Severard shrugged. 'Same result, isn't it?' Morrow slid to his knees, eye-glasses skewed across his face, one hand clutching at his cut neck while blood bubbled out into his shirt collar.
Glokta watched the clerk tip onto his back, one leg kicking at the floor, his scraping heel leaving long streaks in the stinking muck. Alas for the pigs on the farm. They will never now see young master Morrow coming back over the hill, returned from his brave life in the glittering city, his breath smoking in the cold, cold morning…
The secretary's convulsions grew gentler, and gentler, and he lay still. Glokta clung to the rail for a moment, watching the corpse. When was it exactly that I became… this? By small degrees, I suppose. One act presses hard upon another, on a path we have no choice but to follow, and each time there are reasons. We do what we must, we do what we are told, we do what is easiest. What else can we do but solve one sordid problem at a time? Then one day we look up and find that we are… this.
He looked at the blood gleaming on his boot, wrinkled his nose and wiped it off on Morrow's trouser leg. Ah, well. I would love to spend more time on philosophy, but I have officials to bribe, and noblemen to blackmail, and votes to rig, and secretaries to murder, and lovers to threaten. So many knives to juggle. And as one clatters to the filthy floor, another must go up, blade spinning razor sharp above our heads. It never gets any easier.
'Our magical friends are back in town.'
Severard lifted his mask and scratched behind it. 'The Magi?'
'The First of the bastards, no less, and his bold company of heroes. Him, and his slinking apprentice, and that woman. The Navigator too. Keep an eye on them, and see if there's a piglet we can separate from the herd. It's high time we knew what they were about. Do you still have your charming house, by the water?'
'Of course.'
'Good. Perhaps for once we can get ahead of the game, and when his Eminence demands answers we can have them to hand.' And I can finally earn a pat on the head from my master.
'What shall we do with these?' asked Vitari, jerking her spiky head towards the corpses.
Glokta sighed. 'The hogs will eat anything, apparently.'
The city was growing dark as Glokta dragged his ruined leg through the emptying streets and up towards the Agriont. The shopkeepers were closing their doors, the householders were lighting their lamps, candlelight spilling out into the dusky alleyways through chinks around the shutters. Happy families settling down to happy dinners, no doubt. Loving fathers with their lovely wives, their adorable children, their full and meaningful lives. My heartfelt congratulations.
He pressed his remaining teeth into his sore gums with the effort of maintaining his pace, sweat starting to dampen his shirt, his leg burning more and more with every lurching step. But I'm not stopping for this useless lump of dead meat. The pain crept up from ankle to knee, from knee to hip, from hip all the way up his twisted spine and into his skull. All this effort just to kill a mid-level administrator, who worked no more than a few buildings away from the House of Questions in any case. It's a damn waste of my time, is what it is, it's a damn—
'Superior Glokta?'
A man had stepped up, respectfully, his face in shadow. Glokta squinted at him. 'Do I—'
It was well done, there was no denying it. He was not even aware of the other man until the bag was over his head and one of his arms was twisted behind his back, pushing him helplessly forward. He stumbled, fumbled his cane and heard it clatter to the cobbles.
'Aargh!' A searing spasm shot through his back as he tried unsuccessfully to drag his arm free, and he was forced to hang limp, gasping with pain inside the bag. In a moment they had his wrists tied and he felt a powerful hand shoved under each of his armpits. He was marched away with great speed, one man on each side, his feet barely scraping on the cobbles as they went. The fastest I've walked in a good long while, anyway. Their grip was not rough, but it was irresistible. Professionals. An altogether better class of thug than Morrow stretched to. Whoever ordered this is no fool. So who did order it?
Sult himself, or one of Sult's enemies? One of his rivals in the race for the throne? High Justice Marovia? Lord Brock? Anyone on the entire Open Council? Or could it be the Gurkish? They have never been my closest friends. The banking house of Valint and Balk, perhaps, chosen finally to call in their debt? Might I have seriously misjudged young Captain Luthar, even? Or could it simply be Superior Goyle, no longer keen to share his job with the cripple? It was quite the list, now that he was forced to consider it.
