The Devils (The Devils, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

He looked like a man who had spent half a century falling down a mountain. Perhaps one made of axes.

We live in a world sunk in darkness, in which our Church is the one point of light. The one hope of humanity. Can we that are righteous suffer that light to be extinguished?” Here was an easy one. “Absolutely not, Your Eminence,” said Brother Diaz, vigorously shaking his head. “And in this battle of what can only be described as good, against what can only be described as evil, defeat is inconceivable.” “Absolutely so, Your Eminence,” said Brother Diaz, vigorously nodding. “With God’s creation and every soul it contains at stake, restraint would be madness. Restraint would be craven dereliction of our holy duty. Restraint would be sin.” Brother Diaz had a creeping suspicion that he was somehow straying onto wobbly theological ground, like a clumsy bear chasing rabbits onto a half-frozen lake. “Well…” “A time comes when the stakes are of such enormity that moral objections become themselves immoral.” “Do they? I mean—they do? That is—they do. Do they?”

“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.”

All he’d wanted was a comfortable living, somewhere sunny. To be taken seriously by the frivolous, regarded as wise by the unwise, and considered important by the unimportant.

“I really have … no experience with…” Brother Diaz’s gesture encompassed the Witch Engineers’ dungeon housing the naked magician, the vanishing elf, the geriatric vampire, and whatever had been too badly behaved to be kept in such company. “All this.”

The cardinal had this way of looking at Alex that was making her worry this might be a sex thing after all. Priests might not be allowed to fuck, but that only seemed to encourage some of them.

“I have heard of you.” He found himself marooned between fear and gratification. “Good things, I hope?” “Things.”

The Vigga-Wolf screamed with fury and delight to be out of the horrid wagon and once again at her work, which was murder, and her hobby, too. Also murder.

The wealthiest of the pilgrims followed, including two portraits, carried by servants, of a merchant of Anagni and her fourth husband. They’d yearned to tend to their immortal souls, apparently, but a bit less than they yearned to tend to business, so they’d bought dispensation to send likenesses in their place. The Saviour had said one could not buy one’s way into heaven, but most agreed that was just a negotiating tactic on her part.

“When she first brought me to Krosno I was … so naïve. Frankly, I was no better than a pretty idiot. Perhaps I am unfair. A very pretty idiot. I think it was late spring, maybe early summer…” The baron frowned, scratching his neck. “No! Mid-spring, definitely, I remember the trees were coming into leaf…” “My God,” breathed Brother Diaz. The revelation burst upon him, a mind-expanding epiphany. If the trees had been coming into leaf … that would have been mid-spring! Bishop Apollonia was similarly moved. “Trees … in leaf.” Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

“They won a lot of battles,” Baptiste considered a crumbling temple across the way, its tide-stained pillars half-sunk in the sea, “and built a lot of grand things, so people always forget.” “Forget what?” asked Alex. “What absolute wankers the Carthaginians were. How many dead slaves are sunk in the drowned foundations of this city, do you think?” “Lots.” Balthazar shrugged. “But you can’t build big without a few bodies.”

She vaguely remembered being upset about something but it hardly seemed worth groping around in all the horrible mess in her memory just so she could feel upset about it again.