recommend him but his winning sense of humour. “You don’t look…
entirely happy,” he said.
She plucked the egg from his fingers and started tapping it against the edge of the table, gently breaking the shell. “Lots to think about.”
“Regrets, eh?”
She looked up sharply. Looking into the gaping pupil of that Long Eye still scared him and excited him at once. As though she might see some secret truth in him that he had never guessed at. “Why d’you say that?”
“I’ve a few of my own. I recognise a fellow sufferer. It can’t be easy. To know what’s coming.”
“No.” She started to pick away the broken shell with her fingernails. “I’ve often argued with Isern over whether it’s a blessing or a curse. I swing back and forth.”
“Don’t we all? Just flags, tugged wherever the breeze pleases.”
“Even when it does open, the Long Eye never gives you all the answers. It’s mist and whispers. You have to find your own way to the truth.” She looked up at him again, and again he felt that excitement. And that fear. “You want the painful truth? A secret I haven’t dared tell anyone?”
“Well… as long as it doesn’t hurt too much.”
She leaned towards him, dropping her voice. “The truth is… I used to see things. Before my father died. Before I stole the North. Before I killed Stour and Calder. Before I was Black Rikke and I was… a girl you gave an egg to.” She waved a hand at her tattooed face. “But since the runes were written, nothing.” She bit into the egg and sat back, speaking around a mouthful. “Reckon my Long Eye’s closed for good.”
“So… you pretend?”
“I do what my father tried to. Give his people at least a bit of what they want. Folk like the notion of someone who knows what’s coming. That way they don’t have to worry about it.”
Orso puffed out his cheeks. “I’d never know you had doubts. You seem so sure of yourself.” He gave a snort of laughter. Perhaps he had a type, after all. “You remind me of Savine, in a way.”
She did not take it altogether as a compliment. “I’ve changed, that’s true. I’ve had to grow… harder.”
“As an expert in disappointing their parents… I’m sure your father would be very proud.”
He had meant that to be kind, but she winced as if the words hurt. “I wish I thought so. I had a vision. Just a year or two past, though it feels an age ago. It’s all come true, one way or another.” She looked out of the windows, their bright squares reflected in her eye. “I saw a wolf eat the sun.”
Orso pondered that. “Well, I’m no magus, learned in the interpretation of visions… but I’d say that was Stour Nightfall making war on the Union.”
“I saw a lion eat the wolf.”
He sat back, rather enjoying the game. “The Young Lion, beating the Great Wolf in the Circle.”
“I saw a lamb eat the lion.”
Orso could not help but grin. “That was me, giving Brock a richly deserved kick up the arse at Stoffenbeck.”
“I saw an owl eat the lamb.”
Orso’s grin faded. “Who’s the owl?”
“No idea.” Now she looked at him, and with the strangest, saddest expression. “Till now.”
He was starting to feel worried. “What is it?”
“I’m the owl,” she said.
The doors of the dining room swung open. Caul Shivers was the first in, metal eye glinting. Next came those two Anglanders Orso had often seen on the front benches of the Court of the People, the big one and the lean one, Glaward and Jurand. The final guest was announced before his appearance by the squeaking of the bearings in his artificial leg, accompanied by that familiar sinking sensation of dashed hopes.
“Leo dan Brock.” Orso forked up another piece of sausage but it seemed to have lost all its taste. “Do you never tire of killing my mood?”
Brock looked even more gaunt, pale and furious than the last time Orso saw him, the day the Lords Round burned and he stabbed Lord Marshal Forest in the chest. All those high qualities everyone had once so envied—the honesty, the bravery, the blunt good nature—seemed to have been crushed out of him like the pulp out of a lemon, leaving just the bitter seeds of pride, anger and an insatiable need to conquer. That and a truly unforgivable lack of any sense of humour.
“You’ve led me quite a dance the last couple of weeks,” he growled, as if Orso’s desperate attempts to stay alive were a personal affront.
“Hardly my fault that you have such poor footwork,” said Orso.
Leaning back against the doorway, Isern-i-Phail managed a titter. Perhaps unsurprisingly, no one else was in the mood. Orso glanced about the room, wondering if it would have been the done thing to try to make a break for it, but he very much doubted he could fight off Caul Shivers with a fork.
