves. Whoever hated the Gurkish. Whoever hid in the Badlands, for whatever reason.

  Spade up and spade down.

  When the fighting is over, you dig, if you are still alive. You gather up the bodies in a line. You dig the graves in a row. You dig for your fallen comrades. Your slashed, your punctured, your hacked and your broken comrades. You dig as deep as you can be bothered, you dump them in, you cover them up, they rot away and are forgotten, and you go on, alone. That’s the way it’s always been.

  But here, on this strange hill in the middle of this strange country, there was still time. Still a chance for the comrades to live. That was the difference, and for all her scorn, and her scowls, and her anger, she clung to it as she clung to the spade, desperate tight.

  Strange how she never stopped hoping.

  ‘You dig well,’ said Ninefingers. She squinted up at him, standing over her at the edge of the pit.

  ‘Lots of practice.’ She dug the spade into the earth beside the hole, planted her hands on the sides and jumped out, sat on the edge with her legs hanging down. Her shirt was stuck to her with sweat, her face was running with it. She wiped her forehead with her dirty hand. He handed her the water-skin and she took it from him, pulled the stopper out with her teeth.

  ‘How long do we have?’

  She sucked a mouthful out of the skin and worked it round, spat it out. ‘Depends how hard they go.’ She took another mouthful and swallowed. ‘They are going hard now. They keep that up, they could be on us late tonight, or maybe dawn tomorrow.’ She handed the skin back.

  ‘Dawn tomorrow.’ Ninefingers slowly pushed the stopper back in. ‘Thirteen you said, eh?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘And four of us.’

  ‘Five, if the Navigator comes to help.’

  Ninefingers scratched at his jaw. ‘Not very likely.’

  ‘That apprentice any use in a fight?’

  Ninefingers winced. ‘Not much.’

  ‘How about Luthar?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he’s ever thrown a fist in anger, let alone a blade.’

  Ferro nodded. ‘Thirteen against two, then.’

  ‘Long odds.’

  ‘Very.’

  He took a deep breath and stared down into the pit. ‘If you had a mind to run, I can’t say I’d blame you.’

  ‘Huh,’ she snorted. Strange, but she hadn’t even thought about it. ‘I’ll stick. See how it turns out.’

  ‘Alright. Good. Can’t say I don’t need you.’

  The wind rustled in the grass and sighed against the stones. There were things that should be said at a time like this, Ferro guessed, but she did not know what. She had never had much talk in her.

  ‘One thing. If I die, you bury me.’ She held her hand out to him. ‘Deal?’

  He raised an eyebrow at it. ‘Done.’ It was a long time, she realised, since she touched another person without the purpose of hurting them. It was a strange feeling, his hand gripped in hers, his fingers tight round hers, his palm pressed against hers. Warm. He nodded at her. She nodded at him. Then they let go.

  ‘What if we both die?’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Then the crows can pick us clean. After all, what’s the difference?’

  ‘Not much,’ he muttered, starting off down the slope. ‘Not much.’

  The Road to Victory

  West stood by a clump of stunted trees, in the cutting wind, on the high ground above the river Cumnur, and watched the long column move. More accurately, he watched it not move.

  The neat blocks of the King’s Own, up at the head of Prince Ladisla’s army, marched smartly enough. You could tell them from their armour, glinting in the odd ray of pale sun that broke through the ragged clouds, from the bright uniforms of their officers, from the red and golden standards snapping at the front of each company. They were already across the river, formed up in good order, a stark contrast with the chaos on the other side.

  The levies had started eagerly, early that morning, no doubt relieved to be leaving the miserable camp behind, but it hadn’t been an hour before a man here or a man there, older than the others, or worse shod, had started to lag, and the column had grown ragged. Men slipped and stumbled in the half-frozen muck, cursing and barging into their neighbours, boots tripping on the boots of the man in front. The battalions had twisted, stretched, turned from neat blocks into shapeless blobs, merged with the units in front and behind, until the column moved in great ripples, one group hurrying forward while the next was still, like the segments of some monstrous, filthy earthworm.

