The Collected Joe Abercrombie (303 page)

She raised the iron, Monza’s weeping eye jammed wide open and fixed on its white tip as it loomed towards her, fizzing ever so softly. The breath wheezed and shuddered in her throat. She could almost feel the heat from it on her cheek, almost feel the pain already. Langrier leaned forwards.

‘Stop.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blurry figure in the doorway. She blinked, eyelids fluttering. A great fat man, standing at the top of the steps in a white dressing gown.

‘Your Excellency!’ Langrier shoved the iron back into the brazier as though it was her it was burning. The grip round Monza’s neck was suddenly released, Pello’s boot came off the back of her calves.

Grand Duke Salier’s eyes shifted slowly in his great expanse of pale face, from Monza, to Shivers, and back to Monza. ‘Are these they?’

‘Indeed they are.’ Nicomo Cosca peered over the duke’s shoulder and down into the room. Monza couldn’t remember ever in her life being so glad to see someone. The old mercenary winced. ‘Too late for the Northman’s eye.’

‘Early enough for his life, at least. But whatever have you done to her skin, Captain Langrier?’

‘The scars she had already, your Excellency.’

‘Truly? Quite the collection.’ Salier slowly shook his head. ‘A most regrettable case of mistaken identity. For the time being, these two people are my honoured guests. Some clothes for them, and do what you can for his wound.’

‘Of course.’ She snatched the dowel out of Monza’s mouth and bowed her head. ‘I deeply regret my mistake, your Excellency.’

‘Quite understandable. This is war. People get burned.’ The duke gave a long sigh. ‘General Murcatto, I hope you will accept a bed in my palace, and join us for breakfast in the morning?’

The chains rattled free and her limp hands fell down into her lap. She thought she managed to gasp out a ‘yes’ before she started sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak, tears running free down her face.

Terror, and pain, and immeasurable relief.

The Connoisseur

A
nyone would have supposed it was an ordinary morning of peace and plenty in Duke Salier’s expansive dining chamber, a room in which his Excellency no doubt spent much of his time. Four musicians struck up sweet music in a far-distant corner, all smiling radiantly, as though serenading the doomed in a palace surrounded by enemies was all they had ever wished for. The long table was stacked high with delicacies: fish and shellfish, breads and pastries, fruits and cheeses, sweets, meats and sweetmeats, all arranged as neatly on their gilded plates as medals on a general’s chest. Too much food for twenty, and there were but three to dine, and two of those not hungry.

Monza did not look well. Both of her lips were split, her face was ashen in the centre, swollen and bruised shiny pink on both sides, the white of one eye red with bloodshot patches, fingers trembling. Cosca felt raw to look at her, but he supposed it might have been worse. Small help to their Northern friend. He could have sworn he could hear the groans through the walls all night long.

He reached out with his fork, ready to spear a sausage, well-cooked meat striped black from the grill. An image of Shivers’ well-cooked, black-striped face drifted through his mind, and he cleared his throat and caught himself instead a hard-boiled egg. It was only when it was halfway to his plate that he noticed its similarity to an eyeball. He shook it hastily off his fork and into its dish with a rumbling of nausea, and contented himself with tea, silently pretending it was heavily laced with brandy.

Duke Salier was busy reminiscing on past glories, as men are prone to do when their glories are far behind them. One of Cosca’s own favourite pastimes, and, if it was even a fraction as boring when he did it, he resolved to give it up. ‘. . . Ah, but the banquets I have held in this very room! The great men and women who have enjoyed my hospitality at this table! Rogont, Cantain, Sotorius, Orso himself, for that matter. I never trusted that weasel-faced liar, even back then.’

‘The courtly dance of Styrian power,’ said Cosca. ‘Partners never stay together long.’

‘Such is politics.’ The roll of fat around Salier’s jaw shifted softly as he shrugged. ‘Ebb and flow. Yesterday’s hero, tomorrow’s villain. Yesterday’s victory . . .’ He frowned at his empty plate. ‘I fear the two of you will be my last guests of note and, if you will forgive me, you both have seen more notable days. Still! One takes the guests one has, and makes the merry best of it!’ Cosca gave a weary grin. Monza did not stretch herself even that far. ‘No mood for levity? Anyone would think my city was on fire by your long faces! We will do no more good at the breakfast table, anyway. I swear I’ve eaten twice what the two of you have combined.’ Cosca reflected that the duke undoubtedly weighed more than twice what the two of them did combined. Salier reached for a glass of white liquid and raised it to his lips.

