The Blade Itself (The First Law, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

Repetition—the curse of the old.

“No one cares about the past any more,” he whispered. “They don’t see that you can’t have a future without a past.”

“Journeys are always pleasant to me! Always! It is the time between them that I find trying.

It smells like…” he rubbed his thumbs and fingertips together as he strode along, searching for the words, “… mystery! Adventure!” It smelled like shit to Logen.

He had always just assumed that everybody loved him, had never really had cause to doubt he was a fine man, worthy of the highest respect. But Ardee didn’t like him, he saw it now, and that made him think. Apart from the jaw, of course, and the money and the clothes, what was there to like? She treated him with the contempt he knew he deserved. And he couldn’t get enough of it. “Strangest thing,” Jezal mumbled to himself, slouching miserably against the wall of the tunnel. “Strangest thing.” It made him want to change her mind.

“I can’t see anyone freezing to death last night. It was hot as hell.” “Mmm,” said Glokta. If hell is hot. I’ve always thought it might be cold. Cold as ice.

“But what’s all this? A body, unless I’m quite mistaken!” Goyle looked up sharply, his eyes sparkling. “A body? A death within the city? As Superior of Adua, surely that falls within my province?” Glokta bowed. “Naturally. I was not aware that you had arrived, Superior Goyle. Also, I felt that the unusual circumstances of this—” “Unusual? I see nothing unusual.” Glokta paused. What game is this chuckling fool playing? “Surely you would agree that the violence here is… exceptional.” Goyle gave a flamboyant shrug. “Dogs.” “Dogs?” asked Glokta, unable to let that one pass. “Domestic pets run mad, do you think, or wild ones which climbed over the walls?” The Superior only smiled. “Whichever you like, Inquisitor. Whichever you like.”

Wild guess: These guys are secretly Eaters in league with the ones hunting Farro. The death coincides with their arrival, they’re acting hella weird, the corpse is likely from them hunting carelessly the night before, and so they came to take over the corpse’s investigation to cover their tracks…?

His face was pale, his eyes sunken. Almost as if he had just done seven touches with Gorst. “Well done indeed, my young friend, an almost… magical performance.”

Prince Raynault, youngest son of the King, was first in line, humbly dressed, honest and thoughtful-seeming, scarcely looking like royalty at all.

Oh gee…I wonder if he’ll rule in the end…

“What can you tell me about him?” “That he’s a most cunning and ruthless opponent, with no pity or scruple in him. Make no mistake, I hate the man, but there’s been no war leader in his league since the days of Skarling Hoodless. He has that in him which men respect, or fear, or at least obey. He pushes his men hard, so he can make the field first and choose his own ground, but they march hard for him because he brings them victories. He’s cautious when he must be, and fearless when he must be, but neglects no detail. He delights in every trick of war—in setting traps and ambushes, in mounting feints and deceptions, in sending sudden raids against the unwary. Look for him where you expect him least, and expect him to be strongest where he seems the weakest. Beware him most of all when he seems to run. Most men fear him, and those that don’t are fools.”

“Last there are the Known Men, the Named Men, those warriors who’ve earned great respect in battle. They might lead groups of Carls on the field, or act as scouts or raiders, sometimes far in the enemy’s rear.”

There was a stage set into the wall at the far end of the room. Jezal had once heard that Ostus, the child King, had jesters perform for him at every meal. Morlic the Mad, by contrast, had staged executions there to go with his dinner. King Casamir, it was said, had likenesses of his worst enemies shout insults at him from that stage while he took his breakfast every morning, to keep his hatred for them fresh.

Still, he knew that he wanted to be a big, important man some day. To wear things with a lot of fur, and a heavy golden chain of office. To have people bow and scrape and fawn before him. He had made that decision long ago, and he supposed he still liked the idea. It was just that, up close, the whole thing seemed so awfully false and boring. He would much, much rather have been on his own with Ardee, even though he had seen her the night before. There was nothing boring about her…

I am not proud of it. But good men must sometimes do violent things.”