He heard the footfalls slapping around him. Narrow alleys. He had no idea how far they had come. His breath echoed in the bag, rasping, throaty. The heart thumps, the skin prickles with cold sweat. Excited. Scared, even. What might they want with me? People are not snatched from the street in order to be given promotions, or confections, or tender kisses, more's the pity. I know why people are snatched from the street. Few better.
Down a set of steps, the toes of his boots scuffing helplessly against the treads. The sound of a heavy door being heaved shut. Footsteps echoing in a tiled corridor. Another door closing. He felt himself dumped unceremoniously in a chair. And now, no doubt, for better or worse, we shall find out…
The bag was snatched suddenly from his head and Glokta blinked as harsh light stabbed at his eyes. A white room, too bright for comfort. A type of room with which I am sadly familiar. And yet it looks so much uglier from this side of the table. Someone was sitting opposite. Or the blurry outline of a someone. He closed one eye and peered through the other as his vision adjusted.
'Well,' he murmured. 'What a surprise.'
'A pleasant one, I hope.'
'I suppose we'll see.' Carlot dan Eider had changed. And it would seem that exile has not entirely disagreed with her. Her hair had grown back, not all the way, perhaps, but more than far enough to manage a fetching style. The bruises round her throat had faded, there were only the very faintest of marks where her cheek had been covered in scabs. She had swapped traitor's sack-cloth for the travelling clothes of a lady of means, and looked extremely well in them. Jewels twinkled on her fingers, and around her neck. She seemed every bit as rich and sleek as when they first met. That, and she was smiling. The smile of the player who holds all the cards. Why is it that I cannot learn? Never do a good turn. Especially not for a woman.
A small pair of scissors lay on the table before her, within easy reach. Of the type that rich women use to trim their nails. But just as good for trimming the skin from the soles of a man's feet, for trimming his nostrils wider, for trimming his ears off, strip by slow strip…
Glokta found it decidedly difficult to move his eyes away from those polished little blades, shining in the bright lamplight. 'I thought I told you never to come back,' he said, but his voice lacked its customary authority.
'You did. But then I thought… why ever not? I have assets in the city that I was not willing to relinquish, and some business opportunities that I am keen to take advantage of.' She took up the scissors, trimmed the thinnest scrap from the corner of one already perfectly-shaped thumbnail, and frowned at the results. 'And it's hardly as though you'll be telling anyone I'm here, now, is it?'
'My concerns for your safety are all laid to rest,' grunted Glokta. My concerns for my own, alas, grow with every moment. A man is never so crippled, after all, that he could not be more so. 'Did you really need to go to all this trouble just to share your travel arrangements?'
Her smile grew somewhat broader, if anything. 'I hope my men didn't hurt you. I did ask them to be gentle. At least for the time being.'
'A gentle kidnapping is still a kidnapping, though, don't you find?'
'Kidnapping is such an ugly word. Why don't we think of it as an invitation difficult to resist? At least I let you keep your clothes, no?'
'That particular favour is a mercy to us both, believe me. An invitation to what, might I ask, beyond a painful manhandling and a brief conversation?'
'I'm hurt that
you need more. But there was something else, since you mention it.' She pared away another sliver of nail with her scissors, and her eyes rolled up to his. 'A little debt left over, from Dagoska. I fear that I will not sleep easily until it is repaid.'
A few weeks in a black cell and a choking to the point of death? What form of repayment might that earn me? 'Please, then,' hissed Glokta through his gums, his eyelid flickering as he watched those blades snip, snip, snip. 'I can scarcely stand the suspense.'
'The Gurkish are coming.'
He paused for a moment, wrong-footed. 'Coming here?'
'Yes. To Midderland. To Adua. To you. They have built a fleet, in secret. They began building it after the last war, and now it is complete. Ships to rival anything the Union has.' She tossed her scissors down on the table and gave a long sigh. 'Or so I hear.'
