The Devils (The Devils, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

“I would expect you to be pleased,” said Baron Rikard, sprawled on his battered couch. “A golden opportunity to demonstrate your formidable arcane skills.” “Please,” said Balthazar, though he seemed to have turned even more smug at the word formidable. “Dispelling one asinine illusion is no test of my powers.” “Though you need the stock of two junk shops to get it done,”

The monk looked vaguely desperate. The kind of man who’d sooner let the boat sink than give an order to bail it out.

“You still worried?” asked Alex, putting down the paper to lean beside him. Now he frowned at her. “It’s my job to be worried.” “Lucky you. Your job and your hobby are the same!”

It was a warship. Even a man as ignorant of both war and ships as Brother Diaz could have been in no doubt.

towards the giant ballista bolt buried in the planking. “That thing nearly killed me!” “A shame,” observed the baron. “We can only hope their next is more accurate.”

“Waiting for us?” snapped Baptiste. “Well, they’re not ramming anyone else. You think Frigo betrayed us?” “I’d be shocked if he didn’t.” “You said you knew people in Venice!” whined Brother Diaz. “I never said they were trustworthy!”

“We’re trapped!” squawked Alex. “It’s just like the inn!” “No, no,” said Vigga. “The inn was on land. You could run away from it. The inn wouldn’t sink.”

“honestly, straying rather from the matter. Where is Marcian now, might I ask?” “Oh, you know. Bit here, bit there.” “He’s dead?” “As fuck,” growled Vigga.

Belowdecks had seemed a superb notion when above decks was a smoke-shrouded battlefield, but Balthazar was forced to wonder whether it was really such an improvement on a ship that was patently sinking.

“We’re climbing the mast…” Alex squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to take in the din of murder below. Trying not to notice the smoke scratching her chest with every breath. Trying not to think about the long drop. “Of a sinking ship.” “Best part of a sinking ship to be on.”

He deemed it unlikely she would run out of daggers before she managed to stick one of them into some vital part of him. Honestly, he regarded none of his parts as expendable.

“Is this the best time for a lesson in fucking nautical terminology?” screamed Alex, the wind whipping the spit from her bared teeth. “Fine, we can go through it later.” “What?” “If you’re alive.” “What?” “Stand up and jump!” Sunny held out her hand. “I’ll catch you!” “How can you catch me? You weigh a third of nothing!”

She gave a helpless whimper. She plastered every part of herself against the pitiless wood. She did everything short of bite it with her teeth. You can’t stop yourself falling by holding on to something that’s falling. But it was all she had.

He’d fought many duels. Enough to know when he wasn’t going to win. But when you can’t die, a draw is enough.

“Wait.” Vigga frowned at him. “Did you stand up to the wolf?” “Well … when Jakob did it, at the inn—” “Jakob can’t die. You can.” “I am…” Brother Diaz ever so gently peeled his hand from her shoulder. “Acutely aware of that fact.”

“It truly warms my heart to see you would rather salvage your oars—and without a boat to row with them, mark you—than help the man who moments ago saved your life!” “Well, I like this belt,” she growled, undoing the buckle and pulling it slapping free. “As for saving lives, I could’ve sworn I saved yours twice. Gratitude costs nothing, you know.” “Gratitude?” breathed Balthazar. She might be soaking wet and barefoot, but had at least emerged from the brine clothed from neck to ankles. Balthazar had kicked his own trousers off to move more freely in the water, and the wind was now giving him considerable cause to regret his choice. “I did not think it possible that I could be colder than I was in the sea. Now I discover my error!” “Doubt it’s your first, since you chose to hide in the hold of a sinking ship.” And

“Gratitude, she says! One could not hope to come upon a more forbearing man than I—” She planted her hands on her hips and arched right back to bellow, “Ha!” at the sky. “—but I feel it only fair to warn you that even my patience has a limit.” He stomped to the oars, furiously waving his arms. “I have a belt,” and he ripped the damp thing free and shook it in her face, “but no trousers! What am I to do, might I ask, with a belt but no—” “Belt your fucking jaw shut with it!”

