‘Oh, not so, not so. Threetrees, and Bethod, and Whirrun of Bligh, and all them others forgotten. But men still sing your songs. Why’s that, d’you reckon?’
‘’Cause men are fools,’ said Lamb.
The wind caught a loose board somewhere and made it rattle. The two Northmen faced each other, Lamb’s hand dangling loose at his side, stump of the missing finger brushing the grip of his sword, and Shivers gently swept his coat clear of his own hilt and held it back out of the way.
‘That my old sword you got there?’ asked Lamb.
Shivers shrugged. ‘Took it off Black Dow. Guess it all comes around, eh?’
‘Always.’ Lamb stretched his neck out one way, then the other. ‘It always comes around.’
Time dragged, dragged. Those children were still laughing somewhere, and maybe the echoing shout of their mother calling them in. That old woman’s rocker softly creak, creaking on the porch. That weathervane squeak, squeaking. A breeze blew up then and stirred the dust in the street and flapped the coats of the two men, no more than four or five strides of dirt between them.
‘What’s happening?’ whispered Pit, and no one answered.
Shivers bared his teeth. Lamb narrowed his eyes. Shy’s hand gripped almost painful hard at Ro’s shoulder, the blood pounding now in her head, the breath crawling in her throat, slow, slow, the rocker creaking and that loose board rattling and a dog barking somewhere.
‘So?’ growled Lamb.
Shivers tipped his head back, and his good eye flickered over to Ro. Stayed on her for a long moment. And she bunched her fists, and clenched her teeth, and she found herself wishing he’d kill Lamb. Wishing it with all her being. The wind came again and stirred his hair, flicked it around his face.
Squeak. Creak. Rattle.
Shivers shrugged. ‘So I’d best be going.’
‘Eh?’
‘Long way home for me. Got to tell ’em that nine-fingered bastard is back to the mud. Don’t you think, Master Lamb?’
Lamb curled his left hand into a fist so the stump didn’t show, and swallowed. ‘Long dead and gone.’
‘All for the best, I reckon. Who wants to run into him again?’ And just like that Shivers walked to his horse and mounted up. ‘I’d say I’ll be seeing you but… I think I’d best not.’
Lamb still stood there, watching. ‘No.’
‘Some men just ain’t stamped out for doing good.’ Shivers took a deep breath, and smiled. A strange thing to see on that ruined face. ‘But it feels all right, even so. To let go o’ something.’ And he turned his horse and headed east out of town.
They all stood stock still a while longer, with the wind, and the creaking rocker, and the sinking sun, then Wist gave a great rattling sigh and said, ‘Bloody hell I near shit myself!’
It was like they could all breathe again, and Shy and Pit hugged each other, but Ro didn’t smile. She was watching Lamb. He didn’t smile either. Just frowned at the dust Shivers left behind him. Then he strode back to the store, and up the steps, and inside without a word. Shy headed after. He was pulling things down from the shelves like he was in a hurry. Dried meat, and feed, and water, and a bedroll. All the things you’d need for a trip.
‘What’re you doing, Lamb?’ asked Shy.
He looked up for a moment, guilty, and back to his packing. ‘I always tried to do the best I could for you,’ he said. ‘That was the promise I made your mother. The best I can do now is go.’
‘Go where?’
‘I don’t know.’ He stopped for a moment, staring at the stump of his middle finger. ‘Someone’ll come, Shy. Sooner or later. Got to be realistic. You can’t do the things I’ve done and walk away smiling. There’ll always be trouble at my back. All I can do is take it with me.’
‘Don’t pretend this is for us,’ said Shy.
Lamb winced. ‘A man’s got to be what he is. Got to be. Say my goodbyes to Temple. Reckon you’ll do all right with him.’
He scooped up those few things and back out into the street, wedged them into his saddlebags and like that he was ready.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Pit, tears on his face.
‘I know.’ Lamb knelt in front of him, and it seemed his eye was wet too. And I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.’ He leaned forward and gathered the three of them in an awkward embrace.
