The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie Page A

of white houses stretching all around the glittering bay. In the other
direction, the view over the Agriont was even more impressive. A great
confusion of magnificent buildings piled one upon the other, broken up by green
lawns and great trees, circled by its wide moat and its towering wall, studded
with a hundred lofty towers. The Kingsway sliced straight through the centre toward
the Lords’ Round, its bronze dome shining in the sunlight. The tall spires of
the University stood behind, and beyond them loomed the grim immensity of the
House of the Maker, rearing high over all like a dark mountain, casting its
long shadow across the buildings below.
    Jezal fancied that he saw the sun glint on Marshal Varuz’
eye-glass in the distance. He cursed once again and made for the stairs.
     
    Jezal was immensely relieved when he finally made it
to the roof and saw that there were still a few white pieces on the board.
    Marshal Varuz frowned up at him. ‘You are very lucky.
The Major has put up an exceptionally determined defence.’ A smile broke West’s
features. ‘You must somehow have earned his respect, even if you have yet to
win mine.’
    Jezal bent over with his hands on his knees, blowing
hard and dripping sweat onto the floor. Varuz took the long case from the
table, walked over to Jezal and flipped it open. ‘Show us your forms.’
    Jezal took the short steel in his left hand and the
long in his right. They felt light as feathers after the heavy iron. Marshal Varuz
backed away a step. ‘Begin.’
    He snapped into the first form, right arm extended,
left close to the body. The blades swished and weaved through the air, glittering
in the afternoon sun as Jezal moved from one familiar stance to the next with a
practised smoothness. At length he was finished, and he let the steels drop to
his sides.
    Varuz nodded. ‘The Captain has fast hands, has he not?’
    ‘Truly excellent,’ said Major West, smiling broadly.
‘A damn sight better than ever I was.’
    The Lord Marshal was less impressed. ‘Your knees are
too far bent in the third form, and you must strive for more extension on the
left arm in the fourth, but otherwise,’ he paused, ‘passable.’ Jezal breathed a
sigh of relief. That was high praise indeed.
    ‘Hah!’ shouted the old man, striking him in the ribs
with the end of the case. Jezal sank to the floor, hardly able to breathe.
‘Your reflexes need work, though, Captain. You should always be ready. Always.
If you have steels in your hands, you damn well keep them up.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ croaked Jezal.
    ‘And your stamina is a disgrace, you are blowing like
a carp. I have it on good authority that Bremer dan Gorst runs ten miles a day,
and barely shows a sweat.’ Marshal Varuz leaned down over him. ‘From now on you
will do the same. Oh yes. A circuit of the wall of the Agriont every morning at
six, followed by an hour of sparring with Major West, who has been kind enough
to agree to act as your partner. I am confident that he will point up all the
little weaknesses in your technique.’
    Jezal winced and rubbed his aching ribs. ‘As for the carousing,
I want an end to it. I am all for revelry in its proper place, but there will
be time for celebration after the Contest, providing you have worked hard
enough to win. Until then, clean living is what we need. Do you understand me,
Captain Luthar?’ He leaned down further, pronouncing every word with great
care. ‘Clean. Living. Captain.’
    ‘Yes, Marshal Varuz,’ mumbled Jezal.
     
    Six hours later he was drunker than shit. Laughing
like a lunatic he plunged out into the street, head spinning. The cold air
slapped him hard in the face, the mean little buildings weaved and swayed, the
ill-lit road tipped like a sinking ship. Jezal wrestled manfully with the urge
to vomit, took a swaggering step out into the street, turned to face the door.
Smeary bright light and loud sounds of laughter and shouting washed out at him.
A ragged shape flew from