The Devils (The Devils, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

“The Church must, of course, remain faithful to the teachings of our Saviour. But there are tasks that must be undertaken, and methods used, to which the faithful and unimpeachable … are not suited.” Brother Diaz supposed, if you really squinted, you could make that argument, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near it himself. He glanced towards Jakob of Thorn, but found no help there whatsoever. He looked like a man whose methods were deeply impeachable. “I’m not sure I entirely follow—”

The cardinal’s brow wrinkled. “We are at war for our very existence against merciless enemies. To win a war, one must, sometimes, make use of the weapons of one’s enemies. To fight fire, one must be prepared to use fire.” Brother Diaz’s wince grew even more twisted. “But wouldn’t it follow, Your Eminence, that to fight devils … one must be prepared … to use devils?” Jakob of Thorn rocked his weight forwards, bared his teeth, and stiffly stood. “You see it,” he said. “This is an enormous opportunity. For your own advancement. For the advancement of the interests of the Church. But most importantly…” Cardinal Zizka rose, plucking her chain from the back of her chair and slinging it skewed around her shoulders, the jewelled circle swinging back and forth. “To do good.” And she jammed her hat on, indicating beyond doubt or hope that the interview was concluded and its outcome irreversible. “Isn’t that why we all join the Church?” Brother Diaz’s mother had made him join the Church to spare his family further embarrassment. But he somehow doubted that was what the Head of the Earthly Curia wanted to hear. And if there was one thing that was within Brother Diaz’s experience, it was telling people what they wanted to hear. “Of course,” he said, managing a watery smile. “To do good.” Whatever the hell that meant.

“You’ve heard of the Empress Theodosia the Blessed?” “Obviously,” lied Alex. “She had three children. Irene, Eudoxia, and … me.” “Your mother was an Empress?” “Your grandmother was an Empress. A great one. When she died, my elder sister Irene should have been crowned, but my younger sister Eudoxia…” he turned his face away, his voice cracking, “… Eudoxia murdered her and usurped the throne. There was a civil war.” He stared into the fire, shaking his head like it was heavy with regrets. “There was war, and famine, and schism between the Churches of East and West, and the great fortress city of Troy rotted from the inside. Irene’s servants spirited her infant daughter away to the Holy City, to the Pope’s protection. But she was lost on the way. Killed, I believed, for a long time.” He looked up at Alex. “Her name was Alexia.”

“He is an infamous practitioner of Black Art,” said Baptiste, “pursued by the Witch Hunters for nine years and found guilty as hell by the Celestial Court.” “Don’t they tend to … a little bit…” Brother Diaz cleared his throat, “burn people for that?” “On rare occasions they are given a chance at redemption through a lifetime of service to Her Holiness.” “Redemption?” snarled Balthazar Sham Ivam Draxi. “Ha! The distinction between Black Art and White is a patent artifice, born of wilful ignorance. They are drawn from one well. They even emerge in the same bucket! Then you blockheads dip in two cups and declare what suits your petty prejudices White and what defies your pitiful understanding Black when in fact they are one and the same—” “There was the matter of the dancing corpses,” grated Jakob of Thorn. “And the bargaining with demons,” added Baptiste. Balthazar threw up his hands. “You bargain with one demon and that’s all anyone talks about!” “I need to sit down,” muttered Brother Diaz, but there was no chair on offer.

Brother Diaz cleared his throat. He never used to need to clear his throat, but lately he was having to do it before every sentence. “I wouldn’t presume to challenge the breadth of your experience—” “Then we’ll get along famously!” said Baptiste. “—but you don’t seem to have explained what, specifically, became of my predecessor.” Jakob turned his grey eyes back to Brother Diaz, as if only now remembering he was there. “She’s dead.” And he started to limp back the way they’d come. “Dead?” whispered Brother Diaz. “As fuck.” Baptiste gave his shoulders a parting squeeze. “She’s dead as fuck.”

The cardinal raised one brow. “Your commitment to the cause of the Church will be rewarded, in this world and the next.” Alex coughed as she tried to swallow too much in one go and had to thump her breastbone then slurp some wine to wash it down. “You can hold off on the heavenly rewards,” she said, grinning, “if I can cash in on the earthly ones now, eh? Eh?” No one laughed. Oh God, she was drunk. She thought the answer might be to drink more, and drained her glass. “We should set out for Troy as soon as possible,” Duke Michael was saying. “My dear friend Lady Severa stayed in the city after the civil war, she served as Warden of Eudoxia’s Chamber.” He held up a folded little sheet of paper. “She’s risked everything to keep me informed ever since.” And he did what Alex had been afraid of, which was to hand the paper to her. “Lady Severa,” she muttered, “very good. Very good.” She shook the paper open and frowned at the writing, the way she’d seen priests frown at the writing in holy books. It all looked very neat and careful but meant about as much to her as the patterns the pigeon shit made on her windowsill. “Mmm. Hmm.” Duke Michael looked slightly pained as he leaned close, took the letter from her hand, and turned it the other way up so he could read it.

I am cackling. The comedic timing of the writing is perfect

It was only by his clothes, and something around the eyes, perhaps, that Brother Diaz was finally able to place him. “Baron Rikard?” The vampire looked, if anything, faintly amused. “The very same.” “You have something…” Alex pointed at the corner of her mouth. “Just here.” “Ah.” He whisked out a handkerchief, licked one corner, then dabbed away a bloody smudge. “How incredibly gauche of me.”

“The Church is not that keen on God, in my experience,” said Baron Rikard. “They think of him much as a lawyer thinks of the law. Something to be got around.” “You’re a vampire,” snapped Brother Diaz. “Of course you hate the Church.” “On the contrary, I am a great admirer of the tenets of your religion. I merely find it a shame that the Saved are, as a rule, so little like their Saviour.”

Perhaps, as Cardinal Zizka said, one must sometimes use the weapons of the enemy against them, but if the righteous will stoop to any depths, what separates them from the wicked? Where was the line? Was there a line? Brother Diaz really didn’t want to live in a world without lines and yet, through no apparent fault of his own, here he was, wondering if a severed head had always had a lisp. Perhaps there had never been any lines. Perhaps the whole idea of lines was a consolatory fairy tale it had suited him to believe.

“What if…” Alex licked her lips, dropped her voice to a whisper. “They find out … I’m not the real thing—” “You’re the real thing now. Wherever you came from.” “But I’ve done … I’m not good—” “It’s not what you’ve done that makes you good or bad. It’s what you do next.” Alex gave a little snort. “An elf giving an Empress lessons on virtue?” “Someone has to, and your priest fucked a werewolf.”