“A man has to bend with the breeze.” The Great Wolf’s grin was wider than ever. “You’re a bastard, Clover. But you’re my kind of bastard.”
Stour’s kind of bastard. That was where all his cleverness had got him.
There was a bang as the doors were flung open, armed men spilling into the hall, painted shields up and swords and spears and axes ready. Black Calder strode in after them, eyes wide as he took in all the murder.
“Father!” called Stour, pouring some ale and holding up the cup. “Fancy a drink?” And he drained it, and set it down in the spreading puddle of the king’s blood.
“What have you done?” whispered Calder.
“Chosen not to wait.” Stour peeled Scale’s fat head from the table by one ear and dragged the chain from around his shoulders, its dangling diamond red with blood. Greenway giggled and the others grinned, all well satisfied with the outcome.
Clover had never thought to see Black Calder at a loss for words. He looked to Wonderful’s body, then to Clover, then back to his son, and bunched his fists. “We’ve got allies who won’t stand for this! There’ll be men who won’t stay loyal!”
“Didn’t you hear?” asked Stour. “I made a friend of the Young Lion! Won’t find a stronger ally than the Union. But if folk want to stick with my uncle, that’s fine.” And he showed his teeth, wet eyes bulging. “They can go back to the fucking mud with him!” And Stour tossed the chain over his own shoulders, the red links landing skewed and smearing blood across his white shirt. “They’re going to have to learn times change. And so are you. I’m King o’ the Northmen now.”
Calder’s face was pale as milk, but what could he do? Kill his son for killing his brother? Stour was the future of the North. Always had been. And with all those old warriors lying slaughtered on the bloody floor of the hall, it seemed the future had come early. A man’s worst enemies are his own ambitions, Bethod used to say, and here was the red-spattered proof. Black Calder had ruled for twenty years. With one thrust of the knife, his time was done.
“Your grandfather’s dream—” he whispered, like all his grand schemes could be unfucked. Like King Scale could be unkilled.
Stour gave a hiss, somewhere between disgust and boredom. “Folk say a lot o’ things about my grandfather, Bethod this and Bethod that, but I never even met the bastard.” He winced as he lifted his wounded leg and propped it up on the murdered king’s fat back. “I got my own dreams to think about.”
Clover just stood there, the blood soaking his sleeve turning cold.
Long Live the King
Orso woke in the darkness and reached out, but she was gone.
He sat up, not sure where he was. Not sure who he had been reaching for. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Had he been dreaming?
Rikke had gone back to the North. Savine had gone for good. People still clambered over each other to be noticed by him, of course, to embrace him, to flatter him, to profit by him. But he was alone.
He could not remember ever feeling more so.
He was snatched from the comforting blanket of self-pity by a noise in the hall. A distant shout, muffled. Then another, closer, and the thumping of quick footsteps, past and away. He flung back the covers, swinging his bare feet to the cold floor. Shadows moved in a thin strip of light under his door, then the knob turned and it creaked open.
“Bloody hell, Mother, don’t you ever knock?”
She looked regal as ever, face emotionless as a mask by the light of the candle she held. But she wore a dressing gown and her hair was down. Orso was not sure he had ever seen her leave her chambers without it elaborately pinned. It hung almost to her waist and seemed, somehow, a surer herald of disaster than if some other person had charged in on fire.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“Come with me, Orso.”
There was a great deal of activity in the palace, considering it was the middle of the night. Everyone busy at nothing, running to nowhere, all with the same oddly panicked expression. A fully armoured Knight of the Body clanked past, sweat beaded across his forehead, the lamp in his hand bringing a glitter to the gilded panelling.
“What is it, Mother?” asked Orso, his mouth very dry.
She said nothing, only glided down the chilly hallway, decorated with berries for the new year festival, so quickly he had to take the odd running step to keep up.
Three more Knights of the Body stood at the towering door of his father’s bedchamber. They fumbled their way to attention as the queen swept up. One gave Orso the strangest haunted look before he turned his eyes to the shining tiles.
There was a press of people about the bed, in nightshirts and dressing gowns, grey hair in wispy disarray. Men of the king’s household, lords of the Closed Council, shocked faces strange in the shifting candlelight. They parted wordlessly to let him through and Orso was drawn into the gap without choosing to move his feet. As if he was rolled along on a trolley, numb and dreamlike, his breath coming slow, slow, slow, until it hardly seemed to come at all.
He stopped beside the bed, looking down.
King Jezal the First lay flat on his back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open. The covers had been pulled down to his ankles, feet still making two little peaks in the crimson cloth. His nightshirt had been dragged right up above his chest, waxy pale body exposed, fuzzed here and there with grey hair, shrivelled prick flopped sideways and stuck flat to his hip. Orso’s father had always said that dignity was a luxury kings could not afford.
