The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country (84 page)
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Authors: Joe Abercrombie
Tags: #Fantasy, #Omnibus
BOOK: The Great Leveller: Best Served Cold, The Heroes and Red Country
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‘Glory, boys, glory, and a decent pay-off!’
Their frowns turned to grins, they tapped their weapons against their shields, their helmets, their breastplates, sending up an approving rattle.
‘General!’
‘The captain general!’
‘Cosca!’
‘Boys, boys!’ He chuckled, thumping arms, shaking hands, giving out lazy salutes. All as far from her style of command as could’ve been. She’d had to stay cold, hard, untouchable, or there would have been no respect. A woman can’t afford the luxury of being friendly with the men. So she’d let Benna do the laughing for her. Probably why the laughter had been thin on the ground since Orso killed him.
‘And up here is my little home from home.’ Cosca led them up a ladder and into a kind of shed built from heavy logs, lit by a pair of flickering lamps. There was a wide opening in one wall, the setting sun casting its last glare over the dark, flat country to the west. Narrow windows faced towards the fortress. A stack of crates took up one corner, the captain general’s chair sat in another. Beside it a table was covered with a mess of scattered cards, half-eaten sweetmeats and bottles of varying colour and fullness. ‘How goes the fight?’
Friendly sat cross-legged, dice between his knees. ‘It goes.’
Monza moved to one of the narrow windows. It was almost night, now, and she could barely see any sign of the assault. Perhaps the odd flicker of movement at the tiny battlements, the odd glint of metal in the light of the bonfires scattered across the rocky slopes. But she could hear it. Vague shouting, faint screaming, clattering metal, floating indistinctly on the breeze.
Cosca slid into the battered captain general’s chair and rattled the bottles by putting his muddy boots up on the table. ‘We four, together again! Just like Cardotti’s House of Leisure! Just like Salier’s gallery! Happy times, eh?’
There was the creaking swoosh of a catapult released and a blazing missile sizzled overhead, shattered against the great foremost tower of the fortress, sending up a gout of flame, shooting out arcs of glittering embers. The dull flare illuminated ladders against the stonework, tiny figures crawling up them, steel glimmering briefly then fading back into the black.
‘You sure this is the best time for jokes?’ Monza muttered.
‘Unhappy times are the best for levity. You don’t light candles in the middle of the day, do you?’
Shivers was frowning up the slope towards Fontezarmo. ‘You really think you’ve a chance of carrying those walls?’
‘Those? Are you mad? They’re some of the strongest in Styria.’
‘Then why—’
‘Bad form to just sit outside and do nothing. They have ample stocks of food, water, weapons and, worst of all, loyalty. They might last months in there. Months during which Orso’s daughter, the Queen of the Union, might prevail upon her reluctant husband to send aid.’ Monza wondered whether the king learning that his wife preferred women would make any difference . . .
‘How’s watching your men fall off a wall going to help?’ asked Shivers.
Cosca shrugged. ‘It will wear down the defenders, deny them rest, keep them guessing and distract them from any other efforts we might make.’
‘Lot of corpses for a distraction.’
‘Wouldn’t be much of a distraction without them.’
‘How do you get men to climb the ladders for that?’
‘Sazine’s old method.’
‘Eh?’
Monza remembered Sazine displaying the money to the new boys, all laid out in sparkling stacks. ‘If the walls fall, a thousand scales to the first man on the battlements, a hundred each to the next ten who follow him.’
‘Provided they survive to collect the bounty,’ Cosca added. ‘If the task’s impossible, they’ll never collect, and if they do, well, you achieved the impossible for two thousand scales. It ensures a steady flow of willing bodies up the ladders, and has the added benefit of weeding the bravest men out of the company to boot.’
Shivers looked even more baffled. ‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘“Bravery is the dead man’s virtue,”’ Monza muttered. ‘“The wise commander never trusts it.”’
‘Verturio!’ Cosca slapped one leg. ‘I do love an author who can make death funny! Brave men have their uses but they’re damned unpredictable. Worrying to the herd. Dangerous to bystanders.’
‘Not to mention potential rivals for command.’
‘Altogether safest to cream them off,’ and Cosca mimed the action with a careless flick of two fingers. ‘The moderately cowardly make infinitely better soldiers.’
Shivers shook his head in disgust. ‘You people got a pretty fucking way of making war.’
