The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  Glokta smiled. “Excellent. Now tell me. What is your name?”

  Tea and Vengeance

  “It’s a beautiful country, isn’t it?” asked Bayaz, staring up at the rugged fells on either side of the road.

  Their horses’ hooves thumped slowly along the track, the steady sound at odds with Logen’s unease. “Is it?”

  “Well, it’s a hard country, of course, to those who don’t know its ways. A tough country, and unforgiving. But there’s something noble there too.” The First of the Magi swept his arm across the view, breathed in the cold air with relish. “It has honesty, integrity. The best steel doesn’t always shine the brightest.” He glanced over, swaying gently in his saddle. “You should know that.”

  “I can’t say I see the beauty of it.”

  “No? What do you see?”

  Logen let his eyes wander over the steep, grassy slopes, spotted with patches of sedge and brown gorse, studded with outcrops of grey rock and stands of trees. “I see good ground for a battle. Provided you got here first.”

  “Really? How so?”

  Logen pointed at a knobbly hilltop. “Archers on the bluff there couldn’t be seen from the road, and you could hide most of your foot in these rocks. A few of the lightest armoured left on the slopes, just to draw the enemy on up the steepest ground there.”

  He pointed to the thorny bushes that covered the lower slopes. “You’d let them come on a way, then when they were struggling through that gorse, you’d give them the arrows. Shafts falling on you from above like that, that’s no fun at all. They come quicker and further, and they bite deeper. That’d break them up. By the time they got to the rocks they’d be dog-tired and running short on discipline. That would be the time to charge. A bunch of Carls, leaping out of those stones, charging down from above, fresh and keen and screaming like devils, that could break ’em right there.”

  Logen narrowed his eyes at the hillside. He’d been on both sides of a surprise like that, and in neither case was the memory a pleasant one. “But if they had a mind to hold, a few horsemen in those trees could finish it up. A few Named Men, a few hard fighters, bearing down on you from a place you never expected them, that’s a terrifying thing. That’d make them run. But tired as they’d be, they wouldn’t run too fast. That means prisoners, and prisoners might mean ransoms, or at least enemies cheaply killed. I see a slaughter, or a victory worth the singing, depending which side you’re on. That’s what I see.”

  Bayaz smiled, head nodding with the slow movement of his horse. “Was it Stolicus who said the ground must be a general’s best friend, or it becomes his worst enemy?”

  “I never heard of him, but he was right enough. This is good ground for an army, providing you got here first. Getting there first is the trick.”

  “Indeed. We don’t have an army, however.”

  “These trees could hide a few horsemen even better than a lot.” Logen glanced sidelong at the wizard. He was slouched happily in the saddle, enjoying a pleasant ride in the country. “I don’t think Bethod will have appreciated your advice, and I had scores enough with him already. He got wounded where he feels it most, in his pride. He’ll want vengeance. Want it badly.”

  “Ah yes, vengeance, that most widespread of Northern pastimes. Its popularity never seems to wane.”

  Logen stared grimly around at the trees, the rocks, the folds in the valley’s sides, the many hiding places. “There’ll be men out in these hills, looking for us. Small bands of skilled and battle-hardened men, well mounted and well armed, familiar with the land. Now Bethod has finished all his enemies there’s nowhere in the North out of his reach. They might be waiting there,” he pointed off towards some rocks by the road, “or in those trees, or those.” Malacus Quai, riding up ahead with the packhorse, glanced nervously around. “They could be anywhere.”

  “Does that frighten you?” asked Bayaz.

  “Everything frightens me, and it’s well that it does. Fear is a good friend to the hunted, it’s kept me alive this long. The dead are fearless, and I don’t care to join them. He’ll send men to the library too.”

  “Oh yes, to burn my books and so on.”

  “Does that frighten you?”

  “Not much. The stones by the gate have the word of Juvens on them, and that is not to be denied, even now. No one with violence in mind can come near. I imagine Bethod’s men will wander around the lake in the rain until they run out of food, all the while thinking how very strange it is that they cannot find so large a thing as a library. No,” said the wizard happily, scratching at his beard. “I would concentrate on our own predicament. What happens, do you think, if we’re caught?”