‘Whatever are you drinking?’

‘Goat’s milk. Somewhat sour, but wondrous for the digestion. Come, friends – and enemies, of course, for there is nothing more valuable to a powerful man than a good enemy – take a turn with me.’ He struggled from his chair with much grunting, tossed his glass away and led them briskly across the tiled floor, one plump hand waving in time to the music. ‘How is your companion, the Northman?’

‘Still in very great pain,’ murmured Monza, looking in some herself.

‘Yes . . . well . . . a terrible business. Such is war, such is war. Captain Langrier tells me there were seven of you. The blonde woman with the child’s face is with us, and your man, the quiet one who brought the Talinese uniforms and has apparently been counting every item in my larder since the crack of dawn this morning. One does not need his uncanny facility with numbers to note that two of your band are still . . . at large.’

‘Our poisoner and our torturer,’ said Cosca. ‘A shame, it’s so hard to find good ones.’

‘Fine company you keep.’

‘Hard jobs mean hard company. They’ll be out of Visserine by now, I daresay.’ They would be halfway to being out of Styria by now, if they had any sense, and Cosca was far from blaming them.

‘Abandoned, eh?’ Salier gave a grunt. ‘I know the feeling. My allies have abandoned me, my soldiers, my people. I am distraught. My sole remaining comfort is my paintings.’ One fat finger pointed to a deep archway, heavy doors standing open and bright sunlight spilling through.

Cosca’s trained eye noted a deep groove in the stonework, metal points gleaming in a wide slot in the ceiling. A portcullis, unless he was much mistaken. ‘Your collection is well protected.’

‘Naturally. It is the most valuable in Styria, long years in the making. My great-grandfather began it.’ Salier ushered them into a long hallway, a strip of gold-embroidered carpet beckoning them down the centre, many-coloured marble gleaming in the light from huge windows. Vast and brooding oils crowded the opposite wall in long procession, gilt frames glittering.

‘This hall is given over to the Midderland masters, of course,’ Salier observed. There was a snarling portrait of bald Zoller, a series of Kings of the Union – Harod, Arnault, Casimir, and more. One might have thought they all shat molten gold, they looked so smug. Salier paused a moment before a monumental canvas of the death of Juvens. A tiny, bleeding figure lost in an immensity of forest, lightning flaring across a lowering sky. ‘Such brushwork. Such colouring, eh, Cosca?’

‘Astounding.’ Though one daub looked much like another to his eye.

‘The happy days I have spent in profound contemplation of these works. Seeking the hidden meanings in the minds of the masters.’ Cosca raised his brows at Monza. More time in profound contemplation of the campaign map and less on dead painters and perhaps Styria would not have found itself in the current fix.

‘Sculptures from the Old Empire,’ murmured the duke as they passed through a wide doorway and into a second airy gallery, lined on both sides with ancient statues. ‘You would not believe the cost of shipping them from Calcis.’ Heroes, emperors, gods. Their missing noses, missing arms, scarred and pitted bodies gave them a look of wounded surprise. The forgotten winners of ten centuries ago, reduced to confused amputees. Where am I? And for pity’s sake, where are my arms?

‘I have been wondering what to do,’ said Salier suddenly, ‘and would value your opinion, General Murcatto. You are renowned across Styria and beyond for your ruthlessness, single-mindedness and commitment. Decisiveness has never been my greatest talent. I am too prone to think on what is lost by a certain course of action. To look with longing at all those doors that will be closed, rather than the possibilities presented by the one that I must open.’

‘A weakness in a soldier,’ said Monza.

‘I know it. I am a weak man, perhaps, and a poor soldier. I have relied on good intentions, fair words and righteous causes, and it seems I and my people now will pay for it.’ Or for that and his avarice, betrayals and endless warmongering, at least. Salier examined a sculpture of a muscular boat-man. Death poling souls to hell, perhaps. ‘I could flee the city, by small boat in the hours of darkness. Down the river and away, to throw myself upon the mercy of my ally Grand Duke Rogont.’