He had begun to smile. “I could not help noticing that you grouped me among the magicians.” She put her hands over her face. “I should’ve quit after Barcelona.” “You are warming to me! It was but a matter of time before you began to treat me with the deference due to one of Europe’s foremost arcane minds!” Baptiste glared at the ground. “Saviour, I wish you’d drowned.” “Before long you will be boasting of having had me, for a brief time, as a friend and colleague.” Baptiste winced at the sky. “Saviour, I wish I’d drowned.”

“Well, aren’t … you … a tall one,” snarled the countess, glaring up, the top of her blonde head barely reaching Baptiste’s chin. “I may have to cut you down to size.” “You should do it quickly,” said Baptiste. “Before I accidentally step on you.”

“What an inside-out world,” murmured Baron Rikard. “The priest argues for war, the knight for peace.”

“The farm we passed,” said Alex. “They had a stable. Maybe they had a horse.” “You’re not going back. You might get caught.” “You wanted a plan, there’s my plan.” “I didn’t want a shit plan. You can’t steal a horse.” “You’re skinny but I can’t carry you far.” “’Cause we need an angry farmer after us.” “On top of two dozen hired killers and a werewolf I doubt the farmer will make much difference.”

So they were outmatched three to two in numbers, about five to one in weight, and about thirty to one in weapons, since these newcomers looked like they’d packed for war with Burgundy.

“Husband,” she hissed. “Wife,” snarled the count. Balthazar frowned. “Wait … what?”

“No.” There was a kind of irritated snort. “Sorry. Can’t help you. Not with that.” “Wait…” whispered Balthazar. “What?” “I could do you limitless wealth, or turn your enemies to salt, or something? Pretty much anything. Just … not this.” “But … you’re…” “Duke of Beneath, yes, but there are rules, and there are limits.” Shaxep gave a sigh like a winter wind, and her wings shivered, and gilded dust floated down. “The ambitious never realise until it is too late. Power is a cage, Balthazar Sham Ivam Draxi.” “You can’t do it?” he muttered. “You? Can’t do it?” “You think I’m happy about it?” And her voice was thunder once again, and he cringed in her towering shadow. “I did the whole ‘greed is a famine’ speech and everything.”

“She struck some other deal, then,” muttered Balthazar. “With Cardinal Bock, maybe … to deceive me!” “A cardinal struck a deal with a demon,” muttered Baptiste, “because that’s how important you are, you reckless lunatic!”

“Your sinful Pope was quite the laugh,” said Alex. “Can’t imagine it plays too well in the west, mind you.” The Patriarch leaned closer to murmur, “In the east it’s a sinful Pope and a righteous Patriarch, in the west we swap over.”

“Knowing my luck I’ll survive werewolves, crab-people, and sorcerers in order to slip into a ditch and break my neck.”

“And you, we’re going to Troy, not Valhalla! We’re far outnumbered, Sunny’s still hurt, and you’re the only real fighter among us!”

“The seals of Pope and Patriarch. Entrance is forbidden on pain of excommunication.” Sunny shrugged. “I’ve never been incommunicated.”

Alex’s smile died the usual quick death, and as the corners of her lips sagged, the corners of his twitched up, as surely as if their mouths were linked by lines and pullies.

Sabbas paled with the special fury of those born with everything when they’re told they haven’t actually earned it.

The hammering of hooves made Jakob think of his charge to lift the siege of Kerak. That evening he’d led twelve hundred men-at-arms into one of the strongest fortresses in Europe. This morning he led a necromancer in an identity crisis and a disgruntled jack of all trades into a monastery without even a door. A fitting summing up of his career.

“Oh God!” Alex gripped her head with her hands. “This is just like the inn!” “No, no,” said Balthazar, through gritted teeth. “The inn had a door.”

“Ugh,” said Alex, shrinking back. “They died of plague?” “If we get the chance to die of plague I will count it a miracle.”