‘The dead know I’ve made mistakes,’ said Lamb. ‘Reckon a man could steer a perfect course through life by taking all the choices I didn’t. But I never regretted helping raise you three. And I don’t regret that I brought you back. Whatever it cost.’
‘We need you,’ said Shy.
Lamb shook his head. ‘No you don’t. I ain’t proud o’ much but I’m proud o’ you. For what that’s worth.’ And he turned away, and wiped his face, and hauled himself up onto his horse.
‘I always said you were some kind of coward,’ said Shy.
He sat looking at them for a moment, and nodded. ‘I never denied it.’
Then he took a breath, and headed off at a trot towards the sunset. Ro stood there on the porch, Pit’s hand in her hand, and Shy’s on her shoulder, and they watched him. Until he was gone.
Acknowledgments
As always, four people without whom:
Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it.
Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it.
Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages.
Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up.
Then, my heartfelt thanks:
To all the lovely and talented folks at my UK Publisher, Gollancz, and their parent Orion, particularly Simon Spanton, Jon Weir, Jen McMenemy, Mark Stay and Jon Wood.
Then, of course, all those who’ve helped make, publish, publicise, translate and above all sell my books wherever they may be around the world.
To the artists responsible for somehow continuing to make me look classy: Didier Graffet, Dave Senior and Laura Brett.
To editors across the Pond: Devi Pillai and Lou Anders.
For keeping the wolf on the right side of the door: Robert Kirby.
To all the writers whose paths have crossed mine on the internet, at the bar, or in some cases on the D&D table and the shooting range, and who’ve provided help, support, laughs and plenty of ideas worth the stealing. You know who you are.
And lastly, yet firstly:
My partner in crimes against fantasy fiction—Gillian Redfearn. I mean, Butch Cassidy wasn’t gloriously slaughtered on his own, now, was he?
extras
meet the author
Lou Abercrombie
JOE ABERCROMBIE was born in Lancaster, England, on the last day of 1974. He studied psychology at Manchester University, then spent twelve years living in London, working as a film editor on documentaries and live music for bands from Iron Maiden to Coldplay. He is now a full-time writer, living in Bath with his wife and two daughters. Find out more about the author at www.joeabercrombie.com.
introducing
If you enjoyed
RED COUNTRY,
look out for
BEST SERVED COLD
by Joe Abercrombie
There have been nineteen years of blood. The ruthless Grand Duke Orso is locked in a vicious struggle with the squabbling League of Eight, and between them they have bled the land white. While armies march, heads roll and cities burn, and behind the scenes bankers, priests and older, darker powers play a deadly game to choose who will be king.
War may be hell but for Monza Murcatto, the Snake of Talins, the most feared and famous mercenary in Duke Orso’s employ, it’s a damn good way of making money too. Her victories have made her popular—a shade too popular for her employer’s taste. Betrayed, thrown down a mountain and left for dead, Murcatto’s reward is a broken body and a burning hunger for vengeance. Whatever the cost, seven men must die.
Her allies include Styria’s least reliable drunkard, Styria’s most treacherous poisone
r, a mass-murderer obsessed with numbers and a Northman who just wants to do the right thing. Her enemies number the better half of the nation. And that’s all before the most dangerous man in the world is dispatched to hunt her down and finish the job Duke Orso started…
BEST SERVED COLD
Springtime in Styria. And that means revenge.
First thing Shivers noticed as the boat wallowed in towards the wharves, it was nothing like as warm as he’d been expecting. He’d heard the sun always shone in Styria. Like a nice bath, all year round. If Shivers had been offered a bath like this he’d have stayed dirty, and probably had a few sharp words to say besides. Talins huddled under grey skies, clouds bulging, a keen breeze off the sea, cold rain speckling his cheek from time to time and reminding him of home. And not in a good way. Still, he was set on looking at the sunny side of the case. Probably just a shitty day was all. You get ’em everywhere.