The Divider, Kanedias called it, and with it he killed his brother Juvens, my master. He once told me it has two edges. One here, one on the Other Side.” “What the hell does that mean?” muttered Logen. He couldn’t even see one edge you could cut with.

A weapon that servers the body AND the soul in both planes?

These three were at the top of his list. The arrogant old man with his idiotic prattle and his self-important air of mystery. The hulking savage with his ugly scars and his menacing frown. The patronising cripple with his smug little comments and his pretensions of knowing all about life. The three of them, combined with the stagnant air and perpetual gloom of this horrible place, were almost enough to make Jezal puke again. The only thing he could imagine worse than his present company was no company at all.

the seeds of the past bear fruit in the present.”

Knowing your own ignorance is the first step to enlightenment.

“It could be worse, believe me. It’s when you come out before you went in that you really start to worry.” He smiled, eyes glinting in the light through the doorway.

“Oh, I come from much further south, beyond Kanta, beyond the desert, even beyond the Circle of the World. The land of my birth will not be on your maps, friend. Yulwei is my name.” He held out a long, black hand.

This was not entirely true, but since joining the Marshal’s staff West had more or less given up on telling the whole truth to anyone. That was no way to get anything done. He now employed a mixture of wheedling, bluster, and outright lies, humble entreaties and veiled threats, and had become quite expert at judging which tactic would be most effective on what man.

He tried to put himself in Vallimir’s position. He did not really know the pressures the man was under: probably he would rather be in command of soldiers than smiths, probably… it was no use. The man was a shit, and West hated him.

She was right. He had failed her. Long before today. While he had been playing with swords and kissing the arses of people who despised him, she had been suffering. A little effort was all it would have taken, but he could never face it. Every minute he had spent with her he felt the guilt, like a rock in his gut, weighing him down, unbearable.

Groups of fat, pale men and women lazed around in the sun on the carefully cut grass, stuffing their sweaty faces with food. Swilling down drink. She scowled down at them. Fat, ugly, lazy pinks, with no God but eating and idleness.

“Good Times Create Weak Men”

Ferro hated luxury even more than she hated gardens. Luxury meant captivity more surely than the bars of a cage. Soft furniture spelled danger more surely than weapons. Hard ground and cold water was all she needed. Soft things make you soft, and she wanted no part of that.

“The First Law is a paradox. All magic comes from the Other Side, even ours. Whenever you change a thing you touch the world below, whenever you make a thing you borrow from the Other Side, and there is always a cost.”

“Remember what Juvens told you, Bayaz. Beware of pride. You have been using the Art. I know it. I see a shadow on you.”

“If you are cut, do you hate the knife, or the one who wields it? The Emperor, the Gurkish, they are but Khalul’s tools, Ferro. Emperors come and go, but the Prophet is always there, behind them. Whispering. Suggesting. Ordering. He is the one that owes you.”

“Walk in God’s footsteps, Ferro Maljinn.” “Huh. They have no God here.” “Say rather that they have many.” “Many?” “Had you not noticed? Here, each man worships himself.”

“I looked for you, afterwards…” he mumbled. You looked for me? How hugely fucking noble. What a true friend. Precious little good it did me, dragged off in agony with my leg hacked to mincemeat. And that was just the beginning.

He remembered, but the memories were weak now, colourless, faded. The memories of another man. A dead man. My life began in Gurkhul, in the Emperor’s prisons. The memories since then are much more real. Stretched out in bed like a corpse after I came back, in the darkness, waiting for friends who never came.

What can we do, except try to do better?

He was helpless. It was ridiculous the power she had over him. The difference between misery and happiness was the right word from her.

The people had faded, the park, the city, the world. Jezal stared down at Ardee, for how long he could not have said, trying to stamp every detail of her face into his mind. He had a feeling, for some reason, that the memory of that smile might have to get him through a lot.

