The Collected Joe Abercrombie (250 page)

He pushed back the gate, hobbled up to the front door, and gave it a smart knock. It was a moment before the cringing maid answered.
Perhaps the one who alerted our court drunkard Lord Hoff to the unfortunate situation?
She showed him through into the over-furnished sitting room with little more than a mumble and left him there, staring at a small fire in the small grate. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the fireplace, and frowned.

Who is that man? That ruined shell? That shambling corpse? Can you even call it a face? So twisted and so lined, so etched with pain. What is this loathsome, pitiable species? Oh, if there is a God, protect me from this thing!

He tried to smile. Savage grooves cut through his corpse-pale skin, the hideous gap in his teeth yawned. The corner of his mouth trembled, his left eye twitched, narrower than the other, rimmed with angry red.
The smile seems to promise horrors more surely even than the frown.

Has any man ever looked more of a villain? Has any man ever been more of a monster? Could any vestige of humanity possibly remain behind such a mask? How did beautiful Sand dan Glokta become . . . this? Mirrors. Even worse than stairs.
His lip curled with disgust as he turned away.

Ardee stood in the doorway, watching him in silence. She looked well, to his mind, once he got over the awkward surprise of being observed.
Very well, with perhaps the slightest swelling about her stomach already? Three months along now? Four perhaps? Soon there will be no disguising it.

‘Your Eminence.’ She gave him an appraising glance as she stepped into the room. ‘White suits you.’

‘Truly? You do not feel it makes the skull-like rings about my feverish eyes look all the darker?’

‘Why, not at all. It perfectly matches your ghoulish pallor.’

Glokta leered his toothless grin. ‘The very effect I was hoping for.’

‘Have you come to take me on another tour of sewers, death and torture?’

‘A repeat of that performance will probably never be possible, alas. I seem to have used up all my friends and most of my enemies in that one throw.’

‘And regrettably the Gurkish army can no longer be with us.’

‘Busy elsewhere, I understand.’ He watched her cross to the table, look out of the window towards the street, the daylight glowing through her dark air, down the edge of her cheek.

‘I trust that you are well?’ she asked.

‘Busier even than the Gurkish. A great deal to do. How is your brother? I have been meaning to visit him, but . . .’
But I doubt even I could stand the stink of my own hypocrisy if I did. I cause pain. The easing of it is a foreign tongue to me.

Ardee looked at her feet. ‘He is always sick now. Every time I visit he is thinner. One of his teeth fell out while I was with him.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It just came out while he was trying to eat. He nearly choked on it. But what can I do? What can anyone?’

‘I am truly sorry to hear it.’
But it changes nothing.
‘I am sure that you are a great help to him.’
I am sure that there can be no help for him
. ‘And how are you?’

‘Better than most, I suppose.’ She gave a long sigh, shook herself and tried to smile. ‘Will you take some wine?’

‘No, but don’t let me stop you.’
I know you never have.

But she only held the bottle for a moment, then set it down again. ‘I have been trying to drink less, lately.’

‘I have always felt that you should.’ He took a slow step towards her. ‘You feel sick, then, in the mornings?’

She looked sharply sideways, then swallowed, the thin muscles standing out from her neck. ‘You know?’

‘I am the Arch Lector,’ he said as he came closer. ‘I am supposed to know everything.’

Her shoulders sagged, her head dropped, she leaned forwards, both hands on the edge of the table. Glokta could see her eyelids fluttering, from the side.
Blinking back the tears. For all of her anger, and her cleverness, she’s just as much in need of saving as anyone could be. But there is no one to come to the rescue. There is only me.

‘I suppose I made quite a mess of things, just as my brother said I would. Just as you said I would. You must be disappointed.’

Glokta felt his face twisting. S
omething like a smile, perhaps. But not much joy in it.
‘I’ve spent most of my life disappointed. But not in you. It’s a hard world. No one gets what they deserve.’
How long must we drag this out before we find the courage? It will not get any easier to do it. It must be now.

‘Ardee . . .’ his voice sounded rough in his own ears. He took another limping step, his palm sweaty on the handle of his cane. She looked up at him, wet eyes gleaming, one hand on her stomach. She moved as if to take a step back.
A trace of fear, perhaps? And who can blame her? Can it be that she guesses at what is coming?

‘You know that I have always had a great liking and respect for your brother.’ His mouth was dry, his tongue slurped awkwardly against his empty gums. Now is the time. ‘Over the past months I have developed a great liking and respect for you.’ A flurry of twitches ran up the side of his face and made a tear leak from his flickering eye. Now, now. ‘Or . . . as close to such feelings as a man like myself can come, at least.’ Glokta slid his hand into his pocket, carefully, so she would not notice. He felt the cold metal, the hard, merciless edges brushing against his skin. It must be now. His heart was pounding, his throat so tight that he could barely speak. ‘This is difficult. I am . . . sorry.’

‘For what?’ she said, frowning at him.

Now.

He lurched towards her, snatching his hand from his pocket. She stumbled back against the table, eyes wide . . . and they both froze.

The ring glittered between them. A colossal, flashing diamond so large it made the thick golden band look flimsy. So large it looks a joke. A fake. An absurd impossibility.
The biggest stone that Valint and Balk had to offer.

‘I have to ask you to marry me,’ he croaked. The hand that held the ring was trembling like a dry leaf.
Put a cleaver in it and it’s steady as a rock, but ask me to hold a ring and I nearly wet myself. Courage, Sand, courage.

She stared down at the glittering stone, her mouth hanging stupidly open.
With shock? With horror? Marry this . . . thing? I would rather die!
‘Uh . . .’ she muttered. ‘I . . .’

