The Blade Itself

“No?” asked Bayaz. “Shame.” He flicked over the page and carried on.

“What about that one?” There was another book, sat alone on its side on the very top of one of the shelves, a large, black book, scarred and battered-looking. “That written by this Juvens as well?”

Bayaz frowned up at it. “No. His brother wrote that.” He got up from his chair, stretched up and pulled it down. “This is a different kind of knowledge.” He dragged open his desk drawer, slid the black book inside and slammed it shut. “Best left alone,” he muttered, sitting back down and opening up the Principles of Art again.

Logen took a deep breath, put his left hand on the hilt of the sword, felt the cold metal pressing into his palm. The feel of it was anything but reassuring. He let go and turned back to the window, frowning down into the courtyard. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

“Bethod. He’s here.”

“Good, good,” muttered Bayaz absently. “Who does he have with him?”

Logen peered at the three figures in the courtyard. “Scale,” he said with a scowl. “And a woman. I don’t recognise her. They’re dismounting.” Logen licked his dry lips. “They’re coming in.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured Bayaz, “that is how one gets to a meeting. Try to calm yourself, my friend. Breathe.”

Logen leaned back against the whitewashed plaster, arms folded, and took a deep breath. It didn’t help. The hard knot of worry in his chest only pressed harder. He could hear heavy footsteps in the corridor outside. The doorknob turned.

Scale was the first into the room. Bethod’s eldest son had always been burly, even as a boy, but since Logen last saw him he’d grown monstrous. His rock of a head seemed almost an afterthought on top of all that brawn, his skull a good deal narrower than his neck. He had a great block of jaw, a flat stub of a nose, and furious, bulging, arrogant little eyes. His thin mouth was twisted in a constant sneer, much like his younger brother Calder’s, but there was less guile here and a lot more violence. He had a heavy broadsword on his hip, and his meaty hand was never far from it as he glowered at Logen, oozing malice from every pore.

The woman came next. She was very tall, slender and pale, almost ill-looking. Her slanting eyes were as narrow and cold as Scale’s were bulging and wrathful, and were surrounded with a quantity of dark paint, which made them look narrower and colder still. There were golden rings on her long fingers, golden bracelets on her thin arms, golden chains around her white neck. She swept the room with her frosty blue eyes, each thing she noticed seeming to lift her to new heights of disgust and contempt. First the furniture, then the books, particularly Logen, and Bayaz most of all.

The self-styled King of the Northmen came last, and more magnificent than ever, robed in rich, coloured cloth and rare white furs. He wore a heavy golden chain across his shoulders, a golden circlet round his head, set with a single diamond, big as a bird’s egg. His smiling face was more deeply lined than Logen remembered, his hair and beard touched with grey, but he was no less tall, no less vigorous, no less handsome, and he’d gained much of authority and wisdom—of majesty even. He looked every inch a great man, a wise man, a just man. He looked every inch a King. But Logen knew better.

“Bethod!” said Bayaz, warmly, snapping his book shut. “My old friend! You can hardly imagine what a joy it is to see you again.” He swung his feet off the table, and gestured at the golden chain, the flashing diamond. “And to see you so hugely advanced in the world! I remember the time was you were happy to visit me alone. But I suppose great men must be attended on, and I see you have brought some… other people. Your charming son I know, of course. I see that you’ve been eating well at least, eh, Scale?”

“Prince Scale,” rumbled Bethod’s monstrous son, his eyes popping out even more.

“Hmm,” said Bayaz, with an eyebrow raised. “I have not had the pleasure of meeting your other companion before.”

“I am Caurib.” Logen blinked. The woman’s voice was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Calming, soothing, intoxicating. “I am a sorceress,” she sang, tossing her head with a scornful smile. “A sorceress, from the utmost north.” Logen stood frozen, his mouth half open. His hatred seeped away. They were all friends here. More than friends. He couldn’t take his eyes from her, didn’t want to. The others in the room had faded. It was as if she was speaking only to him, and the fondest wish of his heart was that she should never stop—