  “Bethod will kill us, and in the most unpleasant manner he can think of. Unless he has it in mind to be merciful, and let us off with a warning.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing. Our best chance is to make for the Whiteflow, try to get across the river into Angland, and trust to luck we aren’t seen.” Logen didn’t like trusting to luck, the very word left a sour taste. He peered up at the cloudy sky. “We could do with some bad weather. A healthy downpour could hide us nicely.” The skies had been pissing on him for weeks, but now that he needed rain they refused to produce a drop.

  Malacus Quai was looking over his shoulder at them, his eyes big and round with worry. “Shouldn’t we try to move faster?”

  “Perhaps,” said Logen, patting the neck of his horse, “but that would tire the horses, and we may need all the speed we can get later. We could hide in the day and travel by night, but then we risk getting lost. We’re better as we are. Move slowly and hope we aren’t seen.” He frowned at the hilltop. “Hope we haven’t been seen already.”

  “Hmm,” said Bayaz, “then this might be the best time to tell you. That witch Caurib isn’t half the fool I pretended she was.”

  Logen felt a sinking sensation. “No?”

  “No, for all her paint and gold and chat about the utmost north, she knows what she is about. The long eye, they call it. An old trick, but effective. She has been watching us.”

  “She knows where we are?”

  “She knows when we left, more than likely, and in what direction we were heading.”

  “That does nothing for our chances.”

  “I should say not.”

  “Shit.” Logen caught some movement in the trees to their left, and he snatched hold of the hilt of his sword. A couple of birds took to the skies. He waited, heart in his mouth. Nothing. He let his hand drop back. “We should have killed them while we had the chance. All three of them.”

  “But we didn’t, and there it is.” Bayaz looked over at Logen. “If they do catch us, what’s your plan?”

  “Run. And hope our horses are the faster.”

  “And this one?” asked Bayaz.

  The wind blew keenly through the hollow in spite of the trees, making the flames of the campfire flicker and dance. Malacus Quai hunched his shoulders and drew his blanket tight around them. He peered at the short stem that Bayaz was holding up to him, forehead crinkled with concentration.

  “Erm…” This was the fifth plant, and the miserable apprentice had yet to get one of them right. “Is that… er… Ilyith?”

  “Ilyith?” echoed the wizard, his face giving no clue as to whether it was the right answer. He was merciless as Bethod where his apprentice was concerned.

  “Perhaps?”

  “Hardly.” The apprentice closed his eyes and sighed for the fifth time that evening. Logen felt for him, he really did, but there was nothing to be done. “Ursilum, in the old tongue, the round-leafed kind.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Ursilum, it was at the end of my tongue the whole time.”

  “If the name was at the end of your tongue, then the uses of the plant cannot be far behind, eh?”

  The apprentice narrowed his eyes and looked hopefully up towards the night sky, as though the answer might be written in the stars. “
Is it… for aches in the joints?”

  “No, it is decidedly not. I am afraid your aching joints will still be troubling you.” Bayaz turned the stem slowly round in his fingers. “Ursilum has no uses, not that I know of. It’s just a plant.” And he tossed it away into the bushes.

  “Just a plant,” echoed Quai, shaking his head. Logen sighed and rubbed his tired eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Master Ninefingers, are we boring you?”

  “What does it matter?” asked Logen, throwing his hands up in the air. “Who cares about the name of a plant with no use?”

  Bayaz smiled. “A fair point. Tell us, Malacus, what does it matter?”

  “If a man seeks to change the world, he should first understand it.” The apprentice trotted the words out as if by rote, evidently relieved to be asked a question he knew the answer to. “The smith must learn the ways of metals, the carpenter the ways of wood, or their work will be of but little worth. Base magic is wild and dangerous, for it comes from the Other Side, and to draw from the world below is fraught with peril. The Magus tempers magic with knowledge, and thus produces High Art, but like the smith or the carpenter, he should only seek to change that which he understands. With each thing he learns, his power is increased. So must the Magus strive to learn all, to understand the world entire. The tree is only as strong as its root, and knowledge is the root of power.”