‘There is no pretty way of making war, my friend.’
‘You said a distraction,’ cut in Monza.
‘I did.’
‘From what?’
There was a sudden fizzing sound and Monza saw fire out of the corner of her eye. A moment later the heat of it washed across her cheek. She spun, the Calvez already part-drawn. Ishri was draped across the crates behind them, sprawled out lazily as an old cat in the sun, head back, one long, thin, bandaged leg dangling from the edge of the boxes and swinging gently back and forth.
‘Can’t you ever just say hello?’ snapped Monza.
‘Where would be the fun in that?’
‘Do you have to answer every question with another?’
Ishri pressed one hand to her bandaged chest, black eyes opening wide. ‘Who? Me?’ She rolled something between her long finger and thumb, a little black grain, and flicked it with uncanny accuracy into the lamp beside Shivers. It went up with a flash and sizzle, cracking the glass hood and spraying sparks. The Northman stumbled away, cursing, flicking embers off his shoulder.
‘Some of the men have taken to calling it Gurkish sugar.’ Cosca smacked his lips. ‘Sounds sweeter, to my ear, than Gurkish fire.’
‘Two dozen barrels,’ murmured Ishri, ‘courtesy of the Prophet Khalul.’
Monza frowned. ‘For a man I’ve never met he likes us a lot.’
‘Better yet . . .’ The dark-skinned woman slithered from the boxes like a snake, waves running through her body from shoulders down to hips as if she had no bones in her, arms trailing after. ‘He hates your enemies.’
‘No better basis for an alliance than mutual loathing.’ Cosca watched her contortions with an expression stuck between distrust and fascination. ‘It’s a brave new age, my friends. Time was you had to dig for months, hundreds of strides of mine, tons of wood for props, fill it up with straw and oil, set it on fire, run like merry hell, then half the time it wouldn’t even bring the walls down. This way, all you need do is sink a shaft deep enough, pack the sugar in, strike a spark and—’
‘Boom,’ sang Ishri, up on her toes and stretching to her fingertips.
‘Ker-blow,’ returned Cosca. ‘It’s how everyone’s conducting sieges these days, apparently, and who am I to ignore a trend . . .’ He flicked dust from his velvet jacket. ‘Sesaria’s a genius at mining. He brought down the bell tower at Gancetta, you know. Somewhat before schedule, admittedly, and a few men did get caught in the collapse. Did I ever tell you—’
‘If you bring the wall down?’ asked Monza.
‘Well, then our men pour through the breach, overwhelm the stunned defenders and the outer ward will be ours. From the gardens within we’ll have level ground to work with and room to bring our numbers to bear. Carrying the inner wall should be a routine matter of ladders, blood and greed. Then storm the palace and, you know, keep it traditional. I’ll get my plunder and you’ll get—’
‘My revenge.’ Monza narrowed her eyes at the jagged outline of the fortress. Orso was in there, somewhere. Only a few hundred strides away. Perhaps it was the night, the fire, the heady mixture of darkness and danger, but some of that old excitement was building in her now. That fierce fury she’d felt when she hobbled from the bone-thief’s crumbling house and into the rain. ‘How long until the mine’s ready?’
Friendly looked up from his dice. ‘Twenty-one days and six hours. At the rate they’re going.’
‘A shame.’ Ishri pushed out her bottom lip. ‘I so love fireworks. But I must go back to the South.’
‘Tired of our company already?’ asked Monza.
‘My brother was killed.’ Her black eyes showed no sign of emotion. ‘By a woman seeking vengeance.’
Monza frowned, not sure if she was being mocked or not. ‘Those bitches find a way of doing damage, don’t they?’
‘But always to the wrong people. My brother is the lucky one, he is with God. Or so they tell me. It is the rest of my family that suffer. We must work the harder now.’ She swung herself smoothly down onto the ladder, let her head fall sideways. Uncomfortably far, until it was resting on the top rung. ‘Try not to get yourselves killed. I do not intend that my hard work here be wasted.’
‘Your wasted work will be my first concern when they cut my throat.’ Nothing but silence. Ishri was gone.
‘Looks like you’ve run out of brave men,’ came Shivers’ croak.
