Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie Page A

apprentice paused and held his palms out to the meagre flames. “I haven’t eaten for two days.” He shook his head, hair flapping back and forth. “It has been… a difficult time.” He licked his lips and looked at the pot.
    Logen passed him the spoon. Malacus Quai stared at it with big round eyes. “Have you eaten?”
    Logen nodded. He hadn’t, but the wretched apprentice looked famished and there was barely enough for one. He took another swig from the flask. That would do for him, for now. Quai attacked the stew with relish. When it was done he scraped the pot out, licked the spoon, then licked the edge of the pot for good measure. He sat back against a big rock. “I am forever in your debt, Logen Ninefingers, you’ve saved my life. I hardly dared hope you’d be so gracious a host.”
    “You’re not quite what I expected either, being honest.” Logen pulled at the flask again, and licked his lips. “Who is this Bayaz?”
    “The First of the Magi, great in High Art and learned in deep wisdom. I fear he will be most seriously displeased with me.”
    “He’s to be feared, then?”
    “Well,” replied the apprentice weakly, “he does have a bit of a temper.”
    Logen took another swallow. The warmth was spreading through his body now, the first time he had felt warm in weeks. There was a pause. “What does he want from me, Quai?”
    There was no reply. The soft sound of snoring came from across the fire. Logen smiled and, wrapping himself in his coat, lay down to sleep as well.

    The apprentice woke with a sudden fit of coughing. It was early morning and the dingy world was thick with mist. It was probably better that way. There was nothing to see but miles of mud, rock, and miserable brown gorse. Everything was coated in cold dew, but Logen had managed to get a sad tongue of fire going. Quai’s hair was plastered to his pallid face. He rolled onto his side and coughed phlegm onto the ground.
    “Aaargh,” he croaked. He coughed and spat again.
    Logen secured the last of his meagre gear on the unhappy horse. “Morning,” he said, looking up at the white sky, “though not a good one.”
    “I will die. I will die, and then I will not have to move.”
    “We’ve got no food, so if we stay here you will die. Then I can eat you and go back over the mountains.”
    The apprentice smiled weakly. “What do we do?”
    What indeed? “Where do we find this Bayaz?”
    “At the Great Northern Library.”
    Logen had never heard of it, but then he’d never been that interested in books. “Which is where?”
    “It’s south of here, about four days’ ride, beside a great lake.”
    “Do you know the way?”
    The apprentice tottered to his feet and stood, swaying slightly, breathing fast and shallow. He was ghostly pale and his face had a sheen of sweat. “I think so,” he muttered, but he hardly looked certain.
    Neither Quai nor his horse would make four days without food, even providing they didn’t get lost. Food had to be the first thing. To follow the road through the woods to the south was the best option, despite the greater risk. They might get killed by bandits, but the forage would be better, and the hunger would likely kill them otherwise.
    “You’d better ride,” said Logen.
    “I lost the horses, I should be the one to walk.”
    Logen put his hand on Quai’s forehead. It was hot and clammy. “You’ve a fever. You’d better ride.”
    The apprentice didn’t try to argue. He looked down at Logen’s ragged boots. “Can you take my boots?”
    Logen shook his head. “Too small.” He knelt down over the smouldering remains of the fire and pursed his lips.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Fires have spirits. I will keep this one under my tongue, and we can use it to light another fire later.” Quai looked too ill to be surprised. Logen sucked up the spirit, coughed on the smoke, shuddered at the bitter taste. “You ready to leave?”
    The apprentice raised his arms in a hopeless gesture.