The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie Page B

the tavern and struck him in the chest. Jezal grappled
with it desperately, then fell. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.
    The world was dark for a moment, then he found himself
squashed into the dirt with Kaspa on top of him. ‘Damn it!’ he gurgled, tongue
thick and clumsy in his mouth. He shoved the giggling Lieutenant away with his
elbow, rolled over and lurched up, stumbling about as the street see-sawed
around him. Kaspa lay on his back in the dirt, choking with laughter, reeking
of cheap booze and sour smoke. Jezal made a lame attempt to brush the dirt from
his uniform. There was a big wet patch on his chest that smelled of beer. ‘Damn
it!’ he mumbled again. When had that happened?
    He became aware of some shouting on the other side of
the road. Two men grappling in a doorway. Jezal squinted hard, strained against
the gloom. A big man had hold of some well-dressed fellow, and seemed to be
tying his hands behind his back. Now he was forcing some kind of bag over his
head. Jezal blinked in disbelief. It was far from a reputable area, but this
seemed somewhat strong.
    The door of the tavern banged open and West and
Jalenhorm came out, deep in drunken conversation, something about someone’s
sister. Bright light cut across the street and illuminated the two struggling
men starkly. The big one was dressed all in black, with a mask over the lower
part of his face. He had white hair, white eyebrows, skin white as milk. Jezal
stared at the white devil across the road, and he glared back with narrowed
pink eyes.
    ‘Help!’ It was the fellow with the bag on his head,
his voice shrill with fear. ‘Help, I am—’ The white man dealt him a savage blow
in the midriff and he folded up with a sigh.
    ‘You there!’ shouted West.
    Jalenhorm was already rushing across the street.
    ‘What?’ said Kaspa, propped up on his elbows in the
road.
    Jezal’s mind was full of mud, but his feet seemed to
be following Jalenhorm, so he stumbled along with them, feeling very sick. West
came behind him. The white ghost started up and turned to stand between them
and his prisoner. Another man moved briskly out of the shadows, tall and thin,
dressed all in black and masked, but with long greasy hair. He held up a gloved
hand.
    ‘Gentlemen,’ his whining commoner’s voice was muffled
by his mask, ‘gentlemen please, we’re on the King’s business!’
    ‘The King conducts his business in the day-time,’
growled Jalenhorm.
    The new arrival’s mask twitched slightly as he smiled.
‘That’s why he needs us for the night-time stuff, eh, friend?’
    ‘Who is this man?’ West was pointing at the fellow
with the bag on his head.
    The prisoner was struggling up again. ‘I am Sepp dan—oof!’
The white monster silenced him with a heavy fist in the face, knocking him limp
into the road.
    Jalenhorm put a hand on the hilt of his sword, jaw
clenching, and the white ghost loomed forward with a terrible speed. Close up
he was even more massive, alien, and terrifying. Jalenhorm took an involuntary
step back, stumbled on the rutted surface of the road and pitched onto his back
with a crash. Jezal’s head was thumping.
    ‘Back!’ bellowed West. His sword whipped out of its
scabbard with a faint ringing.
    ‘Thaaaaah!’ hissed the monster, fists clenched like
two big white rocks.
    ‘Aargh,’ gurgled the man with the bag on his head.
    Jezal’s heart was in his mouth. He looked at the thin
man. The thin man’s eyes smiled back. How could anyone smile at a time like
this? Jezal was surprised to see that he had a long, ugly knife in his hand.
Where did that come from? He fumbled drunkenly for his sword.
    ‘Major West!’ came a voice from the shadows down the
street. Jezal paused, uncertain, steel halfway out. Jalenhorm scrambled to his
feet, the back of his uniform crusted with mud, pulled out his own sword. The
pale monster stared at them unblinking, not retreating a finger’s breadth.
    ‘Major West!’ came the voice again,