Best Served Cold

by Джо Аберкромби

  Tell me, Vossula-if Styria’s such a slice of wonder, why the hell are you up here in the North?

  “Fucking Styria,” he hissed in Northern. He had that pain behind his nose meant he was close to weeping, and he was that far gone he was scarcely even shamed. Caul Shivers. Rattleneck’s son. A Named Man who’d faced death in all weathers. Who’d fought beside the biggest names in the North-Rudd Threetrees, Black Dow, the Dogman, Harding Grim. Who’d led the charge against the Union near the Cumnur. Who’d held the line against a thousand Shanka at Dunbrec. Who’d fought seven days of murder up in the High Places. He almost felt a smile tugging at his mouth to think of the wild, brave times he’d come out alive from. He knew he’d been shitting himself the whole way, but what happy days those seemed now. Least he hadn’t been alone.

  He looked up at the sound of footsteps. Four men were ambling into the alley from the docks, the way he’d come. They had that sorry look men can get when they’ve got mischief in mind. Shivers hunched into his doorway, hoping whatever mischief they were planning didn’t include him.

  His heart took a downward turn as they gathered in a half-circle, standing over him. One had a bloated-up red nose, the kind you get from too much drinking. Another was bald as a boot-toe, had a length of wood held by his leg. A third had a scraggy beard and a mouthful of brown teeth. Not a pretty set of men, and Shivers didn’t reckon they had anything pretty in mind.

  The one at the front grinned down, a nasty-looking bastard with a pointed rat-face. “What you got for us?”

  “I wish I’d something worth the taking. But I’ve not. You might as well just go your way.”

  Rat Face frowned at his bald mate, annoyed they might get nothing. “Your boots, then.”

  “In this weather? I’ll freeze.”

  “Freeze. See if I care a shit. Boots, now, before we give you a kicking for the sport of it.”

  “Fucking Talins,” mouthed Shivers under his breath, the ashes of self-pity in his throat suddenly flaring up hot and bloody. It gnawed at him to come this low. Bastards had no use for his boots, just wanted to make themselves feel big. But it’d be a fool’s fight four against one, and with no weapon handy. A fool’s choice to get killed for some old leather, however cold it was.

  He crouched down, muttering as he started to pull his boots off. Then his knee caught Red Nose right in his fruits and doubled him over with a breathy sigh. Surprised himself as much as he did them. Maybe going barefoot was more’n his pride would stretch to. He smashed Rat Face on the chin, grabbed him by the front of his coat and rammed him back into one of his mates, sent them sprawling over together, yelping like cats in a rainstorm.

  Shivers dodged the bald bastard’s stick as it came down and shrugged it off his shoulder. The man came stumbling past, off balance, mouth wide open. Shivers planted a punch right on the point of his hanging chin and snapped his head up, then hooked his legs away with one boot, sent him squawking onto his back and followed him down. Shivers’ fist crunched into his face-two, three, four times, and made a right mess of it, spattering blood up the arm of Shivers’ dirty coat.

  He scrambled away, leaving Baldy spitting teeth into the gutter. Red Nose was still curled up wailing with his hands between his legs. But the other two had knives out now, sharp metal glinting. Shivers crouched, fists clenched, breathing hard, eyes flicking from one of ’em to the other and his anger wilting fast. Should’ve just given his boots over. Probably they’d be prising them off his cold, dead feet in a short and painful while. Bloody pride, that rubbish only did a man harm.

  Rat Face wiped blood from under his nose. “Oh, you’re a dead man now, you Northern fuck! You’re good as a-” His leg suddenly went from underneath him and he fell, shrieking, knife bouncing from his hand.

  Someone slid out of the shadows behind him. Tall and hooded, sword held loose in a pale left fist, long, thin blade catching such light as there was in the alley and glinting murder. The last of the boot-thieves still standing, the one with the shitty teeth, stared at that length of steel with eyes big as a cow’s, his knife looking a piss-poor tool all of a sudden.

  “You might want to run for it.” Shivers frowned, caught off guard. A woman’s voice. Brown Teeth didn’t need telling twice. He turned and sprinted off down the alley.

