Sharp Ends: Stories from the World of The First Law Read Online Free PDF

muttered Carcolf, and she twisted her hand free, and when she looked up the act was on again. ‘Well. If you change your mind … it’ll be too late.’ And with a smile over her shoulder deadly as a knife blade, Carcolf walked out. God, that walk she had. Flowing like syrup on a warm day. How did she get it? Did she practise in front of a mirror? Hours every day, more than likely.
    The door shut, and the spell was broken, and Shev let go that weary sigh again.
    ‘Was that Carcolf?’ asked Severard.
    ‘It was,’ murmured Shev, all wistful, a trace of that heavenly scent still battling the mould in her nostrils.
    ‘I don’t trust that bitch.’
    Shev snorted. ‘Fuck no.’
    ‘How do you know her?’
    ‘From around.’ From all around Shev’s bed and never quite in it.
    ‘The two o’ you seem close,’ said Severard.
    ‘Not half as close as I’d like to be,’ she muttered. ‘You clean the pipes?’
    ‘Aye.’
    Shev heard the door again, turned with a smile stuck halfway between carpet-seller and needy lover. Maybe it was Carcolf come back, decided she wanted Shev just for Shev—
    ‘Oh, God,’ she muttered, face falling. Usually took her at least a little longer than that to regret a decision.
    ‘Morning, Shevedieh,’ said Crandall. He was trouble of an altogether less pleasant variety. A rat-faced little nothing, thin at the shoulders and slender in the wits, pink at the eyes and runny at the nose, but he was Horald the Finger’s son, and that made him a whole lot of something in this town. A rat-faced little nothing with power he hadn’t earned, which made him tetchy brutal, and prickly spiteful, and jealous of anything anyone had that he didn’t. And everyone had something he didn’t, even if it was just talent, or looks, or a shred of self-respect.
    Shev hitched that professional smile back up though it was hard to think of anyone she wanted less in her place. ‘Morning, Crandall. Morning, Mason.’
    Mason ducked in just behind his boss. Or his boss’s son, anyway. He was one of Horald’s boys from way back, broad face criss-crossed with scars, ears all cauliflowered up and a nose so often broken it was shapeless as a turnip. He was as hard a bastard as you’d find anywhere in Westport, where hard bastards were in plentiful supply. He looked over at Shev, still stooping on account of his towering frame and the low ceiling, and gave an apologetic twitch of the mouth. As if to say, Sorry, but none of this is up to me. It’s up to this fool.
    The fool in question was peering at Shev’s Prayer Bells, and without bending down, mouth all twisted with contempt. ‘What’s these? Bells?’
    ‘Prayer Bells,’ said Shev. ‘From Thond.’ She tried to keep her voice calm as three more men crowded past Mason into her place, trying to look dangerous but finding the room too tight for anything but uncomfortable. One had a face all pocked from old boils and eyes bulging right out, another had a leather coat far too big for him, got tangled with a curtain and near tore it down thrashing it away, and the last had his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a look that said he had knives in there. No doubt he did.
    Shev doubted she’d ever had so many folk in her place at once. Sadly, they weren’t paying. She glanced at Severard, saw him shifting nervously, licking his lips, held out her palm to say, Calm, calm , though she had to admit she wasn’t feeling too calm herself.
    ‘Didn’t think you’d be much for prayer,’ said Crandall, wrinkling his nose at the bells.
    ‘I’m not,’ said Shev. ‘I just like the bells. They lend the place a spiritual quality. You want a smoke?’
    ‘No, and if I did I wouldn’t come to a shit-hole like this.’
    There was a silence, then the pock-faced one leaned towards her. ‘He said it’s a shit-hole!’
    ‘I heard him,’ said Shev. ‘Sound carries in a room small as this one. And I’m well aware it’s a shit-hole. I’ve got plans to improve