Best Served Cold

by Joe Abercrombie

“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness” Joseph Conrad

“You are a gentleman, sir,” muttered Cosca. “I am a murderer.” “I see no reason why a man cannot be both…”

Those who were willing to cross Grand Duke Orso. And that meant madmen, or those with no choices. Which was he? The answer was in easy reach. There was no reason a man could not be both.

Never fear your enemies, Verturio wrote, but your friends, always.

When God means to punish a man, the Kantic scriptures say, he sends him stupid friends, and clever enemies.

The people far prefer a leader who appears great, Bialoveld wrote, to one who is.

“The memories of our glories fade,” he whispered, “and rot away into half-arsed anecdotes, thin and unconvincing as some other bastard’s lies. The failures, the disappointments, the regrets, they stay raw as the moments they happened. A pretty girl’s smile, never acted on. A petty wrong we let another take the blame for. A nameless shoulder that knocked us in a crowd and left us stewing for days, for months. Forever.” He curled his lip. “This is the stuff the past is made of. The wretched moments that make us what we are.”

“My son is murdered. Thrown from the window of a brothel like rubbish. Many of his friends and associates, my citizens, were also killed. My son-in-law, his Majesty the King of the Union, no less, only just escaped the burning building with his life. Sotorius, the half-corpse Chancellor of Sipani who was their host, wrings his hands and tells me he can do nothing. I am betrayed. I am bereaved. I am… embarrassed. Me!” he screamed suddenly, making the chamber ring, and every person in it flinch.

It’s always the poor who are crushed under rich men’s ambitions. And yet they rarely complain, because… well…” “They dream of having towers o’ their own?” Cosca chuckled. “Why, yes, I suppose they do. They don’t see that the higher you climb, the further you have to fall.”

“Dying rich is still dying.” “Better’n dying poor,” said Shivers.

I have seen hell, Stolicus wrote, and it is a great city under siege.

“Beautiful,” Cosca lied. To the starving man, bread is beautiful. To the homeless man, a roof is beautiful. To the drunkard, wine is beautiful. Only those who want for nothing else need find beauty in a lump of rock.