  “My leg!” Rat Face was yelling, clutching at the back of his knee with one bloody hand. “My fucking leg!”

  “Stop whining or I’ll slit the other one.”

  Baldy was lying there, saying nothing. Red Nose had finally fought his way moaning to his knees.

  “Want my boots, do you?” Shivers took a step and kicked him in the fruits again, lifted him up and put him back down mewling on his face. “There’s one of ’em, bastard!” He watched the newcomer, blood swoosh-swooshing behind his eyes, not sure how he came through that without getting some steel in his guts. Not sure if he might not still. This woman didn’t have the look of good news. “What d’you want?” he growled at her.

  “Nothing you’ll have trouble with.” He could see the corner of a smile inside her hood. “I might have some work for you.”

  * * *

  A big plate of meat and vegetables in some kind of gravy, slabs of doughy bread beside. Might’ve been good, might not have been, Shivers was too busy ramming it into his face to tell. Most likely he looked a right animal, two weeks unshaved, pinched and greasy from dossing in doorways, and not even good ones. But he was far past caring how he looked, even with a woman watching.

  She still had her hood up, though they were out of the weather now. She stayed back against the wall, where it was dark. She tipped her head forwards when folk came close, tar-black hair hanging across one cheek. He’d worked out a notion of her face anyway, in the moments when he could drag his eyes away from his food, and he reckoned it was a good one.

  Strong, with hard bones in it, a fierce line of jaw and a lean neck, a blue vein showing up the side. Dangerous, he reckoned, though that wasn’t such a clever guess since he’d seen her slit the back of a man’s knee with small regret. Still, there was something in the way her narrow eyes held him that made him nervous. Calm and cold, as if she’d already got his full measure, and knew just what he’d do next. Knew better’n he did. She had three long marks down one cheek, old cuts still healing. She had a glove on her right hand, and scarcely used it. A limp too he’d noticed on the way here. Caught up in some dark business, maybe, but Shivers didn’t have so many friends he could afford to be picky. Right then, anyone who fed him had the full stretch of his loyalty.

  She watched him eat. “Hungry?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Long way from home?”

  “Somewhat.”

  “Had some bad luck?”

  “More’n my share. But I made some bad choices, too.”

  “The two go together.”

  “That is a fact.” He tossed knife and spoon clattering down onto the empty plate. “I should’ve thought it through.” He wiped up the gravy with the last slice of bread. “But I’ve always been my own worst enemy.” They sat facing each other in silence as he chewed it. “You’ve not told me your name.”

  “No.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “I’m paying, aren’t I? It’s whatever way I say it is.”

  “Why are you paying? A friend of mine…” He cleared his throat, starting to doubt whether Vossula had been any kind of friend. “A man I know told me to expect nothing for free in Styria.”

  “Good advice. I need something from you.”

  Shivers licked at the inside of his mouth and it tasted sour. He had a debt to this woman, now, and he wasn’t sure what he’d have to pay. By the look of her, he reckoned it might cost him dear. “What do you need?”

  “First of all, have a bath. No one’s going to deal with you in that state.”

  Now the hunger and the cold were gone, they’d left a bit of room for shame. “I’m happier not stinking, believe it or not. I got some fucking pride left.”r />
  “Good for you. Bet you can’t wait to get fucking clean, then.”

  He worked his shoulders around, uncomfortable. He had this feeling like he was stepping into a pool with no idea how deep it might be. “Then what?”

  “Not much. You go into a smoke-house and ask for a man called Sajaam. You say Nicomo demands his presence at the usual place. You bring him to me.”

  “Why not do that yourself?”

  “Because I’m paying you to do it, fool.” She held up a coin in her gloved fist. Silver glinted in the firelight, design of weighing scales stamped into the bright metal. “You bring Sajaam to me, you get a scale. You decide you still want fish, you can buy yourself a barrelful.”

  Shivers frowned. For some fine-looking woman to come out of nowhere, more’n likely save his life, then make him a golden offer? His luck had never been anywhere near that good. But eating had only reminded him how much he used to enjoy doing it. “I can do that.”

