The Great Leveller

by Joe Abercrombie

  That room might’ve given him a cold tremble fit to match his name once, but no more. He’d had his eye burned out of his face, and lived to learn the lessons. The world hardly seemed to have any horrors left. Made him smile, to think how scared he’d always been before. Scared of everything and nothing. Smiling tugged at the great wound under his bandages and made his face burn, so he stopped.

  The bell brought a man creeping through a side door, hands rubbing nervously together. Small and dark-skinned with a sorry face. Worried they were here to rob him, more’n likely, what with Orso’s army not far distant. Everyone in Puranti seemed worried, scared they’d lose what they had. Apart from Shivers himself. He hadn’t much to lose.

  ‘Sir, madam, can I be of assistance?’

  ‘You’re Scopal?’ asked Monza. ‘The eye-maker?’

  ‘I am Scopal,’ he bent a nervous bow, ‘scientist, surgeon, physician, specialising in all things relating to the vision.’

  Shivers undid the knot at the back of his head. ‘Good enough.’ And he started unwinding the bandages. ‘Fact is I’ve lost an eye.’

  That perked the surgeon up. ‘Oh, don’t say lost, my friend!’ He came forwards into the light from the window. ‘Don’t say lost until I have had a chance to view the damage. You would be amazed at what can be achieved! Science is leaping forwards every day!’

  ‘Springy bastard, ain’t it.’

  Scopal gave an uncertain chuckle. ‘Ah . . . most elastic. Why, I have returned a measure of sight to men who thought themselves blind for life. They called me a magician! Imagine that! They called me . . . a . . .’

  Shivers peeled away the last bandages, the air cold against his tingling skin, and he stepped up closer, turning the left side of his face forwards. ‘Well? What do you reckon? Can science make that big a jump?’

  The man gave a polite nod. ‘My apologies. But even in the area of replacement I have made great discoveries, never fear!’

  Shivers took a half-step further, looming over the man. ‘Do I look feared to you?’

  ‘Not in the least, of course, I merely meant . . . well . . .’ Scopal cleared his throat and sidled to the shelves. ‘My current process for an ocular prosthesis is—’

  ‘The fuck?’

  ‘Fake eye,’ said Monza.

  ‘Oh, much, much more than that.’ Scopal slid out a wooden rack. Six metal balls sat on it, gleaming silver-bright. ‘A perfect sphere of the finest Midderland steel is inserted into the orbit where it will, one hopes, remain permanently.’ He brought down a round board, flipped it towards them with a showy twist. It was covered with eyes. Blue ones, green ones, brown ones. Each had the colour of a real eye, the gleam of a real eye, some of the whites even had a red vein or two in ’em. And still they looked about as much like a real eye as a boiled egg might’ve.

  Scopal waved at his wares with high smugness. ‘A curved enamel such as these, painted with care to match perfectly your other eye, is then inserted between metal ball and eyelid. These are prone to wear, and must therefore be regularly changed, but, believe me, the results can be uncanny.’

  The fake eyes stared, unblinking, at Shivers. ‘They look like dead men’s eyes.’

  An uncomfortable pause. ‘When glued upon a board, of course, but properly fitted within a living face—’

  ‘Reckon it’s a good thing. Dead men tell no lies, eh? We’ll have no more lies.’ Shivers strode to the back of the shop, dropped down into the chair, stretched out and crossed his legs. ‘Get to it, then.’

  ‘At once?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The steel will take an hour or two to fit. Preparing a set of enamels usually requires at least a fortnight—’ Monza tossed a stack of silver coins onto the counter and they jingled as they spilled across the stone. Scopal humbly bowed his head. ‘I will fit the closest I have, and have the rest ready by tomorrow evening.’ He turned the lamp up so bright Shivers had to shield his good eye with one hand. ‘It will be necessary to make some incisions.’

  ‘Some whats, now?’

  ‘Cuts,’ said Monza.

  ‘ ’Course it will. Nothing in life worth doing that doesn’t need a blade, eh?’

  Scopal shuffled the instruments around on the little table. ‘Followed by some stitches, the removal of the useless flesh—’

  ‘Dig out the dead wood? I’m all for it. Let’s have a fresh start.’

