The Blade Itself (The First Law, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

There’s no need to rush, Arch Lector. That’s the trouble with good legs, you tend to run around too much. If you have trouble moving, on the other hand, you don’t move until you damn well know it’s time.

You should see his forms.’ Varuz shook his head sadly. ‘He has the talent, alright, though he will never be in your class, Sand.’ I don’t know. I hope some day he’ll be just as crippled as I am. ‘But he has plenty of talent, enough to win. Only he’s wasting it. Throwing it away.’ Oh, the tragedy of it. I am so upset I could be sick. Had I eaten anything this morning.

Those blinking eyes swept across the ashen faces on the high table. Jezal’s throat constricted as Fenris’ eyes met his. ‘You?’ ‘Well I would, but I’m terribly busy this afternoon. Perhaps tomorrow?’ The voice hardly sounded like his own. He certainly hadn’t meant to say any such thing. But who else’s could it be? The words floated confidently, breezily up towards the gilded dome above.

Life used to be cheap as dirt to me. Cheaper. ‘I’ve fought ten single combats and I won them all, but I fought on the wrong side and for all the wrong reasons. I’ve been ruthless, and brutal, and a coward. I’ve stabbed men in the back, burned them, drowned them, crushed them with rocks, killed them asleep, unarmed, or running away. I’ve run away myself more than once. I’ve pissed myself with fear. I’ve begged for my life. I’ve been wounded, often, and badly, and screamed and cried like a baby whose mother took her tit away. I’ve no doubt the world would be a better place if I’d been killed years ago, but I haven’t been, and I don’t know why.’

The blade itself was dull, but its edge had a cold and frosty glint. ‘It speaks louder, does it not? It hisses a dire threat. It makes a deadly promise.

‘No it isn’t!’ she snapped. ‘For my brother it was serious, he had to do it! No one even notices you if you don’t have a “dan” in your name, and who’d know better than me? You’re the only person who’s given me the time of day since I got here, and then only because Collem made you. I’ve precious little money and no blood at all, and that makes me less than nothing to the likes of you. The men ignore me and the women cut me dead. I’ve got nothing here, nothing and no one, and you think you’ve got the hard life? Please! I might take up fencing,’ she said bitterly. ‘Ask the Lord Marshal if he has space for a pupil, would you? At least then I’d have someone to talk to!’ Jezal blinked. That wasn’t interesting. That was rude. ‘Hold on, you’ve no idea what it’s like to—’ ‘Oh stop whinging! How old are you? Five? Why don’t you go back to sucking on your mother’s tit, infant?’

He thought of all his dead friends. He sucked at his teeth and stared at the fire. ‘I’ve settled a few scores in my time, but it only led to more.

‘All my life I’ve sought to know things. What’s on the other side of the mountains? What are my enemies thinking? What weapons will they use against me? What friends can I trust?’ Logen shrugged. ‘Knowledge may be the root of power, but each new thing I’ve learned has left me worse off.’

Something fine,’ said Blacktoe, staring far up into the grey skies, ‘I just had enough. So I reckon I earned this. Fair is fair.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Well then. Get it done, lad.’ Logen raised the sword. ‘I’m glad it’s you, Ninefingers,’ hissed Blacktoe through gritted teeth, ‘for what it’s worth.’ ‘I’m not.’ Logen swung the blade down.

They reached a broad staircase, and Glokta eyed it with hatred. My old enemies, always here ahead of me.

Then . . . you knew who our traitor was. You knew all along. Glokta’s mind turned the events of the last few weeks around, pulled them apart and put them back together in this new light, trying them different ways until they fit, all the while struggling to conceal his surprise. You left Rews’ confession where you knew your secretary would see it. You knew the Mercers would find out who was on the list, and you guessed what they would do, knowing it would only play into your hands and give you the shovel with which to bury them.

Glokta spread his arms out wide. ‘Stop me! Why don’t you? I’d like to see it! Can you imagine? We two cripples, floundering around in the stacks with a bird loosing its droppings on us, tugging this old piece of paper to and fro?’ He giggled to himself. ‘That wouldn’t be very dignified, would it?’

The little man turned to the left and the right, never pausing for an instant to consider his course. ‘Do you smell that? Do you smell that, Master Ninefingers? 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.

Oh, Khalul would enjoy that news, but he will not receive it yet. The two of you have cursed yourselves. You have broken the Second Law. You have eaten the flesh of men, and there must be a reckoning.’

‘We’re at war you know!’ ‘We are indeed.’ The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. ‘Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath – an old war, long years in the making.’

The tunic had not been designed to sit down in, and the stiff leather dug painfully into his fruits whenever he tried to move. ‘Fucking thing,’

Thank you.’ Jezal flashed a sour smile and gave the man’s big paw as cursory a squeeze as possible, then he turned away towards his enclosure. Of course he fucking deserved it, and he was damned if he would let that bastard bask in his reflected glory a moment longer.

Bayaz was starting to sound angry. ‘I have supplied you with all the proofs you’ve asked for, Arch Lector!’ ‘Proofs!’ The tall man they called Sult gave a cold sneer. ‘You deal in words and dusty papers! More the business of a snivelling clerk than the stuff of legend! Some would say that a Magus without magic is simply a meddling old man! We are at war, and can take no chances!

‘I believe your Eminence is the proper term of address,’ hissed the Arch Lector. ‘So it is, so it is. I do declare, you really won’t be happy until I’ve broken some furniture. I would hate to spill everyone’s soup though, so . . .’ With a sudden bang, the Arch Lector’s chair collapsed. His hand shot out and grabbed at the table cloth as he plunged to the floor in a clattering mess of loose firewood, and sprawled in the wreckage with a groan. The King started awake, his guests blinked, and gasped, and stared. Bayaz ignored them. ‘This really is an excellent soup,’ he said, slurping noisily from his spoon.