The Collected Joe Abercrombie (317 page)

‘Oh, I know what to do.’

‘Good. Very good. Of course you do. You learned from a master.’

She bowed her head. ‘And I marked your lessons well.’

‘Most excellent well.’ He leaned down to flick at a condenser, watched the Larync essence dripping slowly down into the retort. ‘It is vital to be exhaustively prepared for any and every eventuality. Caution first, always, of—Ah!’ He frowned down at his forearm. A tiny speck of red swelled, became a dot of blood. ‘What . . .’ Day backed slowly away from him, an expression of the most peculiar intensity on her face. She held a mounted needle in her hand.

‘Someone to take the blame?’ she snarled at him. ‘Scapegoat, am I? Fuck yourself, bastard!’

‘Come on, come on, come on.’ Faithful was pissing again, stood by his horse, back to Shivers, shaking his knees around. ‘Come on, come on. Bloody years catching up on me, that’s what this is.’

‘That or your dark deeds,’ said Swolle.

‘I’ve done nothing black enough to deserve this shit, surely. You feel like you never had to go so bad in your life, then when you finally get your prick out, you end up stood here in the wind for an age of . . . ah . . . ah . . . there’s the fucker!’ He leaned backwards, showing off his big bald spot. A brief spatter, then another. One more, he worked his shoulders around as he shook the drips off, and started lacing up again.

‘That’s it?’ asked Swolle.

‘What’s your interest?’ snapped the general. ‘To bottle it? Years catching up on me is all it is.’ He picked his way up the slope bent over, heavy red cloak held out of the mud in one hand, and squatted down next to Shivers. ‘Right then. Right then. That’s the place?’

‘That’s the place.’ The farm sat at the end of an open paddock, in the midst of a sea of grey wheat, under the grey sky, clouds smudged with watery dawn. Faint light flickered at the narrow windows of the barn, but no more signs of life. Shivers rubbed his fingers slowly against his palms. He’d never done much treachery. Nothing so sharply cut as this, leastways, and it was making him nervy.

‘Looks peaceful enough.’ Faithful ran a slow hand over his white stubble. ‘Swolle, you get a dozen men and take ’em round the side, out of sight, into that stand of trees down there, get on the flank. Then if they see us and make a run for it you can finish up.’

‘Right y’are, General. Nice and simple, eh?’

‘Nothing worse than too much plan. More there is to remember, more there is to make a shit of. Don’t need to tell you not to make a shit of it, do I, Swolle?’

‘Me? No, sir. Into the trees, then if I see anyone running, charge. Just like at the High Bank.’

‘Except Murcatto’s on the other side now, right?’

‘Right. Fucking evil bitch.’

‘Now, now,’ said Faithful. ‘Some respect. You were happy enough to clap for her when she brought you victories, you can clap for her now. Shame things have come to this, is all. Nothing else for it. Don’t mean there can’t be some respect.’

‘Right. Sorry.’ Swolle paused for a moment. ‘Sure it wouldn’t be better to try and creep down there on foot? I mean, we can’t ride into that farmhouse, can we?’

Faithful gave him a long look. ‘Did they pick a new captain general while I was away, and are you it?’

‘Well, no, ’course not, just—’

‘Creeping up ain’t my style, Swolle. Knowing how often you wash, more than likely Murcatto’d fucking smell you before we got within a hundred strides, and be ready. No, we’ll ride down there and spare my knees the wear. We can always get down once we’ve given the place the check over. And if she’s got any surprises for us, well, I’d rather be in my saddle.’ He frowned sideways at Shivers. ‘You see a problem with that, boy?’

‘Not me.’ From what Shivers had seen he reckoned Faithful was one o’ those men make a good second and a poor chief. Lots of bones but no imagination. Looked like he’d got stuck to one way of doing things over the years and had to do it now whether it fit the job or not. But he weren’t about to say so. Strong leaders might like it when someone brings ’em a better idea, but weak ones never do. ‘You reckon I could get my axe back, though?’

Faithful grinned. ‘’Course you can. Just as soon as I see Murcatto’s dead body. Let’s go.’ He nearly tripped on his cloak as he turned for the horses, angrily dragged it up and tossed it over his shoulder. ‘Bloody thing. Knew I should’ve got a shorter one.’

Shivers took one last look at the farm before he followed, shaking his head. There’s nothing worse’n too much plan, that’s true. But too little comes in close behind.