The royal physician knelt by the bed, ear pressed to the king’s chest. Someone pushed through the crowd to offer him a hand mirror and he held it to the king’s mouth, fumbled for his eye-lenses and perched them on his nose.
“There was no sign he was ill,” came a disbelieving mutter.
“I was talking to His Majesty just last night. He was in high spirits!”
“What the hell does that matter?” someone snarled.
The silence stretched.
The physician carefully put down the mirror and slowly stood.
“Well?” asked Lord Chamberlain Hoff, wringing his pale hands.
The physician blinked, then shook his head.
Bremer dan Gorst took a breath so sharp it made a strange squeak in his broad nose.
Arch Lector Glokta slumped into his wheeled chair. “The king is dead,” he murmured.
A kind of groan went through the gathering. Or maybe it came from Orso’s own throat.
Suddenly he felt that there had been so much he needed to say to his father. He had always supposed they would discuss the important things later. The profound things. But it would never happen. There had only been a fixed time in his presence, and Orso had pissed it all away talking about the weather, and there would be no more.
He felt a heavy hand on his shoulder, more grasping than comforting, and turned to see the First of the Magi standing beside him. He almost had the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Long live the king,” said Bayaz.
Acknowledgments
As always, four people without whom:
Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.
Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.
Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.
Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.
Then, my heartfelt thanks:
To all the lovely and talented people in British publishing who have helped bring the First Law books to readers down the years, including but by no means limited to Simon Spanton, Jon Weir, Jen McMenemy, Mark Stay, Jon Wood, Malcolm Edwards, David Shelley, Katie Espiner and Sarah Benton. Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.
To the artists responsible for somehow continuing to make me look classy: Didier Graffet, Dave Senior, Laura Brett, Lauren Panepinto, Raymond Swanland, Tomás Almeida, Sam Weber.
To editors across the Pond: Lou Anders, Devi Pillai, Bradley Englert, Bill Schafer.
To champions in the Circle: Tim and Jen Miller.
To the man with a thousand voices: Steven Pacey.
For keeping the wolf on the right side of the door: Robert Kirby.
To all the writers whose paths have crossed mine on the Internet, at the bar or in the writers’ room, and who’ve provided help, support, laughs and plenty of ideas worth the stealing. You know who you are.
And lastly, yet firstly:
The great machinist, Gillian Redfearn. Because every Jezal knows, deep down, he ain’t shit without Bayaz.
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
Tap here to learn more.
The Big People
Notable Persons of the Union
His August Majesty Jezal the First—High King of the Union.
Her August Majesty Terez—High Queen of the Union.
Crown Prince Orso—King Jezal and Queen Terez’s eldest and only son, heir to the throne and notorious wastrel.
Hildi—the crown prince’s valet and errand girl, previously a brothel laundress.
Tunny—once Corporal Tunny, now Crown Prince Orso’s pimp and carousing partner.
Yolk—Tunny’s idiot sidekick.
Arch Lector Sand dan Glokta—“Old Sticks,” the most feared man in the Union, head of the Closed Council and His Majesty’s Inquisition.
Superior Pike—Arch Lector Glokta’s right-hand man, with a hideously burned visage.
Lord Chamberlain Hoff—self-important chief courtier, son of the previous Lord Hoff.
Lord Chancellor Gorodets—long-suffering holder of the Union’s purse-strings.
Lord Marshal Brint—senior soldier and one-armed old friend of King Jezal.
Lord Marshal Rucksted—senior soldier with a penchant for beards and tall tales, married to Tilde dan Rucksted.
Colonel Forest—a hard-working officer with common origins and impressive scars.
Bremer dan Gorst—King Jezal’s squeaky-voiced First Guard, and master swordsman.
Lord Isher—a smooth and successful magnate of the Open Council.
Lord Barezin—a buffoonish magnate of the Open Council.
Lord Heugen—a pedantic magnate of the Open Council.
In the Circle of Savine dan Glokta
Savine dan Glokta—daughter of Arch Lector Sand dan Glokta and Ardee dan Glokta, investor, socialite, celebrated beauty and founder of the Solar Society with Honrig Curnsbick.
Zuri—Savine’s peerless lady’s companion, a Southern refugee.
Lisbit—Savine’s rosy-cheeked face-maid.
Freid—one of Savine’s many wardrobe maids.
Metello—Savine’s hatchet-faced Styrian wig expert.
Ardee dan Glokta—Savine’s famously sharp-tongued mother.
Haroon—Zuri’s heavily built brother.
Rabik—Zuri’s slight and handsome brother.
Honrig Curnsbick—“The Great Machinist,” famous inventor and industrialist, and founder of the Solar Society with Savine dan Glokta.