  As soon as they reached the bridge they had lost all semblance of order. The ragged companies squeezed into that narrow space, shoving and grunting, tired and bad-tempered. Those waiting behind pressed in tighter and tighter, impatient to be across so they could rest, slowing everything down still further with the weight of their bodies. Then a cart, which had no business being there in any case, had lost a wheel halfway across, and the sluggish flow of men over the bridge had become a trickle. No one seemed to know how to move it, or who to get to fix it, and contented themselves with clambering over it, or slithering around it, and holding up the thousands behind.

  Quite a press had built up in the mud on this side of the fastflowing water. Men barged and grumbled shoulder to shoulder, spears sticking up into the air at all angles, surrounded by shouting officers and an ever increasing detritus of rubbish and discarded gear. Behind them the great snake of shambling men continued its spastic forward movement, feeding ever more soldiers into the confusion before the bridge. There was not the slightest evidence that anyone had even thought about trying to make them stop, let alone succeeded.

  All this in column, under no pressure from the enemy, and with a half decent road to march on. West dreaded to imagine trying to manoeuvre them in a battle line, through trees or over broken ground. He jammed his tired eyes shut, rubbed at them with his fingers, but when he opened them the horrifying, hilarious spectacle was still there before him. He hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.

  He heard the sound of hooves on the rise behind him. Lieutenant Jalenhorm, big and solid in his saddle. Short on imagination, perhaps, but a fine rider, and a trustworthy man. A good choice for the task that West had in mind.

  ‘Lieutenant Jalenhorm reporting, sir.’ The big man turned in his saddle and looked down towards the river. ‘Looks like they’re having some trouble on the bridge.’

  ‘Doesn’t it just. Only the start of our troubles, I fear.’

  Jalenhorm grinned down. ‘I understand we have the advantage of numbers, and of surprise—’

  ‘As far as numbers go, maybe. Surprise?’ West gestured down at the men milling around on the bridge, heard the vague, desperate shouts of their officers. ‘This rabble? A blind man would hear us coming from ten miles distance. A blind and a deaf one would probably smell us before we were halfway to battle order. We’ll be all day just getting across the river. And that’s hardly the worst of our shortcomings. In the area of command, I fear, the gulf between us and our enemy could not possibly be wider. The Prince lives in a dream, and his staff exist o
nly to keep him there, at any price.’

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘The price could be our lives.’

  Jalenhorm frowned. ‘Come on, West, I hardly want to be going into battle with that thought first on my mind—’

  ‘You won’t be going.’

  ‘I won’t?’

  ‘You will pick out six good men from your company, with spare mounts. You will ride as hard as possible for Ostenhorm, then north to Lord Marshal Burr’s camp.’ West reached into his coat and pulled out his letter. ‘You will give him this. You will inform him that Bethod is already behind him with the greater part of his strength, and that Prince Ladisla has most ill-advisedly decided to cross the river Cumnur and give the Northmen battle, directly against the Marshal’s orders.’ West clenched his teeth. ‘Bethod will see us coming from miles away. We are handing the choice of the ground to our enemy, so that Prince Ladisla can appear bold. Boldness is the best policy in war, apparently.’

  ‘West, surely it’s not that bad?’

  ‘When you reach Marshal Burr, tell him that Prince Ladisla has almost certainly been defeated, quite possibly destroyed, and the road to Ostenhorm left open. He’ll know what to do.’

  Jalenhorm stared down at the letter, reached out to take it, then paused. ‘Colonel, I really wish that you’d send someone else. I should fight—’

  ‘Your fighting cannot possibly make any real difference, Lieutenant, but your carrying this message might. There is no sentiment in this, believe me. I have no more important task than this one, and you are the man I trust to get it done. Do you understand your orders?’

  The big man swallowed, then he took the letter, undid a button and slid it carefully down inside his coat. ‘Of course, sir. I am honoured to carry it.’ He began to turn his horse.

  ‘There is one more thing.’ West took a deep breath. ‘If I should . . . get myself killed. When this is over, could you carry a message to my sister?’