  ‘Might I suggest a pipe?’

  ‘Fuck, yes,’ he heard Monza whisper.

  ‘Suggest away,’ said Shivers. ‘I’m getting bored o’ pain the last few weeks.’

  The eye-maker bowed his head, eased off to charge the pipe. ‘I remember you getting your hair cut,’ said Monza. ‘Nervous as a lamb at its first shearing.’

  ‘Heh. True.’

  ‘Now look at you, keen to be fitted for an eye.’

  ‘A wise man once told me you have to be realistic. Strange how fast we change, ain’t it, when we have to?’

  She frowned back at him. ‘Don’t change too far. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘No stomach for the eye-making business?’

  ‘I’ve got to renew an acquaintance.’

  ‘Old friend?’

  ‘Old enemy.’

  Shivers grinned. ‘Dearer yet. Watch you don’t get killed, eh?’ And he settled back in the chair, pulled the strap tight round his forehead. ‘We’ve still got work to do.’ He closed his good eye, the lamplight glowing pink through the lid.

  Prince of Prudence

  Grand Duke Rogont had made his headquarters in the Imperial Bath-Hall. The building was still one of the greatest in Puranti, casting half the square at the east end of the old bridge into shadow. But like the rest of the city, it had seen better centuries. Half its great pediment and two of the six mighty pillars that once held it up had collapsed lifetimes before, the stone pilfered for the mismatched walls of newer, meaner buildings. The stained masonry sprouted with grass, with dead ivy, with a couple of stubborn little trees, even. Probably baths had been a higher priority when it was built, before everyone in Styria started trying to kill each other. Happy times, when keeping the water hot enough had been anyone’s biggest worry. The crumbling building might have whispered of the glories of a lost age, but made a sad comment on Styria’s long decline.

  If Monza had cared a shit.

  But she had other things on her mind. She waited for a gap to appear between one tramping company of Rogont’s retreating army and the next, then she forced her shoulders back and strode across the square. Up the cracked steps of the Bath-Hall, trying to walk with all her old swagger while her crooked hip bone clicked back and forth in its socket and sent stings right through her arse. She pushed her hood back, keeping her eyes fixed on the foremost of the guards, a grizzled-looking veteran wide as a door with a scar down one colourless cheek.

  ‘I need to speak to Duke Rogont,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m Mon . . . what?’ She’d been expecting to explain herself. Probably to be laughed at. Possibly to be strung up from one of the pillars. Certainly not to be invited in.

  ‘You’re General Murcatto.’ The man had a twist to his grey mouth that came somewhere near a smile. ‘And you’re expected. I’ll need the sword, though.’ She frowned as she handed it over, liking the feel of this less than if they’d kicked her down the street.

  There was a great pool in the marble hall beyond, surrounded by tall columns, murky water smelling strongly of rot. Her old enemy Grand Duke Rogont was poring over a map on a folding table, in a sober grey uniform, lips thoughtfully pursed. A dozen officers clustered about him, enough gold braid between them to rig a carrack. A couple looked up as she made her way around the fetid pond towards them.

  ‘It’s her,’ she heard one say, his lip well curled.

  ‘Mur . . . cat . . . to,’ another, as if the very name was poison. No doubt it was to them. She’d been making fools of these very men for the past few years and the more of a fool a man is, the
less he cares to look like one. Still, the general with the smallest numbers should remain always on the offensive, Stolicus wrote. So she walked up unhurried, the thumb of her bandaged left hand hooked carelessly in her belt, as if this was her bath and she was the one with all the swords.

  ‘If it isn’t the Prince of Prudence, Duke Rogont. Well met, your Cautiousness. A proud-looking set of comrades you’ve got here, for men who’ve spent seven years retreating. Still, at least you’re not retreating today.’ She let it sink in for a moment. ‘Oh, wait. You are.’

  That forced a few chins to haughtily rise, a nostril or two to flare. But the dark eyes of Rogont himself shifted up from the map without any rush, a little tired, perhaps, but still irritatingly handsome and at ease. ‘General Murcatto, what a pleasure! I wish we could have met after a great battle, preferably with you as a crestfallen prisoner, but my victories have been rather thin on the ground.’

