Locus
‘A sympathetic main character, a fast-paced plot, and plenty of neat world-building. Highly recommended’
io9
For Grace
Better gear Than good sense A traveller cannot carry
From Hávamál, the Speech of the High One
Contents
Copyright
Praise
Dedication
Map
I: The Black Chair
The Greater Good
Duty
A Way to Win
Between Gods and Men
Doves
Promises
Man’s Work
The Enemy
II: The South Wind
Cheapest Offerings
One Family
Heave
The Minister’s Tools
The Fool Strikes
Savages
Ugly Little Secrets
Enemies and Allies
One Friend
Death Waits
III: The Long Road
Bending with Circumstance
Freedom
The Better Men
Kindness
The Truth
Running
Downriver
Only a Devil
The Last Stand
Burning the Dead
Floating Twigs
IV: The Rightful King
Crows
Your Enemy’s House
Great Stakes
In Darkness
A Friend’s Fight
Mother War’s Bargain
The Last Door
A Lonely Seat
The Blame
Some are Saved
The Lesser Evil
Half the World Excerpt
In Conversation with Joe Abercrombie
About the Author
About the Publisher
There was a harsh gale blowing on the night Yarvi learned he was a king. Or half a king, at least.
A seeking wind, the Gettlanders called it, for it found out every chink and keyhole, moaning Mother Sea’s dead chill into every dwelling, no matter how high the fires were banked or how close the folk were huddled.
It tore at the shutters in the narrow windows of Mother Gundring’s chambers and rattled even the iron-bound door in its frame. It taunted the flames in the firepit and they spat and crackled in their anger, casting clawing shadows from the dried herbs hanging, throwing flickering light upon the root that Mother Gundring held up in her knobbled fingers.
‘And this?’
It looked like nothing so much as a clod of dirt, but Yarvi had learned better. ‘Black-tongue root.’
‘And why might a minister reach for it, my prince?’
‘A minister hopes they won’t have to. Boiled in water it can’t be seen or tasted, but is a most deadly poison.’
Mother Gundring tossed the root aside. ‘Ministers must sometimes reach for dark things.’
‘Ministers must find the lesser evil,’ said Yarvi.
‘And weigh the greater good. Five right from five.’ Mother Gundring gave a single approving nod and Yarvi flushed with pride. The approval of Gettland’s minister was not easily won. ‘And the riddles on the test will be easier.’
‘The test.’ Yarvi rubbed nervously at the crooked palm of his bad hand with the thumb of his good.
‘You will pass.’
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘It is a minister’s place always to doubt—’
‘But always to seem certain,’ he finished for her.
‘See? I know you.’ That was true. No one knew him better, even in his own family. Especially in his own family. ‘I have never had a sharper pupil. You will pass at the first asking.’
‘And I’ll be Prince Yarvi no more.’ All he felt at that thought was relief. ‘I’ll have no family and no birthright.’
‘You will be Brother Yarvi, and your family will be the Ministry.’ The firelight found the creases about Mother Gundring’s eyes as she smiled. ‘Your birthright will be the plants and the books and the soft word spoken. You will remember and advise, heal and speak truth, know the secret ways and smooth the path for Father Peace in every tongue. As I have tried to do. There is no nobler work, whatever nonsense the muscle-smothered fools spout in the training square.’
‘The muscle-smothered fools are harder to ignore when you’re in the square with them.’
‘Huh.’ She curled her tongue and spat into the fire. ‘Once you pass the test you only need go there to tend a broken head when the play gets too rough. One day you will carry my staff.’ She nodded towards the tapering length of studded and slotted elf-metal which leaned against the wall. ‘One day you will sit beside the Black Chair, and be Father Yarvi.’
‘Father Yarvi.’ He squirmed on his stool at