The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (13 page)

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Authors: Joe Abercrombie

Tags: #Fantasy, #Omnibus

BOOK: The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country
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She frowned down at the two corpses while the sounds of fighting slowly petered out. Benna crept from the trees, and he took the bearded man’s purse from his belt, and he tipped a heavy wedge of silver coins out into his palm.
‘He has seventeen scales.’
It was twice as much as the whole crop had been worth. He held the other man’s purse out to her, eyes wide. ‘This one has thirty.’
‘Thirty?’ Monza looked at the blood on her father’s sword, and thought how strange it was that she was a murderer now. How strange it was that it had been so easy to do. Easier than digging in the stony soil for a living. Far, far easier. Afterwards, she waited for the remorse to come upon her. She waited for a long time.
It never came.
Poison
 
I
t was just the kind of afternoon that Morveer most enjoyed. Crisp, even chilly, but perfectly still, immaculately clear. The bright sun flashed through the bare black branches of the fruit trees, found rare gold among dull copper tripod, rods and screws, struck priceless sparks from the tangle of misted glassware. There was nothing finer than working out of doors on a day like this, with the added advantage that any lethal vapours released would harmlessly dissipate. Persons in Morveer’s profession were all too frequently despatched by their own agents, after all, and he had no intention of becoming one of their number. Quite apart from anything else, his reputation would never recover.
Morveer smiled upon the rippling lamp flame, nodded in time to the gentle rattling of condenser and retort, the soothing hiss of escaping steam, the industrious pop and bubble of boiling reagents. As the drawing of the blade to the master swordsman, as the jingle of coins to the master merchant, so were these sounds to Morveer. The sounds of his work well done. It was with comfortable satisfaction, therefore, that he watched Day’s face, creased with concentration, through the distorting glass of the tapered collection flask.
It was a pretty face, undoubtedly: heart-shaped and fringed with blonde curls. But it was an unremarkable and entirely unthreatening variety of prettiness, further softened by a disarming aura of innocence. A face that would attract a positive response, but excite little further comment. A face that would easily slip the mind. It was for her face, above all, that Morveer had selected her. He did nothing by accident.
A jewel of moisture formed at the utmost end of the condenser. It stretched, bloated, then finally tore itself free, tumbled sparkling through space and fell silently to the bottom of the flask.
‘Excellent,’ muttered Morveer.
More droplets swelled and broke away in solemn procession. The last of them clung reluctantly at the edge, and Day reached out and gently flicked the glassware. It fell, and joined the rest, and looked, for all the world, like a little water in the bottom of a flask. Barely enough to wet one’s lips.
‘And carefully, now, my dear, so very, very carefully. Your life hangs by a filament. Your life, and mine too.’
She pressed her tongue into her lower lip, ever so carefully twisted the condenser free and set it down on the tray. The rest of the apparatus followed, piece by slow piece. She had fine, soft hands, Morveer’s apprentice. Nimble yet steady, as indeed they were required to be. She pressed a cork carefully into the flask and held it up to the light, the sunshine making liquid diamonds of that tiny dribble of fluid, and she smiled. An innocent, a pretty, yet an entirely forgettable smile. ‘It doesn’t look much.’
‘That is the entire point. It is without colour, odour or taste. And yet the most infinitesimal drop consumed, the softest mist inhaled, the gentlest touch upon the skin, even, will kill a man in minutes. There is no antidote, no remedy, no immunity. Truly . . . this is the King of Poisons.’
‘The King of Poisons,’ she breathed, with suitable awe.
‘Keep this knowledge close to your heart, my dear, to be used only in the extreme of need. Only against the most dangerous, suspicious and cunning of targets. Only against those intimately acquainted with the poisoner’s art.’
‘I understand. Caution first, always.’
‘Very good. That is the most valuable of lessons.’ Morveer sat back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. ‘Now you know the deepest of my secrets. Your apprenticeship is over, but . . . I hope you will continue, as my assistant.’