‘A brief sanctuary,’ grunted Monza. ‘Rogont will be next.’

‘True. And a man of my considerable dimensions, fleeing? Terribly undignified. Perhaps I could surrender myself to your good friend General Ganmark?’

‘You know what would follow.’

Salier’s soft face turned suddenly hard. ‘Perhaps Ganmark is not so utterly bereft of mercy as some of Orso’s other dogs have been?’ Then he seemed to sink back down, face settling into the roll of fat under his chin. ‘But I daresay you are right.’ He peered significantly sideways at a statue that had lost its head some time during the last few centuries. ‘My fat head on a spike would be the best that I could hope for. Just like good Duke Cantain and his sons, eh, General Murcatto?’

She looked evenly back at him. ‘Just like Cantain and his sons.’ Heads on spikes, Cosca reflected, were still as fashionable as ever.

Around a corner and into another hall, still longer than the first, walls crowded with canvases. Salier clapped his hands. ‘Here hang the Styrians! Greatest of our countrymen! Long after we are dead and forgotten, their legacy will endure.’ He paused before a scene of a bustling marketplace. ‘Perhaps I could bargain with Orso? Curry favour by delivering to him a mortal enemy? The woman who murdered his eldest son and heir, perhaps?’

Monza did not flinch. She never had been the flinching kind. ‘The best of luck.’

‘Bah. Luck has deserted Visserine. Orso would never negotiate, even if I could give him back his son alive, and you have put well and truly paid to that possibility. We are left with suicide.’ He gestured at a huge, dark-framed effort, a half-naked soldier offering his sword to his defeated general. Presumably so they could make the last sacrifice that honour demanded. That was where honour got a man. ‘To plunge the mighty blade into my bared breast, as did the fallen heroes of yesteryear!’

The next canvas featured a smirking wine merchant leaning on a barrel and holding a glass up to the light. Oh, a drink, a drink, a drink. ‘Or poison? Deadly powders in the wine? Scorpion in the bedsheets? Asp down one’s undergarments?’ Salier grinned round at them. ‘No? Hang myself? I understand men often spend, when they are hanged.’ And he flapped his hands away from his groin in demonstration, as though they had been in any doubt as to his meaning. ‘Sounds like more fun than poison, anyway.’ The duke sighed and stared glumly at a painting of a woman surprised while bathing. ‘Let us not pretend I have the courage for such exploits. Suicide, that is, not spending. That I still manage once a day, in spite of my size. Do you still manage it, Cosca?’

‘Like a fucking fountain,’ he drawled, not to be outdone in vulgarity.

‘But what to do?’ mused Salier. ‘What to—’

Monza stepped in front of him. ‘Help me kill Ganmark.’ Cosca felt his brows go up. Even beaten, bruised and with the enemy at the gates, she could not wait to draw the knives again. Ruthlessness, single-mindedness and commitment indeed.

‘And why ever would I wish to do that?’

‘Because he’ll be coming for your collection.’ She had always had a knack for tickling people where they were most ticklish. Cosca had seen her do it often. To him, among others. ‘Coming to box up all your paintings, and your sculptures, and your jars, and ship them back to Fontezarmo to adorn Orso’s latrines.’ A nice touch, his latrines. ‘Ganmark is a connoisseur, like yourself.’

‘That Union cocksucker is nothing like me!’ Anger suddenly flared red across the back of Salier’s neck. ‘A common thief and braggart, a degenerate man-fucker, tramping blood across the sweet soil of Styria as though its mud were not fit for his boots! He can have my life, but he’ll never have my paintings! I will see to it!’

‘I can see to it,’ hissed Monza, stepping closer to the duke. ‘He’ll come here, when the city falls. He’ll rush here, keen to secure your collection. We can be waiting, dressed as his soldiers. When he enters,’ she snapped her fingers, ‘we drop your portcullis, and we have him! You have him! Help me.’

But the moment had passed. Salier’s veneer of heavy-lidded carelessness had descended again. ‘These are my two favourites, I do believe,’ gesturing, all nonchalance, towards two matching canvases. ‘Parteo Gavra’s studies of the woman. They were intended always as a pair. His mother, and his favourite whore.’