The Blade Itself

Bayaz lifted his pipe to his mouth. There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Bethod’s eyes narrowed. Caurib’s widened. Scale’s heavy brow crinkled with confusion. Logen’s smile slowly returned.

“A liar?” hissed the sorceress. “And more besides, say I!” Her voice still had the singing note about it, but it was a different song now—hard, shrill, murderous sharp. “You old worm! Hiding here behind your walls, and your servants, and your books! Your time is long past, fool! You are nothing but words and dust!” The First of the Magi calmly pursed his lips and blew out smoke. “Words and dust, old worm! Well, we shall see. We will come to your library!” The wizard set his pipe carefully down on the table, a little smoke still curling up out of the bowl. “We will come back to your library, and put your walls to the hammer, your servants to the sword, and your books to the fire! To the—”

“Silence.” Bayaz was frowning now, deeper even than he had at Calder, days before in the yard outside. Again Logen felt the desire to step away, but stronger by far. He found himself glancing around the room for a place to hide. Caurib’s lips still moved, but only a meaningless croak came out.

“Break my walls, would you?” murmured Bayaz. His grey brows drew inwards, deep, hard grooves cutting into the bridge of his nose.

“Kill my servants, will you?” asked Bayaz. The room had turned very chill, despite the logs on the fire.

“Burn my books, say you?” thundered Bayaz. “You say too much, witch!” Caurib’s knees buckled. Her white hand clawed at the door-frame, chains and bangles jingling together as she slumped against the wall.

“Words and dust, am I?” Bayaz thrust up four fingers. “Four gifts you had of me, Bethod—the sun in winter, a storm in summer, and two things you could never have known, but for my Art. What have you given me in return, eh? This lake and this valley, which were mine already, and but one other thing.” Bethod’s eyes flicked across to Logen, then back. “You owe me still, yet you send messengers to me, you make demands, you presume to command me? That is not my idea of manners.”

Scale had caught up now, and his eyes were near popping out of his head. “Manners? What does a King need with manners? A King takes what he wants!” And he took a heavy step towards the table.

Now Scale was big enough and cruel enough, to be sure. Most likely you could never find a better man for kicking someone once he was down. But Logen wasn’t down, not yet, and he was good and sick of listening to this bloated fool. He stepped forward to block Scale’s path, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Far enough.”

The Prince looked Logen over with his bulging eyes, held up his meaty fist, squeezing his great fingers so the knuckles turned white. “Don’t tempt me Ninefingers, you broken cur! Your day’s long past! I could crush you like an egg!”

“You can try it, but I’ve no mind to let you. You know my work. One step more and I’ll set to work on you, you fucking swollen pig.”

“Scale!” snapped Bethod. “There is nothing for us here, that much is plain. We are leaving.” The hulking prince locked his great lump of a jaw, his huge hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, glowering at Logen with the most bestial hatred imaginable. Then he sneered, and slowly backed away.

Bayaz leaned forward. “You said you would bring peace to the North, Bethod, and what have you done? You have piled war on war! The land is bled white with your pride and your brutality! King of the Northmen? Hah! You’re not worth the helping! And to think, I had such high hopes for you!”

Bethod only frowned, his eyes as cold as the diamond on his forehead. “You have made an enemy of me, Bayaz, and I am a bad enemy to have. The very worst. You will yet regret this day’s work.” He turned his scorn on Logen. “As for you, Ninefingers, you will have no more mercy from me! Every man in the North will be your enemy now! You will be hated, and hunted, and cursed, wherever you go! I will see to it!”

Logen shrugged. There was nothing new there. Bayaz stood up from his chair. “You’ve said your piece, now take your witch and get you gone!”

Caurib stumbled from the room first, still gasping for air. Scale gave Logen one last scowl, then he turned and lumbered away. The so-called King of the Northmen was the last to leave, nodding slowly and sweeping the room with a deadly glare. As their footsteps faded down the corridor Logen took a deep breath, steadied himself, and let his hand drop from the hilt of the sword.

“So,” said Bayaz brightly, “that went well.”

A Road Between Two Dentists