‘I’d be honoured to stay in your service. I still have much to learn.’
‘So do we all, my dear.’ Morveer jerked his head up at the sound of the gate bell tinkling in the distance. ‘So do we all.’
Two figures were approaching the house down the long path through the orchard, and Morveer snapped open his eyeglass and trained it upon them. A man and a woman. He was very tall, and powerful-looking with it, wearing a threadbare coat, long hair swaying. A Northman, from his appearance.
‘A primitive,’ he muttered, under his breath. Such men were prone to savagery and superstition, and he held them in healthy contempt.
He trained the eyeglass on the woman, now, though she was dressed much like a man. She looked straight towards the house, unwavering. Straight towards him, it almost seemed. A beautiful face, without doubt, edged with coal-black hair. But it was a hard and unsettling variety of beauty, further sharpened by a brooding appearance of grim purpose. A face that at once issued a challenge and a threat. A face that, having been glimpsed, one would not quickly forget. She did not compare with Morveer’s mother in beauty, of course, but who could? His mother had almost transcended the human in her goodly qualities. Her pure smile, kissed by the sunlight, was etched for ever into Morveer’s memory as if it were a—
‘Visitors?’ asked Day.
‘The Murcatto woman is here.’ He snapped his fingers towards the table. ‘Clear all this away. With the very greatest care, mark you! Then bring wine and cakes.’
‘Do you want anything in them?’
‘Only plums and apricots. I mean to welcome my guests, not kill them.’ Not until he had heard what they had to say, at least.
While Day swiftly cleared the table, furnished it with a cloth and drew the chairs back in around it, Morveer took some elementary precautions. Then he arranged himself in his chair, highly polished knee-boots crossed in front of him and hands clasped across his chest, very much the country gentleman enjoying the winter air of his estate. Had he not earned it, after all?
He rose with his most ingratiating smile as his visitors came in close proximity to the house. The Murcatto woman walked with the slightest hint of a limp. She covered it well, but over long years in the trade Morveer had sharpened his perceptions to a razor point, and missed no detail. She wore a sword on her right hip, and it appeared to be a good one, but he paid it little mind. Ugly, unsophisticated tools. Gentlemen might wear them, but only the coarse and wrathful would stoop to actually use one. She wore a glove on her right hand, suggesting she had something she was keen to hide, because her left was bare, and sported a blood-red stone big as his thumbnail. If it was, as it certainly appeared to be, a ruby, it was one of promisingly great value.
‘I am—’
‘You are Monzcarro Murcatto, once captain general of the Thousand Swords, recently in the service of Duke Orso of Talins.’ Morveer thought it best to avoid that gloved hand, and so he offered out his left, palm upwards, in a gesture replete with humbleness and submission. ‘A Kantic gentleman of our mutual acquaintance, one Sajaam, told me to expect your visit.’ She gave it a brief shake, firm and businesslike. ‘And your name, my friend?’ Morveer leaned unctuously forwards and folded the Northman’s big right hand in both of his.
‘Caul Shivers.’
‘Indeed, indeed, I have always found your Northern names delightfully picturesque.’
‘You’ve found ’em what now?’
‘Nice.’
‘Oh.’
Morveer held his hand a moment longer, then let it free. ‘Pray have a seat.’ He smiled upon Murcatto as she worked her way into her chair, the barest phantom of a grimace on her face. ‘I must confess I was expecting you to be considerably less beautiful.’
She frowned at that. ‘I was expecting you to be less friendly.’
‘Oh, I can be decidedly unfriendly when it is called for, believe me.’ Day silently appeared and slid a plate of sweet cakes onto the table, a tray with a bottle of wine and glasses. ‘But it is hardly called for now, is it? Wine?’
His visitors exchanged a loaded glance. Morveer grinned as he pulled the cork and poured himself a glass. ‘The two of you are mercenaries, but I can only assume you do not rob, threaten and extort from everyone you meet. Likewise, I do not poison my every acquaintance.’ He slurped wine noisily, as though to advertise the total safety of the operation. ‘Who would pay me then? You are safe.’
‘Even so, you’ll forgive us if we pass.’
Day reached for a cake. ‘Can I—’