  “Good. Or you can do something else, and get fifty.”

  “Fifty?” Shivers’ voice was an eager croak. “This a joke?”

  “You see me laughing? Fifty, I said, and if you still want fish you can buy your own boat and have change for some decent tailoring, how’s that?”

  Shivers tugged somewhat shamefacedly at the frayed edge of his coat. With that much he could hop the next boat back to Uffrith and kick Vossula’s skinny arse from one end of the town to the other. A dream that had been his one source of pleasure for some time. “What do you want for fifty?”

  “Not much. You go into a smoke-house and ask for a man called Sajaam. You say Nicomo demands his presence at the usual place. You bring him to me.” She paused for a moment. “Then you help me kill a man.”

  It was no surprise, if he was honest with himself for once. There was only one kind of work that he was really good at. Certainly only one kind that anyone would pay him fifty scales for. He’d come here to be a better man. But it was just like the Dogman had told him. Once your hands are bloody, it ain’t so easy to get ’em clean.

  Something poked his thigh under the table and he near jumped out of his chair. The pommel of a long knife lay between his legs. A fighting knife, steel crosspiece gleaming orange, its sheathed blade in the woman’s gloved hand.

  “Best take it.”

  “I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”

  “I know what you said. The blade’s just to show Sajaam you mean business.”

  He had to admit he didn’t much care for a woman surprising him with a knife between his thighs. “I didn’t say I’d kill anyone.”

  “I didn’t say you did.”

  “Right then. Just as long as you know.” He snatched the blade from her and slid it down inside his coat.

  * * *

  The knife pressed against his chest as he walked up, nuzzling at him like an old lover back for more. Shivers knew it was nothing to be proud of. Any fool can carry a knife. But even so, he wasn’t sure he didn’t like the weight of it against his ribs. Felt like being someone again.

  He’d come to Styria looking for honest work. But when the purse runs empty, dishonest work has to do. Shivers couldn’t say he’d ever seen a place with a less honest look about it than this one. A heavy door in a dirty, bare, windowless wall, with a big man standing guard on each side. Shivers could tell it in the way they stood-they had weapons, and were right on the edge of putting ’em to use. One was a dark-skinned Southerner, black hair hanging around his face.

  “Need something?” he asked, while the other gave Shivers the eyeball.

  “Here to see Sajaam.”

  “You armed?” Shivers slid out the knife, held it up hilt first, and the man took it off him. “With me, then.” The hinges creaked as the door swung open.

  The air was thick on the other side, hazy with sweet smoke. It scratched at Shivers’ throat and made him want to cough, prickled at his eyes and made them water. It was dim and quiet, too sticky warm for comfort after the nip outside. Lamps of coloured glass threw patterns across the stained walls-green, and red, and yellow flares in the murk. The place was like a bad dream.

  Curtains hung about, dirty silk rustling in the gloom. Folk sprawled on cushions, half-dressed and half-asleep. A man lay on his back, mouth wide open, pipe dangling from his hand, trace of smoke still curling from the bowl. A woman was pressed against him, on her side. Both their faces were beaded with sweat, slack as corpses. Looked like an uneasy cross between delight and despair, but tending towards the latter.

  “This way.” Shivers followed his guide through the haze and down a shadowy corridor. A woman leaning in a doorway watched him pass with dead eyes, saying nothing. Someone was grunting somewhere, “Oh, oh, oh,” almost bored.

  Through a curtain of clicking beads and into another big room, less smoky but more worrying. Men were scattered about it, an odd mix of types and colours. Judging by their looks, all used to violence. Eight were sitting at a table strewn with glasses, bottles and small money, playing cards. More lounged about in the shadows. Shivers’ eye fell right away on a nasty-looking hatchet in easy reach of one, and he didn’t reckon it was the only weapon about. A clock was nailed up on the wall, innards dangling, swinging back and forth, tick, tock, tick, loud enough to set his nerves jangling even worse.