There surely was a seedy look about the place, though, as the sailors scuttled to make the boat fast to the dock. Brick buildings lined the grey sweep of the bay, narrow windowed, all squashed in together, roofs slumping, paint peeling, cracked- up render stained with salt, green with moss, black with mould. Down near the slimy cobbles the walls were plastered over with big papers, slapped up at all angles, ripped and pasted over each other, torn edges fluttering. Faces on them, and words printed. Warnings, maybe, but Shivers weren’t much of a reader. Specially not in Styrian. Speaking the language was going to be enough of a challenge.
The waterfront crawled with people, and not many looked happy. Or healthy. Or rich. There was quite the smell. Or to be more precise, a proper reek. Rotten salt fish, old corpses, coal smoke and overflowing latrine pits rolled up together. If this was the home of the grand new man he was hoping to become, Shivers had to admit to being more’n a touch disappointed. For the briefest moment he thought about paying over most of what he had left for a trip straight back home to the North on the next tide. But he shook it off. He was done with war, done with leading men to death, done with killing and all that went along with it. He was set on being a better man. He was going to do the right thing, and this was where he was going to do it.
“Right, then.” He gave the nearest sailor a cheery nod. “Off I go.” He got no more’n a grunt in return, but his brother used to tell him it was what you gave out that made a man, not what you got back. So he grinned like he’d got a merry send-off, strode down the clattering gangplank and into his brave new life in Styria.
He’d scarcely taken a dozen paces, staring up at looming buildings on one side, swaying masts on the other, before someone barged into him and near knocked him sideways.
“My apologies,” Shivers said in Styrian, keeping things civilised. “Didn’t see you there, friend.” The man kept going, didn’t even turn. That prickled some at Shivers’ pride. He had plenty of it still, the one thing his father had left him. He hadn’t lived through seven years of battles, skirmishes, waking with snow on his blanket, shit food and worse singing so he could come down here and get shouldered.
But being a bastard was crime and punishment both. Let go of it, his brother would’ve told him. Shivers was meant to be looking on the sunny side. So he took a turn away from the docks, down a wide road and into the city. Past a clutch of beggars on blankets, waving stumps and withered limbs. Through a square where a great statue stood of a frowning man, pointing off to nowhere. Shivers didn’t have a clue who he was meant to be, but he looked pretty damn pleased with himself. The smell of cooking wafted up, made Shivers’ guts grumble. Drew him over to some kind of stall where they had sticks of meat over a fire in a can.
“One o’ them,” said Shivers, pointing. Didn’t seem much else needed saying, so he kept it simple. Less chance of mistakes. When the cook told him the price he near choked on his tongue. Would’ve got him a whole sheep in the North, maybe even a breeding pair. The meat was half fat and the rest gristle. Didn’t taste near so good as it had smelled, but by that point it weren’t much surprise. It seemed most things in Styria weren’t quite as advertised.
The rain had started up stronger now, flitting down into Shivers’ eyes as he ate. Not much compared to storms he’d laughed through in the North, but enough to damp his mood a touch, make him wonder where the hell he’d rest his head tonight. It trickled from mossy eaves and broken gutters, turned the cobbles dark, made the people hunch and curse. He came from the close buildings and onto a wide river bank, all built up and fenced in with stone. He paused a moment, wondering which way to go.
The city went on far as he could see, bridges upstream and down, buildings on the far bank even bigger than on this side—towers, domes, roofs, going on and on, half-shrouded and turned dreamy grey by the rain. More torn papers flapping in the breeze, letters daubed over ’em too with bright coloured paint, streaks running down to the cobbled street. Letters high as a man in places. Shivers peered over at one set, trying to make some sense of it.
