The Blade Itself

Cultural diversity is a noble goal in an enlightened society, but diversity in Abercrombie’s world only breeds mistrust, fear, and hatred. That hatred is exacerbated by a world constantly on the verge of war. Nationalism—which can be an asset when presenting a united front against a common enemy—requires just that: an enemy. And when the Northern-born Bethod rattles his metaphorical saber at the Union, it becomes the perfect opportunity for the Union to cast all Northerners in a disparaging light. They are vilified as dirty and uncivilized simply because they don’t live in tightly-packed tenement houses and wear the latest fashion. Jezal in particular looks down upon any Northerners who cross his path. In his eyes, Logen is “the moron Northman with his fumbling, thick-tongued small-talk” (487). For Jezal, this biased assumption is rooted in years of social conditioning made worse by his higher status within the social caste system. Logen in particular, with his hulking physique and battered, scarred face, receives scorn from every quarter while walking the streets of Adua.

Cultural prejudice is not limited to the “civilized” Union. For his part, Logen sees the excesses of Aduan society as frivolous and wasteful. He also finds living indoors to be ridiculously confining and believes the Contest to be a silly game for dilletantes who do not understand real battle. Ferro, a Southerner, initially refuses to accompany Yulwei to the “Godless” North. She has formed a host of preconceived notions about the Union and its citizens without the slightest firsthand knowledge. Ironically, Ferro’s primary oppressor, the Gurkish Emperor, rules over her land, but she finds it more convenient to hate the devil she doesn’t know rather know than the devil she does.

Whether this xenophobia is hard-wired or learned, the characters in Abercrombie’s narrative lack the technology to experience other cultures firsthand. Instead, the fear and distrust of the cultural other is likely generated by word of mouth and government propaganda. It behooves Chancellor Hoff and his bureaucrats, for example, to cast Northerners in an evil light as the Union stands on the verge of war with Bethod. And although Threetrees and his Named Men are not fans of the Union, they still agree to fight on its side against the tyrannical Bethod. In the end, these cultural prejudices provide easy cover for those who don’t want to take the time or energy to understand their neighbors, to see that the “barbarian” Logen is just a man trying to survive and live out his days in peace.

Magic, which has always been a familiar trope in the fantasy genre, is often taken for granted as a part of the natural world within stories such as Abercrombie’s. Wizards wielding staffs and commanding the elements of nature to do their bidding are so common in fantasy narratives that any novel without some display of the supernatural would feel lacking. The Blade Itself certainly has its share of magic—Bayaz incinerating enemy troops, Yulwei hiding Ferro in plain sight—but against that archetypal trope, Abercrombie casts a backlash of skepticism rooted in science. Adua’s University—a decrepit building staffed by aging Adepts—houses the Union’s entire store of knowledge. Its professors conduct research into chemistry, biology, metallurgy, and mechanics. When Glokta inquires about magic, the headmaster replies, “A joke of course” (338), for as a scientific institution, the University cannot acknowledge the existence of magic. In the scientific worldview, nature must be contained, controlled, and categorized, and all experiments must be replicable. To admit otherwise would be to cast doubt on its entire ethos of scientific inquiry. By contrast, magic is wild and uncontrollable; it stands beyond the purview of academia and is therefore a taboo subject. Glokta, who is not a supporter of the University or its Adepts, still remains a skeptic when it comes to magic. He tries to explain the destruction of Logen and Bayaz’s quarters, but no “scientific” theory proves plausible. He is rooted in the civilized world of Adua, a world with paved streets, indoor plumbing, and architectural marvels. His entire world has been built by human technology; he knows nothing else. Magic represents the whimsy of old, forgotten myths, at least until Bayaz appears in person. However, even with displays of magic staring him in the face, Glokta chooses to pass it off as a sleight of hand.

Implicit in this conflict is the struggle between modernity and traditional folklore. Bayaz lives in a compound surrounded by the wilds of the North. Although he relishes his modern conveniences, his power comes not from empirical research but from touching the “Other Side,” a different plane of energy and existence that has dire consequences if contacted too frequently. Indeed, Bayaz shows signs of strain each time he uses his magic, suggesting that although the magic is within his reach, using it does not come without a price. The price, however, is borne by Bayaz alone, while the price of technology is borne by society in the form of pollution, toxicity, and the distance it places between humans and nature. Indeed, for all their shiny steel and plated armor, the technologically equipped soldiers are no match for Bayaz and his “nonsensical” magic.