  ‘Rare as summer snows.’

  ‘And you, so cloaked in glories. I feel quite naked under your victorious glare.’ He peered towards the back of the hall. ‘But wherever are your all-conquering Thousand Swords now?’

  Monza sucked her teeth. ‘Faithful Carpi’s borrowed them from me.’

  ‘Without asking? How . . . rude. I fear you are too much soldier and not enough politician. I fear I am the opposite. Words may hold more power than swords, as Juvens said, but I have discovered to my cost that there are times when there is no substitute for pointy metal.’

  ‘These are the Years of Blood.’

  ‘Indeed they are. We are all the prisoners of circumstance, and circumstances have left me once again with no other choice but bitter retreat. The noble Lirozio, Duke of Puranti and owner of this wonderful bath, was as staunch and warlike an ally as could be imagined when Duke Orso’s power was long leagues away on the other side of the great walls of Musselia. You should have heard him gnash his teeth, his sword never so eager to spring forth and spill hot blood.’

  ‘Men love to talk about fighting.’ Monza let her eyes wander over the sullen faces of Rogont’s advisors. ‘Some like to dress for it, too. Getting blood on the uniforms is a different matter.’

  A couple of angry head-tosses from the peacocks, but Rogont only smiled. ‘My own sad realisation. Now Musselia’s great walls are breached, thanks to you, Borletta fallen, thanks to you, and Visserine burned too. The army of Talins, ably assisted by your erstwhile comrades, the Thousand Swords, are picking the country clean on Lirozio’s very doorstep. The brave duke finds his enthusiasm for drum and bugle much curtailed. Powerful men are as inconstant as the shifting water. I should have picked weaker allies.’

  ‘Bit late for that.’

  The duke puffed out his cheeks. ‘Too late, too late, shall be my epitaph. At Sweet Pines I arrived but two days tardy, and rash Salier had fought and lost without me. So Caprile was left helpless before your well-documented wrath.’ That was a fool’s version of the story, but Monza kept it to herself, for now. ‘At Musselia I arrived with all my power, prepared to hold the great walls and block the Gap of Etris against you, and found you had stolen the city the day before, picked it clean already and now held the walls against me.’ More injury to the truth, but Monza kept her peace. ‘Then at the High Bank I found myself unavoidably detained by the late General Ganmark, while the also late Duke Salier, quite determined not to be fooled by you a second time, was fooled by you a second time and his army scattered like chaff on a stiff wind. So Borletta . . .’ He stuck his tongue between his lips, jerked his thumb towards the floor and blew a loud farting sound. ‘So brave Duke Cantain . . .’ He drew one finger across his throat and blew another. ‘Too late, too late. Tell me, General Murcatto, how come you are always first to the field?’

  ‘I rise early, shit before daybreak, check I’m pointed in the right direction and let nothing stop me. That and I actually try to get there.’

  ‘Your meaning?’ demanded a young man at Rogont’s elbow, his face even sourer than the rest.

  ‘My meaning?’ she parroted, goggling like an idiot, and then to the duke himself, ‘Is that you could have reached Sweet Pines on time but chose to dither, knowing proud, fat Salier would piss before his trousers were down and more than likely waste all his strength whether he won or not. He lost, and looked the fool, and you the wiser partner, just as you hoped.’ It was Rogont’s turn to stay carefully silent. ‘Two seasons later you could have reached the Gap in time and held it against the world, but it suited you to delay, and let me teach the proud Musselians the lesson you wanted them to learn. Namely to be humble before your prudent Excellency.’

  The whole chamber was very still as her voice grated on. ‘When did you realise time was running out? That you’d delayed so much you’d let your allies wane too weak, let Orso wax too strong? No doubt you would have liked to make it to the High Bank for once on time, but Ganmark got in your way. As far as playing the good ally, by that time it was . . .’ She leaned forwards and whispered it. ‘Too late. All your policy was making sure you were the strongest partner when the League of Eight won, so you could be the first among them. A grand notion, and carefully managed. Except, of course, Orso has won, and the League of Eight . . .’ She stuck her tongue between her lips and blew a long fart at the assembled flower of manhood. ‘So much for too late, fuckers.’