Dietam dan Kort—a noted engineer and bridge-builder, losing money on a canal.
Selest dan Heugen—an admirer and potential rival of Savine’s.
Kaspar dan Arinhorm—an abrasive expert in pumping water from mines.
Tilde dan Rucksted—the blabbermouth wife of Lord Marshal Rucksted.
Spillion Sworbreck—a writer of cheap fantasies.
Majir—an underworld figure, owing Savine money.
Colonel Vallimir—a failed soldier, now a junior partner of Savine.
Lady Vallimir—Colonel Vallimir’s tasteless wife.
Superior Risinau—the sweaty-palmed head of Valbeck’s Inquisition.
Lord Parmhalt—the somnambulant Mayor of Valbeck.
With the Breakers
Victarine dan Teufel—an ex-convict, daughter of a disgraced Master of the Mints, now striking a blow for the common man.
Collem Sibalt—leader of a cell of Breakers.
Tallow—a skinny young Breaker with a tragic face.
Grise—a Breaker with hard language and soft features.
Moor—a deep-voiced Breaker.
Gunnar “Bull” Broad—an ex-Ladderman wrestling with violent tendencies, just returned from the wars in Styria, married to Liddy Broad, father of May Broad.
Liddy Broad—Gunnar Broad’s long-suffering wife, mother to May Broad.
May Broad—Gunnar and Liddy Broad’s hard-headed daughter.
Sarlby—an old comrade-in-arms of Gunnar Broad, now working in a brewery.
Malmer—foreman of the brewery, a leader of the Breakers.
Judge—an unhinged lunatic, the leader of the Burners.
In the North
Scale Ironhand—King of the Northmen. Brother to Black Calder and uncle to Stour Nightfall. Once a great warrior and war leader, now… not.
Black Calder—Scale Ironhand’s cunning brother, father to Stour Nightfall, and the real power in the North.
Stour Nightfall—“The Great Wolf,” Calder’s son, the king-in-waiting, heir to the North and famed warrior and arsehole.
Magweer—one of Stour Ironhand’s Named Men, carries a lot of axes.
Greenway—one of Stour Ironhand’s Named Men, expert sneerer.
Jonas Clover—once Jonas Steepfield and reckoned a famous warrior, now thought of as a disloyal do-nothing.
Wonderful—second to Black Calder, a Named Woman with a dry sense of humour.
Gregun Hollowhead—a Chieftain of the West Valleys, father of the Nail.
The Nail—Gregun Hollowhead’s son, a formidable warrior.
In the Protectorate
The Dogman—Chieftain of Uffrith and famous war leader, father of Rikke.
Rikke—the Dogman’s fit-prone daughter, blessed, or cursed, with the Long Eye.
Isern-i-Phail—a half-mad hillwoman, said to know all the ways.
Caul Shivers—a much-feared Named Man with a metal eye.
Red-Hat—one of the Dogman’s War Chiefs, known for his red hood.
Oxel—one of the Dogman’s War Chiefs, known for his poor manners.
Hardbread—one of the Dogman’s War Chiefs, known for his indecision.
From Angland
Finree dan Brock—interim Lady Governor of Angland and a superb organiser.
Leo dan Brock—“The Young Lion,” Finree dan Brock’s son, Lord Governor in waiting, and a bold but reckless warrior.
Jurand—Leo dan Brock’s best friend, sensitive and thoughtful.
Glaward—Leo dan Brock’s exceptionally large friend.
Antaup—Leo dan Brock’s friend, renowned as a lady’s man.
Barniva—Leo dan Brock’s friend, equivocal about war.
Whitewater Jin—Leo dan Brock’s friend, a jovial Northman.
Ritter—Leo dan Brock’s friend, easily led and with a weak-chinned wife.
Lord Mustred—an old worthy of Angland, with a beard but no moustache.
Lord Clensher—an old worthy of Angland, with a moustache but no beard.
The Order of Magi
Bayaz—First of the Magi, legendary wizard, saviour of the Union and founder member of the Closed Council.
Yoru Sulfur—former apprentice to Bayaz, nondescript but for his different-coloured eyes.
The Prophet Khalul—former Second of the Magi, now arch-enemy of Bayaz. Rumoured to have been killed by a demon, plunging the South into chaos.
Cawneil—Third of the Magi, about her own inscrutable business.
Zacharus—Fourth of the Magi, guiding the affairs of the Old Empire.
By Joe Abercrombie
THE AGE OF MADNESS
A Little Hatred
THE FIRST LAW TRILOGY
The Blade Itself
Before They Are Hanged
Last Argument of Kings
Best Served Cold
&
nbsp; The Heroes
Red Country
Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of the First Law
THE SHATTERED SEA TRILOGY
Half a King
Half the World
Half a War
A Little Hatred Page 56