Cosca sighed. ‘We didn’t have many to begin with.’ The remnants of the assault were scrambling back down the rocky mountainside in the flickering light of the fires above. Monza could just make out the last ladder toppling down, perhaps a dot or two flailing as they fell from it. ‘But don’t worry. Sesaria’s still digging. Just a matter of time until Styria stands united.’ He slid a metal flask from his inside pocket and unscrewed the cap. ‘Or until Orso sees sense, and offers me enough to change sides again.’
She didn’t laugh. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to. ‘Maybe you should try sticking to one side or the other.’
‘Why ever would anyone do that?’ Cosca raised his flask, took a sip and smacked his lips in satisfaction. ‘It’s a war. There is no right side.’
Preparation
R
egardless of the nature of a great event, the key to success is always preparation. For three weeks, all Talins had been preparing for the coronation of Grand Duke Rogont. Meanwhile, Morveer had been preparing for an attempt to murder him and his allies. So much work had been put into both schemes that, now the day for their consummation had finally arrived, Morveer almost regretted that the success of one could only mean the spectacular failure of the other.
egardless of the nature of a great event, the key to success is always preparation. For three weeks, all Talins had been preparing for the coronation of Grand Duke Rogont. Meanwhile, Morveer had been preparing for an attempt to murder him and his allies. So much work had been put into both schemes that, now the day for their consummation had finally arrived, Morveer almost regretted that the success of one could only mean the spectacular failure of the other.
In all honesty, he had been having little success achieving even the smallest part of Duke Orso’s immensely ambitious commission to murder no fewer than six heads of state and a captain general. His abortive attempt on the life of Murcatto the day of her triumphant return to Talins, resulting in nothing more than at least one poisoned commoner and a sore back, had been but the first of several mishaps.
Gaining entrance to one of Talins’ finest dressmakers through a loose rear window, he had secreted a lethal Amerind thorn within the bodice of an emerald-green gown meant for Countess Cotarda of Affoia. Alas, Morveer’s expertise in dressmaking was most limited. Had Day been there she would no doubt have pointed out that the garment was twice too large for their waifish victim. The countess emerged resplendent at a soirée that very evening, her emerald-green gown a sensation. Morveer afterwards discovered, much to his chagrin, that the exceedingly large wife of one of Talins’ leading merchants had also commissioned a green gown from that dressmaker, but was prevented from attending the event by a mysterious illness. She swiftly deteriorated and, alas, expired within hours.
Five nights later, after an uncomfortable afternoon spent hiding inside a heap of coal and breathing through a tube, he had succeeded in loading Duke Lirozio’s oysters with spider venom. Had Day been with him in the kitchen she might have suggested they aim for a more basic foodstuff, but Morveer could not resist the most noteworthy dish. The duke, alas, had felt queasy after a heavy lunch and took only a little bread. The shellfish were administered to the kitchen cat, now deceased.
The following week, posing once more as the Purantine wine-merchant Rotsac Reevrom, he insinuated himself into a meeting to discuss trade levies chaired by Chancellor Sotorius of Sipani. During the meal he struck up lively conversation with one of the ancient statesman’s aides on the subject of grapes and was able, much to his delight, deftly to brush the top of Sotorius’ withered ear with a solution of Leopard Flower. He had sat back with great enthusiasm to observe the rest of the meeting, but the chancellor had steadfastly refused to die, showing, in fact, every sign of being in the most rude health. Morveer could only assume that Sotorius observed a morning routine not dissimilar to his own, and possessed immunities to who knew how many agents.
But Castor Morveer was not a man to be put off by a few reverses. He had suffered many in life, and saw no reason to alter his formula of commendable stoicism simply because the task seemed impossible. With the coronation almost upon him, he had therefore chosen to focus on the principal targets: Grand Duke Rogont and his lover, Morveer’s hated ex-employer, now the Grand Duchess of Talins, Monzcarro Murcatto.
It would have been a rank understatement to say that no expense had been spared to ensure the coronation lived long in Styria’s collective memory. The buildings enclosing the square had all been freshly painted. The stone platform where Murcatto had administered her fumbling speech, and where Rogont planned to soak up the adulation of his subjects as King of Styria, had been surfaced with gleaming new marble and adorned with a gilded rail. Workmen crawled on ropes and scaffolds across the looming frontage of the Senate House, garlanding the ancient stonework with fresh-cut white flowers, transforming the sullen edifice into a mighty temple to the Grand Duke of Ospria’s vanity.
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