“Whatever sins you have committed will not be atoned for under a hill of rubble!” Jakob’s narrowed eyes glinted in the half-light. “Didn’t know you cared about my sins.” “A purely selfish decision! My chances are better with you holding a shield for me.” And he shoved the thing at Jakob. “Now can we please make an exit before the entire monastery comes down on our heads?”

“You and me!” He pointed down the ruined nave with his sword. “Here and now! To the death.” He didn’t mention death came easier to some people than others. He’d sworn an oath of honesty, not an oath of blabbing every detail.

“You don’t yield easily. I can admire that.” And he struck the butt end against the flagstones with a clang that echoed from the high walls. “But I think you see your time is up.” “Lots of men told me that down the years,” said Jakob. “I’m still here.” He lunged but Sabbas caught his sword, blade screeching against his spear’s gilded haft. “I won’t deny you exist. So do ants and syphilis.” Sabbas flung Jakob back. “And they’re about as likely to save your princess.”

Alex reckoned syphilis might well do for Sabbas, but not on a timescale that’d keep her alive.

“Plague dead?” muttered Balthazar. “Decades buried?” Alex grabbed him by the shirt. “You’re saying you can’t do it?” “They’ll be too old.” The magician squeezed his eyes shut. “They’ll be too deep!” “Too deep?” Alex dragged him close, giving him a savage shake. “Who does this bitch think she is?” His jaw clenched. “That she can get the better of Balthazar Sham Ivam Draxi?” His nostrils flared. “The best necromancer in Europe?” His eyes snapped open. “Above a giant fucking tomb?” He slapped her hands away. “I … think … not.”

“I wasn’t stuck with a spear.” Alex prodded at her stomach as though checking for holes. “Or hacked with a sword or shot with an arrow…” “Well, I’m delighted for you,” growled Jakob.

“However little I deserve it. You could get to thinking … that God must have a purpose for you.” “Can’t…” Jakob’s scarred cheek twitched at each movement of Baptiste’s needle, “recommend it.”

“The missions assigned to the Chapel of the Holy Expediency are like the members of the congregation—each awful in its own special way.”

“We remain stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the cause of the world’s least likely Empress, no offence…” “Entirely fair,” said Alex. “… at the behest of a ten-year-old Pontiff,” and he waved towards Brother Diaz, “under the command of the Celestial Palace’s least effective monk—” “Don’t talk to him like that!” snarled Vigga. “He’s a good man! An honest man, and a brave man, and an excellent lover! Surprisingly bold and assertive—”

“Cardinal Zizka, I must confess,” sang Baptiste as she pulled off her other boot and leaned back, wriggling her bare toes at the fire, “that I slipped while praying, my habit caught upon a stray nail, and my prick, engorged as it always is while filled with the love of our Lord, accidentally went up a lycanthrope’s twat.”

“Now I have heard it all,” murmured Balthazar, looking from Vigga back to Brother Diaz with an expression almost of wonder. “How can I be both disappointed and impressed, and with both of you at once?”

“What if they despise me?” she murmured. “My…” She could hardly say the word. “… subjects.” “Then you’ll be no worse off than most rulers,” said Jakob. “It is not the role of an Empress to be liked,” said Balthazar, “provided they are obeyed.” “Maybe you’d feel differently about being liked,” said Baptiste, “if you knew how it felt.”

“You have received expert instruction in etiquette,” waving to Balthazar, “showing off,” pointing to Brother Diaz, “letters,” indicating Jakob, “frowning,” waving towards Vigga, “indiscriminate slaughter—” “Indiscrimmy what now?” she grunted back at him. “It means thoughtless,” said Baptiste.

“So far out of your league…” Baptiste leaned in, speaking from the corner of her mouth, “you might as well come from different species.” Balthazar did not even bother to deny it. “Let a man dream,” he whispered.

“Below you in the palace, throughout the towers and gardens on the Pillar, are hundreds of guardsmen sworn to protect you.” “Hundreds? What are they expecting to protect me from?” “Expecting? Nothing. Prepared for? Anything.”

Brother Diaz did not break for lunch. He did not need to eat. He was fuelled by pure administration.