‘Gorge yourself.’ Then to Murcatto. ‘You did not come here for my wine, then.’
‘No. I have work for you.’
Morveer examined his cuticles. ‘The deaths of Grand Duke Orso and sundry others, I presume.’ She sat in silence, but it suited him to speak as though she had demanded an explanation. ‘It scarcely requires a towering intellect to make the deduction. Orso declares you and your brother killed by agents of the League of Eight. Then I hear from your friend and mine Sajaam that you are less deceased than advertised. Since there has been no tearful reunion with Orso, no happy declaration of your miraculous survival, we can assume the Osprian assassins were in fact . . . a fantasy. The Duke of Talins is a man of notoriously jealous temper, and your many victories made you too popular for your master’s taste. Do I come close to the mark?’
‘Close enough.’
‘My heartfelt condolences, then. Your brother, it would appear, could not be with us, and I understood you were inseparable.’ Her cold blue eyes had turned positively icy now. The Northman loomed grim and silent beside her. Morveer carefully cleared his throat. Blades might be unsophisticated tools, but a sword through the guts killed clever men every bit as thoroughly as stupid ones. ‘You understand that I am the very best at my trade.’
‘A fact,’ said Day, detaching herself from her sweetmeat for a moment. ‘An unchallengeable fact.’
‘The many persons of quality upon whom I have utilised my skills would so testify, were they able, but, of course, they are not.’
Day sadly shook her head. ‘Not a one.’
‘Your point?’ asked Murcatto.
‘The best costs money. More money than you, having lost your employer, can, perhaps, afford.’
‘You’ve heard of Somenu Hermon?’
‘The name is familiar.’
‘Not to me,’ said Day.
Morveer took it upon himself to explain. ‘Hermon was a destitute Kantic immigrant who rose to become, supposedly, the richest merchant in Musselia. The luxury of his lifestyle was notorious, his largesse legendary.’
‘And?’
‘Alas, he was in the city when the Thousand Swords, in the pay of Grand Duke Orso, captured Musselia by stealth. Loss of life was kept to a minimum, but the city was plundered, and Hermon never heard from again. Nor was his money. The assumption was that this merchant, as merchants often do, greatly exaggerated his wealth, and beyond his gaudy and glorious accoutrements possessed . . . precisely . . . nothing.’ Morveer took a slow sip of wine, peering at Murcatto over the rim of his glass. ‘But others would know far better than I. The commanders of that particular campaign were . . . what were the names now? A brother and sister . . . I believe?’
She stared straight back at him, eyes undeviating. ‘Hermon was far wealthier than he pretended to be.’
‘Wealthier?’ Morveer wriggled in his chair. ‘Wealthier? Oh my! The advantage to Murcatto! See how I squirm at the mention of so infinite a sum of bountiful gold! Enough to pay my meagre fees two dozen times and more, I do not doubt! Why . . . my overpowering greed has left me quite . . .’ He lifted his open hand and slapped it down against the table with a bang. ‘Paralysed.’
The Northman toppled slowly sideways, slid from his chair and thumped onto the patchy turf beneath the fruit trees. He rolled gently over onto his back, knees up in the air in precisely the form he had taken while sitting, body rigid as a block of wood, eyes staring helplessly upwards.
‘Ah,’ observed Morveer as he peered over the table. ‘The advantage to Morveer, it would seem.’
Murcatto’s eyes flicked sideways, then back. A flurry of twitches ran up one side of her face. Her gloved hand trembled on the tabletop by the slightest margin, and then lay still.
‘It worked,’ murmured Day.
‘How could you doubt me?’ Morveer, liking nothing better than a captive audience, could not resist explaining how it had been managed. ‘Yellowseed oil was first applied to my hands.’ He held them up, fingers outspread. ‘In order to prevent the agent affecting me, you understand. I would not want to find myself suddenly paralysed, after all. That would be a decidedly unpleasant experience!’ He chuckled to himself, and Day joined him at a higher pitch while she bent down to check the Northman’s pulse, second cake wedged between her teeth. ‘The active ingredient was a distillation of spider venom. Extremely effective, even on touch. Since I held his hand for longer, your friend has taken a much heavier dose. He’ll be lucky to move today . . . if I choose to let him move again, of course. You should have retained the power of speech, however.’

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