Morveer blinked. ‘But . . .’ He took a slow step towards Day. His ankle wobbled and he slumped sideways against the table, knocking over a flask and making the fizzing contents spill across the wood. He clutched one hand to his throat, his skin flushing, burning. He knew already what she must have done, the realisation spreading out frigid through his veins. He knew already what the consequences would have to be. ‘The King . . .’ he rasped, ‘of Poisons?’

‘What else? Caution first, always.’

He grimaced, at the meagre pain of the tiny prick in his arm, and at the far deeper wound of bitter betrayal besides. He coughed, fell forwards onto his knees, one hand stretching, trembling upwards. ‘But—’

Day kicked his hand away with the toe of one shoe. ‘Doomed to be misunderstood?’ Her face was twisted with contempt. With hatred, even. The pleasing mask of obedience, of admiration, of innocence too, finally dropped. ‘What do you think there is to understand about you, you swollen-headed parasite? You’re thin as tissue paper!’ There was the deepest cut of all – ingratitude, after all he had given her! His knowledge, his money, his . . . fatherly affection! ‘The personality of a baby in the body of a murderer! Bully and coward in one. Castor Morveer, greatest poisoner in the world? Greatest bore in the world, maybe, you—’

He sprang forwards with consummate nimbleness, nicked her ankle with his scalpel as he passed, rolled under the table and came up on the other side, grinning at her through the complexity of apparatus, the flickering flames of the burners, the distorting shapes of twisted tubes, the glinting surfaces of glass and metal.

‘Ha ha!’ He shouted, entirely alert and not dying in the least. ‘You, poison me? The great Castor Morveer, undone by his assistant? I think
not
!’ She stared down at her bleeding ankle, and then up at him, eyes wide. ‘There is no King of Poisons, fool!’ he cackled. ‘The method I showed you, that produces a liquid that smells, tastes and looks like water? It makes water! Entirely harmless! Unlike the concoction with which I just now pricked you, which was enough to kill a dozen horses!’

He slipped his hand inside his shirt, deft fingertips unerringly selecting the correct vial and sliding it out into the light. Clear fluid gleamed inside. ‘The antidote.’ She winced as she saw it, made to dive one way around the table then came the other, but her feet were clumsy and he evaded her with negligible effort. ‘Most undignified, my dear! Chasing each other around our apparatus, in a barn, in the middle of rural Styria! Most terribly undignified!’

‘Please,’ she hissed at him. ‘Please, I’ll . . . I’ll—’

‘Don’t embarrass us both! You have displayed your true nature now you . . . you ingrate
harpy
! You are unmasked, you treacherous cuckoo!’

‘I didn’t want to take the blame is all! Murcatto said sooner or later you’d go over to Orso! That you’d want to use me as the scapegoat! Murcatto said—’

‘Murcatto? You listen to Murcatto over me? That degenerate, husk-addled and notorious butcher of the bloody battlefield? Oh, commendable guiding light! Curse me for an imbecile to trust either one of you! It seems you were correct, at least, that I am like to a baby. All unspoiled innocence! All undeserved mercy!’ He flicked the vial through the air at Day. ‘Let it never again be said,’ as he watched her fumbling through the straw for it, ‘that I am not,’ as she clawed it up and ripped out the cork, ‘as generous, merciful and forgiving as any poisoner,’ as she sucked down the contents, ‘within the entire Circle of the World.’

Day wiped her mouth and took a shuddering breath. ‘We need . . . to talk.’

‘We certainly do. But not for long.’ She blinked, then a strange spasm passed over her face. Just as he had known it would. He wrinkled his nose as he tossed his scalpel clattering across the table. ‘The blade carried no poison, but you have just consumed a vial of undiluted Leopard Flower.’

She flopped over, eyes rolling back, skin turning pink, began to jerk around in the straw, froth gurgling from her mouth.

Morveer stepped forwards, leaned down over her, baring his teeth, stabbing at his chest with a clawing finger. ‘Kill me, would you? Poison me? Castor Morveer?’ The heels of her shoes drummed out a rapid beat on the hard-packed earth, sending up puffs of straw-dust. ‘I am the only King of Poisons, you . . . you child-faced fool !’ Her thrashing became a locked-up trembling, back arched impossibly far. ‘The simple insolence of you! The arrogance! The
insult
! The, the, the . . .’ He fumbled breathlessly for the right word, then realised she was dead. There was a long, slow silence as her corpse gradually relaxed.