  The shrillest of the brood stepped towards her, fists clenched. ‘I will not listen to one word more of this, you . . . you devil! My father died at Sweet Pines!’

  It seemed everyone had their own wrongs to avenge, but Monza had too many wounds of her own to be much stung by other people’s. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Since your father was presumably among my enemies, and the aim of a battle is to kill them, I take his death as a compliment. I shouldn’t have to explain that to a soldier.’

  His face had turned a blotchy mixture of pink and white. ‘If you were a man I’d kill you where you stand.’

  ‘If you were a man, you mean. Still, since I took your father, it’s only fair I give you something in trade.’ She curled her tongue and blew spit in his face.

  He came at her clumsily, and with his hands, just as she’d guessed he would. Any man who needs to be worked up to it that hard isn’t likely to be too fearful when he finally gets there. She was ready, dodged around him, grabbed the top and bottom rims of his gilded breastplate, used his own weight to swing him, caught his toe with one well-placed boot. She grabbed the hilt of his sword as he stumbled helplessly past, bent almost double, part running and part falling, and whipped it from his belt. He squawked as he splashed into the pool, sending up a fountain of shining spray, and she spun round, blade at the ready.

  Rogont rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, for pity’s—’ His men bundled past, all fumbling their swords out, cursing, nearly knocking the table over in their haste to get at her. ‘Less steel, gentlemen, if you please, less steel!’ The officer had surfaced now, or at least was fighting to, splashing and floundering, hauled down by the weight of his ornamental armour. Two of Rogont’s other attendants hurried to drag him from the pool while the rest shuffled towards Monza, jostling at each other in their efforts to stab her first.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be the ones retreating?’ she hissed as she backed away past the pillars.

  The nearest jabbed at her. ‘Die, you damned—’

  ‘Enough!’ roared Rogont. ‘Enough! Enough!’ His men scowled like naughty children called to account. ‘No swordplay in the bath, for pity’s sake! Will my shame never end?’ He gave a long sigh, then waved an arm. ‘Leave us, all of you!’

  His foremost attendant’s moustache bristled with horror. ‘But, your Excellency, with this . . . foul creature?’

  ‘Never fear, I will survive.’ He arched one eyebrow at them. ‘I can swim. Now out, before someone hurts themselves. Shoo! Go!’

  Reluctantly they sheathed their swords and grumbled their way from the hall, the soaked man leaving a squelching trail of wet fury beh
ind him. Monza grinned as she tossed his gilded sword into the pool, where it vanished with a splash. A small victory, maybe, but she had to enjoy the ones she got these days.

  Rogont waited in silence until they were alone, then gave a heavy sigh. ‘You told me she would come, Ishri.’

  ‘It is well that I never tire of being right.’ Monza started. A dark-skinned woman lay on her back on a high windowsill, a good stride or two above Rogont’s head. Her legs were crossed, up against the wall, one arm and her head hanging off the back of the narrow ledge so that her face was almost upside down. ‘For it happens often.’ She slid off backwards, flipped over at the last moment and dropped silently to all fours, nimble as a lizard.

  Monza wasn’t sure how she’d missed her in the first place, but she didn’t like that she had. ‘What are you? An acrobat?’

  ‘Oh, nothing so romantic as an acrobat. I am the East Wind. You can think of me as but one of the many fingers on God’s right hand.’

  ‘You talk enough rubbish to be a priest.’

  ‘Oh, nothing so dry and dusty as a priest.’ Her eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘I am a passionate believer, in my way, but only men may take the robe, thanks be to God.’

  Monza frowned. ‘An agent of the Gurkish Emperor.’

  ‘Agent sounds so very . . . underhanded. Emperor, Prophet, Church, State. I would call myself a humble representative of Southern Powers.’

  ‘What’s Styria to them?’

  ‘A battlefield.’ And she smiled wide. ‘Gurkhul and the Union may be at peace, but . . .’

  ‘The fighting goes on.’

  ‘Always. Orso’s allies are our enemies, so his enemies are our allies. We find ourselves with common cause.’

  ‘The downfall of Grand Duke Orso of Talins,’ muttered Rogont. ‘Please God.’

  Monza curled her lip at him. ‘Huh. Praying to God now, Rogont?’