  “Don’t tell me, Juvens’ Principles of Art?”

  “The very first lines,” said Bayaz.

  “Forgive me for saying so, but I’ve been on this world for more than thirty years, and I’ve yet to understand a single thing that’s happened. To know the world completely? To understand everything? That’s quite a task.”

  The Magus chuckled. “An impossible one, to be sure. To truly know and understand even a blade of grass is the study of a lifetime, and the world is ever changing. That is why we tend to specialise.”

  “So what did you choose?”

  “Fire,” said Bayaz, gazing happily into the flames, the light dancing on his bald head. “Fire, and force, and will. But even in my chosen fields, after countless long years of study, I remain a novice. The more you learn, the more you realise how little you know. Still, the struggle itself is worthwhile. Knowledge is the root of power, after all.”

  “So with enough knowledge, you Magi can do anything?”

  Bayaz frowned. “There are limits. And there are rules.”

  “Like the First Law?” Master and apprentice glanced up at Logen as one. “It’s forbidden to speak with devils, am I right?” It was plain that Quai didn’t remember his fevered outburst, his mouth was open with surprise. Bayaz’ eyes only narrowed a little, with the faintest trace of suspicion.

  “Why, yes you are,” said the First of the Magi. “It is forbidden to touch the Other Side direct. The First Law must apply to all, without exception. As must the Second.”

  “Which is?”

  “It is forbidden to eat the flesh of men.”

  Logen raised an eyebrow. “You wizards get up to some strange stuff.”

  Bayaz smiled. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” He turned to his apprentice, holding up a lumpy brown root. “And now, Master Quai, would you be good enough to tell me the name of this?”

  Logen couldn’t help grinning to himself. He knew this one.

  “Come, come, Master Quai, we don’t have all night.”

  Logen wasn’t able to stand the apprentice’s misery any longer. He leaned toward him, pretending to poke at the fire with a stick, coughed to conceal his words and whispered, “Crow’s Foot,” under his breath. Bayaz was a good distance away, and the wind was still rustling in the trees. There was no way the Magus could have heard him.

  Quai played his part well. He continued to peer at the root, brow knitted in thought. “Is it Crow’s Foot?” he ventured.

  Bayaz raised an eyebrow. “Why, yes it is. Well done, Malacus. And can you tell me its uses?”

  Logen coughed again. “Wounds,” he whispered, looking carelessly off into the bushes, one hand shielding his mouth. He might not know too much about plants, but on the subject of wounds he had a wealth of experience.

  “I believe it’s good for wounds,” said Quai slowly.

  “Excellent, Master Quai. Crow’s Foot is correct. And it is good for wounds. I am glad to see we are making some progress after all.” He cleared his throat. “It does seem curious that you should use that name however. They only call this Crow’s Foot north of the mountains. I certainly never taught you that name. I wonder who it is you know, from that part of the world?” He glanced over at Logen. “Have you ever considered a career in the magical arts, Master Ninefingers?” He narrowed his eyes at Quai once more. “I may have space for an apprentice.”

  Malacus hung his head. “Sorry, Master Bayaz.”

  “You are indeed. Perhaps you could clean the pots for us. That task may be better suited to your talents.”

  Quai reluctantly shrugged off his blanket, collected the dirty bowls and shuffled off through the brush towards the stream. Bayaz bent over the pot on the fire, adding some dried-up leaves to the bubbling water. The flickering light of the flames caught the underside of his face, the steam curled around his bald head. All in all, he looked quite the part.

  “What is that?” asked Logen, reaching for his pipe. “Some spell? Some potion? Some great work of High Art?”

  “Tea.”

  “Eh?”

  “Leaves of a certain plant, boiled up in water. It is considered quite a luxury in Gurkhul.” He poured some of the brew out into a cup. “Would you like to try it?”

  Logen sniffed at it suspiciously. “Smells like feet.”