‘Shit!’ he barked. ‘Entirely shit!’ The scant satisfaction of victory was already fast melting, like an unseasonable flurry of snow on a warm day, before the crushing disappointment, wounding betrayal and simple inconvenience of his new, assistant-less, employer-less situation. For Day’s final words had left him in no doubt that Murcatto was to blame. That after all his thankless, selfless toil on her behalf she had plotted his death. Why had he not anticipated this development? How could he not have expected it, after all the painful reverses he had suffered in his life? He was simply too soft a personage for this harsh land, this unforgiving epoch. Too trusting and too comradely for his own good. He was prone to see the world in the rosy tones of his own benevolence, cursed always to expect the best from people.

‘Thin as paper, am I? Shit! You . . . shit!’ He kicked Day’s corpse petulantly, his shoe thudding into her body over and over and making it shudder again. ‘Swollen-headed?’ he near shrieked it. ‘Me? Why, I am humility . . . its . . . fucking . . . self !’ He realised suddenly that it ill befit a man of his boundless sensitivity to kick a person already dead, especially one he had cared for almost as a daughter. He felt a sudden bubbling-up of melodramatic regret.

‘I’m sorry! So sorry.’ He knelt beside her, gently pushed her hair back, touched her face with trembling fingers. That vision of innocence, never more to smile, never more to speak. ‘I’m so sorry, but . . . but why? I will always remember you, but—Oh . . . urgh!’ There was a sharp smell of urine. The corpse voiding itself, an inevitable side effect of a colossal dose of Leopard Flower that a man of his experience really should have seen coming. The pool had already spread out through the straw and soaked the knees of his trousers. He tottered up, wincing with disgust.

‘Shit! Shit!’ He snatched up a flask and flung it against the wall in a fury, fragments of glass scattering. ‘Bully and coward in one?’ He gave Day’s body another petulant kick, bruised his toes and set off limping around the barn at a great pace.

‘Murcatto!’ That evil witch had incited his apprentice to treachery. The best and most loved apprentice he had trained since he was obliged to preemptively poison Aloveo Cray back in Ostenhorm. He knew he should have killed Murcatto in his orchard, but the scale, the importance and the apparent impossibility of the work she offered had appealed to his vanity. ‘Curse my vanity! The one flaw in my character!’

But there could be no vengeance. ‘No.’ Nothing so base and uncivilised, for that was not Morveer’s way. He was no savage, no animal like the Serpent of Talins and her ilk, but a refined and cultured gentleman of the highest ethical standards. He was considerably out of pocket, now, after all his hard and loyal work, so he would have to find a proper contract. A proper employer and an entirely orderly and clean-motived set of murders, resulting in ‘a proper, honest profit.’

And who would pay him to murder the Butcher of Caprile and her barbaric cronies? The answer was not so very difficult to fathom.

He faced a window and practised his most sycophantic bow, the one with the full finger twirl at the end. ‘Grand Duke Orso, an incom . . . parable honour.’ He straightened, frowning. At the top of the long rise, silhouetted against the grey dawn, were several dozen riders.

‘For honour, glory and, above all, a decent pay-off!’ A scattering of laughter as Faithful drew his sword and held it up high. ‘Let’s go!’ And the long line of horsemen started moving, keeping loosely together as they thrashed through the wheat and out into the paddock, upping the pace to a trot.

Shivers went along with ’em. There wasn’t much choice since Faithful was right at his side. Hanging back would’ve seemed poor manners. He would’ve liked his axe to hand, but hoping for a thing often brought on the opposite. Besides, as they picked up speed to a healthy canter, keeping both hands on the reins seemed like an idea with some weight to it.

Maybe a hundred strides out now, and all still looking peaceful. Shivers frowned at the farmhouse, at the low wall, at the barn, gathering himself, making ready. It all seemed like a bad plan, now. It had seemed a bad plan at the time, but having to do it made it seem a whole lot worse. The ground rushed past hard under his horse’s hooves, the saddle jolted at his sore arse, the wind nipped at his narrowed eye, tickled at the raw scars on the other side of his face, bitter cold without the bandages. Faithful rode on his right, sitting up tall, cloak flapping behind him, sword still raised, shouting, ‘Steady! Steady!’ On his left the line shifted and buckled, eager faces of men and horses in a twisting row, spears jolting up and down at all angles. Shivers worked his boots free of the stirrups.