  A big man sat at the head of the table, the chief’s place if this had been the North. An old man, face creased like leather past its best. His skin was oily dark, short hair and beard dusted with iron grey. He had a gold coin he was fiddling with, flipping it across his knuckles from one side of his hand back to the other. The guide leaned down to whisper in his ear, then handed across the knife. His eyes and the eyes of the others were on Shivers, now. A scale was starting to seem a small reward for the task, all of a sudden.

  “You Sajaam?” Louder than Shivers had in mind, voice squeaky from the smoke.

  The old man’s smile was a yellow curve in his dark face. “Sajaam is my name, as all my sweet friends will confirm. You know, you can tell an awful lot about a man from the style of weapon he carries.”

  “That so?”

  Sajaam slid the knife from its sheath and held it up, candlelight glinting on steel. “Not a cheap blade, but not expensive either. Fit for the job, and no frills at the edges. Sharp, and hard, and meaning business. Am I close to the mark?”

  “Somewhere round it.” It was plain he was one of those who loved to prattle on, so Shivers didn’t bother to mention that it weren’t even his knife. Less said, sooner he could be on his way.

  “What might your name be, friend?” Though the friend bit didn’t much convince.

  “Caul Shivers.”

  “Brrrr.” Sajaam shook his big shoulders around like he was cold, to much chuckling from his men. Easily tickled, by the look of things. “You are a long, long way from home, my man.”

  “Don’t I fucking know it. I’ve a message for you. Nicomo demands your presence.”

  The good humour drained from the room quick as blood from a slit throat. “Where?”

  “The usual place.”

  “Demands, does he?” A couple of Sajaam’s people were moving away from the walls, hands creeping in the shadows. “Awfully bold of him. And why would my old friend Nicomo send a big white Northman with a blade to talk to me?” It came to Shivers about then that, for reasons unknown, the woman might’ve landed him right in the shit. Clearly she weren’t this Nicomo character. But he’d swallowed his fill of scorn these last few weeks, and the dead could have him before he tongued up any more.

  “Ask him yourself. I didn’t come here to swap questions, old man. Nicomo demands your presence in the usual place, and that’s all. Now get off your fat black arse before I lose my temper.”

  There was a long and ugly pause, while everyone had a think about that.

  “I like it,” grunted Sajaam. “You like that?” he asked one of his thugs.

  “It’s alright, I guess, if that style o’ thing appeals.”

  “On occa
sion. Large words and bluster and hairy-chested manliness. Too much gets boring with great speed, but a little can sometimes make me smile. So Nicomo demands my presence, does he?”

  “He does,” said Shivers, no choice but to let the current drag him where it pleased, and hope to wash up whole.

  “Well, then.” The old man tossed his cards down on the table and slowly stood. “Let it never be said old Sajaam reneged on a debt. If Nicomo is calling… the usual place it is.” He pushed the knife Shivers had brought through his belt. “I’ll keep hold of this though, hmmm? Just for the moment.”

  * * *

  It was late when they got to the place the woman had showed him and the rotten garden was dark as a cellar. Far as Shivers could tell it was empty as one too. Just torn papers twitching on the night air, old news hanging from the slimy bricks.

  “Well?” snapped Sajaam. “Where’s Cosca?”

  “Said she’d be here,” Shivers muttered, half to himself.

  “She?” His hand was on the hilt of the knife. “What the hell are you-”

  “Over here, you old prick.” She slid out from behind a tree-trunk and into a scrap of light, hood back. Now Shivers saw her clearly, she was even finer-looking than he’d thought, and harder-looking too. Very fine, and very hard, with a sharp red line down the side of her neck, like the scars you see on hanged men. She had this frown-brows drawn in hard, lips pressed tight, eyes narrowed and fixed in front. Like she’d decided to break a door down with her head, and didn’t care a shit for the results.

  Sajaam’s face had gone slack as a soaked shirt. “You’re alive.”

  “Still sharp as ever, eh?”

  “But I heard-”

  “No.”

  Didn’t take long for the old man to scrape himself together. “You shouldn’t be in Talins, Murcatto. You shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of Talins. Most of all, you shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of me.” He cursed in some language Shivers didn’t know, then tipped his face back towards the dark sky. “God, God, why could you not have sent me an honest life to lead?”