The Gurkish fleet, just as my midnight visitor Yulwei told me. Rumours and ghosts, perhaps. But rumours are not always lies. 'When will they arrive?'
'I really couldn't say. The mounting of such an expedition is a colossal work of organisation. But then the Gurkish have always been so very much better organised than us. That's what makes doing business with them such a pleasure.'
My own dealings with them have been less than delightful, but still. 'In what numbers will they come?'
'A very great number, I imagine.'
Glokta snorted. 'Forgive me if I regard the words of a proven traitor with a certain scepticism, especially as you are rather thin on the details.'
'Have it your way. You're here to be warned, not convinced. I owe you that much, I think, for giving me my life.'
How wonderfully old-fashioned of you. 'And that is all?'
She spread her hands. 'Can a lady not trim her nails without giving offence?'
'Could you not simply have written?' snapped Glokta, 'and spared me the chafing on my under-arms?'
'Oh, come now. You never struck me as a man to bridle at a little chafing. Besides, it has given us the chance to renew a thoroughly enjoyable friendship. And you have to allow me my little moment of triumph, after what you put me through.'
I suppose that I can. I've had less charming threats, and at least she has better taste than to meet in a pig sty. 'I can simply walk away, then?'
'Did anyone pick up a cane?' No one spoke. Eider gave a happy smile, showing Glokta her perfect white teeth. 'You can crawl away, then. How does that sound?'
Better than floating to the top of the canal after a few days on the bottom, bloated up like a great pale slug and smelling like all the graves in the city. 'As good as I'll get, I suppose. I do wonder, though. What is to stop me having my Practicals follow the scent of expensive perfume after we are done here and finish what they started?'
'It is so very like you to say such a thing.' She sighed. 'I should inform you that an old and trustworthy business acquaintance of mine has a sealed letter in his possession. In the event of my death, it will be sent to the Arch Lector, laying out to him the exact nature of my sentence in Dagoska.'
Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. Just what I need, another knife to juggle. 'And what will occur if, entirely independently from my actions, you succumb to the rot? Or a house falls on you? Or you choke on a slice of bread?'
She opened her eyes very wide, as though the thought had only just occurred. 'In any of those cases… I suppose… the letter would be sent anyway, despite your innocence.' She gave a helpless laugh. 'The world is nothing like as fair a place as it should be, in my opinion, and I daresay that the natives of Dagoska, the enslaved mercenaries, and the butchered Union soldiers who you made fight for your lost cause would concur.' She smiled as sweetly as if they were discussing gardening. 'Things would probably have been far simpler for you if you'd had me strangled, after all.'
'You read my mind.' But it is far too late now. I did a good thing, and so, of course, there is a price to be paid.
'So tell me, before we part ways again, for what, we can both only hope, will be the last time—are you involved with this business of the vote?'
Glokta felt his eye twitch. 'My duties would seem to touch upon it.' Indeed it occupies my every waking hour.
Carlot dan Eider leaned forward to a conspiratorial distance, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands. 'Who will be the next king of the Union, do you suppose? Will it be Brock? Isher? Will it be someone else?'
'A little early to say. I'm working on it.'
'Off you hobble, then.' She pushed out her bottom lip. 'And it's probably better if you don't mention our meeting to his Eminence.' She nodded, and Glokta felt the bag forced back over his face.
* * *
A Ragged Multitude
« ^ »
Jezal's command post, if you could use the phrase in relation to a man as utterly confused and clueless as he felt, was at the crest of a long rise. It offered a splendid view of the shallow valley below. At least, it would have been a splendid view in happier times. As things stood, it had to be admitted, the spectacle was far from pleasant.
The main body of the rebels entirely covered several large fields further down the valley, and a dark, and grubby, and threatening infestation they seemed, glinting in places with bright steel. Farming implements and tradesman's tools, perhaps, but sharp ones.
Even at this distance there was disturbing evidence of organisation. Straight, regular gaps through the men for the quick movement of messengers and supplies. It was plain, even to Jezal's unpractised eye, that this was as much an army as a mob, and that someone down there knew his business. A great deal better than he did, most likely.