‘I know! I know, I’m as disgusted as you are, but . . . let me speak. Please.’ He stared down at the floor, his mouth twisting as he said the words. ‘I am not stupid enough to pretend that you might ever come to love . . . a man like me, or think of me with anything warmer than pity. This is a question of necessity. You should not flinch from it because . . . of what I am. They know you are carrying the king’s child.’

‘They?’ she muttered.

‘Yes. They. The child is a threat to them. You are a threat to them. This way I can protect you. I can give your child legitimacy. It must be our child, now and forever.’ Still she stared at the ring in silence.
Like a prisoner staring horrified upon the instruments, and deciding whether to confess. Two awful choices, but which is the worse?

‘There are many things that I can give you. Safety. Security. Respect. You will have the best of everything. A high place in society, for what such things are worth. No one will dream of laying a finger upon you. No one will dare to talk down to you. People will whisper behind your back, of course. But they will whisper of your beauty, your wit, and your surpassing virtue.’ Glokta narrowed his
eyes
. ‘I will see to it.’

She looked up at him, and swallowed.
And now comes the refusal. My thanks, but I would rather die.
‘I should be honest with you. When I was younger . . . I did some foolish things.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘This isn’t even the first bastard I’ve carried. My father threw me down the stairs and I lost it. He nearly killed me. I didn’t think that it could happen again.’

‘We have all done things we are not proud of.’
You should hear my confessions, some time. Or rather no one ever should.
‘That changes nothing. I promised that I would look to your welfare. I see no other way.’

‘Then yes.’ She took the ring from him without any ceremony and slid it onto her finger. ‘There is nothing to think about, is there?’
Scarcely the gushing acceptance, the tearful acquiescence, the joyful surrender that one reads of in the story books. A reluctant business arrangement. An occasion for sad reflection on all that might have been, but is not.

‘Who would have thought,’ she murmured, staring at the jewel on her finger, ‘when I watched you fence with my brother, all those years ago, that I would one day wear your ring? You always were the man of my dreams.’

And now of your nightmares
. ‘Life takes strange turns. The circumstances are not quite what anyone would have predicted.’
And so I save two lives. How much evil can that possibly outweigh? Yet it is something on the right side of the scales, at least. Every man needs something on the right side of the scales.

Her dark eyes rolled up to his. ‘Could you not have afforded a bigger stone?’

‘Only by raiding the treasury,’ he croaked.
A kiss would be traditional, but under the circumstances—

She stepped towards him, lifting one arm. He lurched back, winced at a twinge in his hip. ‘Sorry. Somewhat . . . out of practice.’

‘If I am to do this, I mean to do it properly.’

‘To make the best of it, do you mean?’

‘To make something of it, anyway.’ She drew closer still. He had to force himself to stay where he was. She looked into his eyes. She reached up, slowly, and touched his cheek, and set his eyelid flickering.
Foolishness. How many women have touched me before? And yet that was another life. Another—

Her hand slid round his face, her fingertips pressing tight into his jaw. His neck clicked as she pulled him close. He felt her breath warm on his chin. Her lips brushed against his, gently, and back the other way. He heard her make a soft grunt in her throat, and it made his own breath catch.
Pretence, of course. How could any woman want to touch this ruined body? Kiss this ruined face? Even I am repulsed at the thought of it. Pretence, and yet I must applaud her for the effort.

His left leg trembled and he had to cling tight to his cane. The breath hissed fast through his nose. Her face was sideways on to his, their mouths locked together, sucking wetly. The tip of her tongue licked at his empty gums.
Pretence, of course, what else could it be ? And yet she does it so very, very well . . .

The First Law

F
erro sat, and she stared at her hand. The hand that had held the Seed. It looked the same as ever, yet it felt different. Cold, still. Very cold. She had wrapped it in blankets. She had bathed it in warm water. She had held it near the fire, so near that she had burned herself.

Nothing helped.

‘Ferro . . .’ Whispered so quiet it could almost have been the wind around the window-frame.

She jerked to her feet, knife clutched in her fist. She stared into the corners of her room. All empty. She bent down to look under the bed, under the tall cupboard. She tore the hangings out of the way with her free hand. No one. She had known there would be no one.

Yet she still heard them.

A thumping at the door and she whipped round again, breath hissing through her teeth. Another dream? Another ghost? More heavy knocks.

‘Come in?’ she growled.

The door opened. Bayaz. He raised one eyebrow at her knife. ‘You are altogether too fond of blades, Ferro. You have no enemies here.’

She glared at the Magus through narrowed eyes. She was not so sure. ‘What happened, in the wind?’

‘What happened?’ Bayaz shrugged. ‘We won.’

‘What were those shapes? Those shadows.’

‘I saw nothing, aside from Mamun and his Hundred Words receiving the punishment they deserved.’

‘Did you not hear voices?’

‘Over the thunder of our victory? I heard nothing.’

‘I did.’ Ferro lowered the knife and slid it into her belt. She worked the fingers of her hand, the same, and yet changed. ‘I still hear them.’

‘And what do they tell you, Ferro?’

‘They speak of locks, and gates, and doors, and the opening of them. Always they talk of opening them. They ask about the Seed. Where is it?’

‘Safe.’ Bayaz gazed blankly at her. ‘Remember, if you truly hear the creatures of the Other Side, that they are made of lies.’

‘They are not alone in that. They ask me to break the First Law. Just as you did.’

‘Open to interpretation.’ Bayaz had a proud twist to the corner of his mouth. As if he had achieved something wonderful. ‘I tempered Glustrod’s disciplines with the techniques of the Master Maker, and used the Seed as the engine for my Art. The results were . . .’ He took a long, satisfied breath. ‘Well, you were there. It was, above all, a triumph of will.’