  “Suit yourself.” Bayaz shook his head and sat back down beside the fire, wrapping both hands around the steaming cup. “But you’re missing out on one of nature’s greatest gifts to man.” He took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Calming to the mind, invigorating to the body. There are few ills a good cup of tea won’t help with.”

  Logen pressed a lump of chagga into the bowl of his pipe. “How about an axe in the head?”

  “That’s one of them,” admitted Bayaz with a grin. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, why all the blood between you and Bethod? Did you not fight for him many times? Why do you hate each other so?”

  Logen paused as he was sucking smoke from the pipe, let his breath out. “There are reasons,” he said stiffly. The wounds of that time were still raw. He didn’t like anyone picking at them.

  “Ah, reasons.” Bayaz looked down at his tea-cup. “And what of your reasons? Does this feud not cut both ways?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But you are willing to wait?”

  “I’ll have to be.”

  “Hmm. You are very patient, for a Northman.”

  Logen thought of Bethod, and his loathsome sons, and the many good men they’d killed for their ambitions. The men he’d killed for their ambitions. He thought of the Shanka, and his family, and the ruins of the village by the sea. He thought of all his dead friends. He sucked at his teeth and stared at the fire.

  “I’ve settled a few scores in my time, but it only led to more. Vengeance can feel fine, but it’s a luxury. It doesn’t fill your belly, or keep the rain off. To fight my enemies I need friends behind me, and I’m clean out of friends. You have to be realistic. It’s been a while since my ambitions went beyond getting through each day alive.”

  Bayaz laughed, his eyes glittering in the firelight. “What?” asked Logen, handing the pipe across to him.

  “No offence, but you are an endless source of surprises. Not at all what I was expecting. You are quite the riddle.”

  “Me?”

  “Oh yes! The Bloody-Nine,” he whispered, opening his eyes up wide. “That’s one bastard of a reputation you’re carrying, my friend. The stories they tell! One bastard of a name! Why, mothers scare their children with it!” Logen said nothing. There was no denying it. Bayaz sucked slowly on the pipe, then b
lew out a long plume of smoke. “I’ve been thinking about the day that Prince Calder paid us a visit.”

  Logen snorted. “I try not to spare him too much thought.”

  “Nor I, but it wasn’t his behaviour that interested me, it was yours.”

  “It was? I don’t remember doing a thing.”

  Bayaz pointed the stem of the pipe at Logen from across the fire. “Ah, but that is my point exactly. I have known many fighting men, soldiers and generals and champions and whatnot. A great fighter must act quickly, decisively, whether with his own arm or with an army, for he who strikes first often strikes last. So fighters come to rely on their baser instincts, to answer always with violence, to become proud and brutal.” Bayaz passed the pipe back to Logen. “But whatever the stories, you are not such a one.”

  “I know plenty who’d disagree.”

  “Perhaps, but the fact remains, Calder slighted you, and you did nothing. So you know when you should act, and act quickly, but you also know when not to. That shows restraint, and a calculating mind.”

  “Perhaps I was just afraid.”

  “Of him? Come now. You didn’t seem afraid of Scale and he’s a deal more worrying. And you walked forty miles with my apprentice over your back, and that shows courage, and compassion too. A rare combination, indeed. Violence and restraint, calculation and compassion—and you speak to the spirits too.”

  Logen raised an eyebrow. “Not often, and only when there’s no one else around. Their talk is dull, and not half so flattering as yours.”

  “Hah. That’s true. The spirits have little to say to men, I understand, though I have never spoken with them; I have not the gift. Few have these days.” He took another swallow from his cup, peering at Logen over the rim. “I can scarcely think of another one alive.”

  Malacus stumbled from the trees, shivering, and set the wet bowls down. He grabbed his blanket, wrapped it tightly around him, then peered hopefully at the steaming pot on the fire. “Is that tea?”

  Bayaz ignored him. “Tell me, Master Ninefingers, in all the time since you arrived at my library, you have never once asked me why I sent for you, or why now we are wandering through the North in peril of our lives. That strikes me as odd.”