Smaller, less organised groups of rebels were scattered far and wide across the landscape, each one a considerable body in its own right. Men sent foraging for food and water, picking the country clean. That crawling black mass on the green fields reminded Jezal of a horde of black ants crawling over a pile of discarded apple peelings. He had not the slightest idea how many of them there were, but it looked at this distance as though forty thousand might have been a considerable underestimate.
Down in the village in the bottom of the valley, behind the main mass of rebels, fires were burning. Bonfires or buildings it was hard to say, but Jezal rather feared the latter. Three tall columns of dark smoke rose up and drifted apart high above, giving to the air a faint and worrying tang of fire.
It was a commander's place to set a tone of fearlessness which his men would not be able to help but follow. Jezal knew that, of course. And yet, looking down that long, sloping field, he could not help but reflect on the very great number of men at the other end, so ominously purposeful. He could not stop his eyes from darting back towards their own lines, so thin, meagre, and uncertain-seeming. He could not avoid wincing and tugging uncomfortably at his collar. The damn thing still felt far too tight.
'How do you wish the regiments deployed, sir?' asked his adjutant, Major Opker, with a look which somehow managed to be both condescending and sycophantic all at once.
'Deployed? Er… well…' Jezal racked his brains for something vaguely appropriate, let alone correct, to say. He had discovered early in his military career that if one has an effective and experienced officer above, coupled with effective and experienced soldiers below, one need do, and know, nothing. This strategy had stood him in fine stead for several comfortable peacetime years, but its one shortcoming was now starkly laid bare. If by some miracle one rises to complete command, the system collapses entirely.
'Deployed…' he growled, furrowing his brow and trying to give the impression he was surveying the ground, though he had only a hazy idea what that even meant. 'Infantry in double line…' he ventured, remembering a fragment of some story Collem West had once told him. 'Behind this hedgerow here.' And he slashed his baton portentously across the landscape. The use of a baton, at least, he was expert in, having practiced extensively before the mirror.
'In front of the hedgerow, the Colonel means to say, of course,' threw in Bayaz smoothly. 'Infantry deployed in double line to
either side of that milestone. The light cavalry in the trees there, heavy cavalry in a wedge on the far flank, where they can use the open field to their advantage.' He displayed an uncanny familiarity with military parlance. 'Flatbows in a single line behind the hedgerow where they will at first be hidden from the enemy, and can give them plunging fire from the high ground.' He winked at Jezal. 'An excellent strategy, Colonel, if I may say.'
'Of course,' sneered Opker, turning away to give the orders.
Jezal gripped tight to his baton behind his back, rubbing nervously at his jaw with the other hand. Evidently there was a lot more to command than simply being called 'sir' by everyone. He would really have to read some books when he got back to Adua. If he got back.
Three small dots had detached themselves from the crawling mass of humanity down in the valley and started moving up the rise toward them. Shading his eyes with his hand, Jezal could just see a shred of white moving in the air above them. A flag of parley. He felt Bayaz' decidedly uncomforting hand on his shoulder.
'Don't worry, my boy, we are well prepared for violence. But I feel confident it will not come to that.' He grinned down at the vast mass of men below. 'Very confident.'
Jezal ardently wished he could have said the same.
For a famous demagogue, traitor, and inciter of riots, there was nothing in the least remarkable about the man known as the Tanner. He sat calmly in his folding chair at the table in Jezal's tent, an ordinary face under a mop of curly hair, a man of medium size in a coat of unexceptional style and colour, a grin on his face that implied he knew very well that he held the upper hand.
'They call me the Tanner,' he said, 'and I have been nominated to speak for the alliance of the oppressed, and the exploited, and the put-upon down in the valley. These are two of my partners in this righteous and entirely patriotic venture. My two generals, one might say. Goodman Hood,' and he nodded sideways at a burly man with a shovel beard, a ruddy complexion, and a seething frown, 'and Cotter Hoist,' and he jerked his head the other way towards a weaselly type with a long scar on his cheek and a lazy eye.
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