Another shoulder caught him, right in the ribs, made him grunt. This time he whipped round snarling, little meat stick clutched in his fist like he might’ve clutched a blade. Then he took a breath. Weren’t all that long ago Shivers had let the Bloody-Nine go free. He remembered that morning like it was yesterday, the snow outside the windows, the knife in his hand, the rattle as he’d let it fall. He’d let the man who killed his brother live, passed up revenge, all so he could be a better man. Step away from blood. Stepping away from a loose shoulder in a crowd was nothing to sing about.
He forced half a smile back on and walked the other way, up onto the bridge. Silly thing like the knock of a shoulder could leave you cursing for days, and he didn’t want to poison his new beginning ’fore it even got begun. Statues stood on either side, staring off above the water, monsters of white stone streaky with bird droppings. People flooded past, one kind of river flowing over the other. People of every type and colour. So many he felt like nothing in the midst of ’em. Bound to have a few shoulders catch you in a place like this.
Something brushed his arm. Before he knew it he’d grabbed someone round the neck, was bending him back over the parapet twenty strides above the churning water, gripping his throat like he was strangling a chicken. “Knock me, you bastard?” he snarled in Northern. “I’ll cut your fucking eyes out!”
He was a little man, and he looked bloody scared. Might’ve been a head shorter’n Shivers, and not much more than half his weight. Getting over the first red flush of rage, Shivers realised this poor fool had barely even touched him. No malice in it. How come he could shrug off big wrongs then lose his temper over nothing? He’d always been his own worst enemy.
“Sorry, friend,” he said in Styrian, and meaning it too. He let the man slither down, brushed the crumpled front of his coat with a clumsy hand. “Real sorry about that. Little… what do you call it… mistake is all. Sorry. Do you want…” Shivers found he was offering the stick, one last shred of fatty meat still clinging to it.
The man stared. Shivers winced. ’Course he didn’t want that. Shivers hardly wanted it himself. “Sorry…” The man turned and dashed off into the crowd, looking once over his shoulder, scared, like he’d just survived being attacked by a madman. Maybe he had. Shivers stood on the bridge, frowned down at that brown water churning past. Same sort of water they had in the North, it had to be said.
Seemed being a better man might be harder work than he’d thought.
By Joe Abercrombie
THE FIRST LAW TRILOGY
The Blade Itself
Before They Are Hanged
Last Argument of Kings
Best Served Cold
The Heroes
Red Country
Praise for
Red Country
“[A] gripping and violent stand-alone military fantasy… Terrific fight scenes, compelling characters (some familiar, some new), and sardonic, vivid prose show Abercrombie at the top of his game.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
&n
bsp; “[Abercrombie has] begun breaking his own rules. And succeeding wildly at it.… [R]arely has Abercrombie had so much fun while rollicking through his colorful cast’s foibles and witty dialogue—and rarely has he dished out so much straight-for-the-heart poignancy.”
—The A.V. Club
“Pointed, driven, and sharp.”
—Locus
“New, fresh, and exciting.”
—The Independent (UK)
“Exhilarating… Abercrombie’s knack for wit and grit holds your attention throughout, and his eye for character means that there’s heart as well as muscle.”
—SFX (UK)
“Abercrombie writes fantasy like no one else.”
—The Guardian (UK)
Praise for
Best Served Cold
“Joe Abercrombie takes the grand tradition of high fantasy literature and drags it down into the gutter, in the best possible way.”
—Time
“Abercrombie is both fiendishly inventive and solidly convincing, especially when sprinkling his appallingly vivid combat scenes with humor so dark that it’s almost ultraviolet.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Joe Abercrombie’s Best Served Cold is a bloody and relentless epic of vengeance and obsession in the grand tradition.”
—George R.R. Martin
“A satisfyingly brutal fantasy quest. Best Served Cold? Modern fantasy doesn’t get much hotter than this.”
—Dave Bradley, SFX
“A rich, memorable tale, exciting and well structured.”
—sffworld.com
Praise for
The Heroes
“Abercrombie never glosses over a moment of the madness, passion, and horror of war, nor the tribulations that turn ordinary people into the titular heroes.”