“I and a few brave companions—chosen people, you understand, people of quality—are engaging on a great journey! An epic voyage! A grand adventure! I have little doubt that, should we be successful, there will be stories told of this for years to come. Very many years.” Bayaz’s forehead crinkled as he raised his white eyebrows. “Well? What do you think?”

Wizards are so addicted to coercing people into unwanted quests😭

If you’re going to travel with a man, and maybe fight alongside him, it’s best to talk, and laugh if you can. That way you can get an understanding, and then a trust. Trust is what binds a band together, and out there in the wilds that can make the difference between living or dying. Building that kind of trust takes time, and effort. Logen reckoned it was best to get started early, and today he had good humour to spare, so he stood next to Luthar and looked out at the park, trying to dream up some common ground in which to plant the seeds of an unlikely friendship.

All things come to an end, but some only lie still, forgotten…

Something dug into the Bloody-Nine’s back, but there was no pain. It was a sign. A message in a secret tongue, that only he could understand. It told him where the next dead man was standing.

“Northerner, eh?” asked a massive shape in the doorway. “Aye, who’s asking?” “The Stone-Splitter.” He was big this one, very big, and tough, and savage. You could see it on him as he shoved the cupboard away with his huge boot and crunched forward through the broken plates. It meant less than nothing to the Bloody-Nine though—he was made to break such men. Tul Duru Thunderhead had been bigger. Rudd Threetrees had been tougher. Black Dow had been twice as savage. The Bloody-Nine had broken them, and plenty more besides. The bigger, the tougher, the more savage he was, so much the worse would be his breaking.

That great face twisted up with rage. “You fucking liar! You think to scare the Stone-Splitter with a name that’s not your own? I’ll carve a new arse in you, maggot! I’ll put the bloody cross on you! I’ll put you back in the mud, you coward fucking liar!” “Kill me?” The Bloody-Nine laughed louder than ever. “I do the killing, fool!”

Then the door to the bathroom banged against the wall. Bayaz stood there, entirely naked, dripping with soapy water. His slow gaze took in first Ferro, scowling with her knife out, then Longfoot hiding behind the table, Jezal with sword drawn, Quai standing with his mouth open, Ninefingers sprawled out in a bloody ruin, and finally the three black-masked figures, weapons at the ready. There was a pregnant pause. “What the fuck is this?” he roared, striding into the centre of the room, water dripping from his beard, down through the grizzled white hairs on his chest, off his slapping fruits. It was a strange sight to see. A naked old man confronting three armed Practicals of the Inquisition. Ridiculous, and yet no one was laughing. There was something strangely terrifying about him, even without his clothes and running with wet. It was the Practicals who shifted backwards, confused, scared even.

Jezal had never seen a man die before, let alone in so hideous and unnatural a fashion. He supposed he should have been horrified, but instead he felt only an overpowering sense of relief. His worries seemed now rather petty things. He, at least, was still alive.

“The fact is, your brother asked me to look after your welfare while he is away. As far as I’m concerned you can fuck whomever you please, though my general observation has been that, as far as the reputations of young women are concerned, the less fucking the better. The reverse is true for young men of course. Hardly fair, but then life is unfair in so many ways, this one hardly seems worth commenting on.” “Huh. You’re right there.” “Good,” said Glokta, “so we understand each other then. I see that you hurt your face.” She shrugged. “I fell. I’m a clumsy fool.” “I know how you feel. I’m such a fool I knocked half my teeth out and hacked my leg to useless pulp. Look at me now, a cripple. It’s amazing where a little foolishness can take you, if it goes unchecked. We clumsy types should stick together, don’t you think?” She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, stroking the bruises on her jaw. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose we should.”

we must work with the tools we have.”

I understand. A posting to a city surrounded by enemies and riddled with traitors, where one Superior has already mysteriously disappeared. Closer to a knife in the back than a promotion, but we must work with the tools we have.