Rikke spoke slowly, softly. As if she was trying to convince herself. “The North has been through the fire, Orso. I put it through the fire. If it was just about me…” She grimaced, then snapped the words angrily. “But I’ve all those people to think about now! They need peace.”
“And I’m the price, I suppose.” Orso glanced from Glaward, to Brock, to Jurand, to Isern, to Shivers, and back to Rikke. “You promised to fight with him against me. Then you broke your word. I’m what it costs you to get back in his good graces. If he even has any, these days.”
“Constant pain can wear down your patience,” said Brock.
“In Adua, we like to think of anything beyond the Circle Sea as primitive.” Orso gave a sigh and placed his knife and fork neatly together with a final sounding clink. He was finished. And not just with breakfast. “But it turns out you Northmen can teach us a thing or two about treachery.”
Isern might have given the tiniest careless shrug. Shivers did not move even that much. Rikke had, at least, the good grace to wince. “A leader needs to be hard,” she said, frowning down at the table, “so others needn’t be. She must make of her heart a stone.”
“Or get rid of it altogether,” said Brock.
“Finally we agree.” Isern-i-Phail scratched at the hollow above her collarbone and winked. “Ruthlessness is a quality much loved o’ the moon.”
Orso was tempted to scream and rage, but it would have ruined an otherwise charming morning. He had acted for so many years, in the full and glaring view of the public, with an utter lack of dignity. Now, in private, he insisted on keeping hold of every shred.
He slid his chair back, stood and gave Rikke his best formal bow. “Please allow me to say that I do not blame you for this in the least. Terrible manners to just drop in. Entirely my own fault. I’m actually…” He gave a disbelieving grin as he realised it was true. “I’m actually rather glad we had this time together.”
Rikke winced again, even harder, as Glaward walked over with a set of heavy manacles. “Believe it or not, so am I.”
“An unlikely romance, this,” sneered Brock, pale lip curled with evident disgust. Or was it jealousy?
Rikke’s glance towards him was satisfyingly furious. “We’re even,” she forced through gritted teeth.
Brock’s nostrils flared. The Young Lion might have had fewer limbs than in his glory days, but he yet possessed a full set of heroic nostrils. “Take him somewhere he won’t bloody escape from,” he snapped at Jurand. “And the Lady Regent won’t find out about. Not until it’s time.” He looked back to Rikke. “We’re even. But we’ll be keeping our swords well sharpened, just in case.”
“The Master Maker forged mine,” said Caul Shivers, in that broken whisper of his. “It never gets blunt.” He made no effort to be threatening. The one advantage of a giant scar and a metal eye, perhaps, is that being threatening takes no effort whatsoever.
“Huh.” And Brock’s mechanical leg squeaked faintly as he limped for the door.
The bracelets snapped shut around Orso’s wrists. One could almost hear the discomfort in Glaward’s voice. “Hope that’s not too tight, Your…”
“No, n
o,” said Orso. “Most comfortable fetters I’ve worn, and I’ve tried on quite a few lately.” He took one last look at Rikke, sitting there in the sunlight, at the head of the table. He would have liked more time with
her. But he supposed it had never been very realistic. “Peace between the North and the Union.” He gave a little chuckle. “Honestly, it’s a far better legacy than anyone expected from me.” And he strolled jauntily out into the hall.
Well, as jauntily as you can in chains.
Which isn’t very.
Answers
Vick threw the door shut and it banged from the frame, wobbled back open a crack. She didn’t even bother to close it.
Never stay in a place you can’t walk straight out of without a backward glance.
She strode down the hall to the dining room, yanked open the narrow cupboard, ripped out the false bottom and pulled up the bag, slung it over her shoulder. She stopped beside the table, looking at the few books stacked on the windowsill.
Never own a thing you can’t leave behind.
She dropped the bag, knocking over a couple of pieces from the squares board, grabbed that old copy of The Life of Dab Sweet and tossed it inside.
Never make a friend you can’t turn your back on. A life that leaves no marks.
She paused a moment, teeth gritted.
“Fuck,” she hissed.
Tallow peered around the door, looking shocked to see her. Probably he didn’t get many visitors. Certainly not at night. And since the Great Change, who enjoyed a knock at the door they weren’t expecting?
“They caught Orso,” she said, pushing past him.
“What?”
“He was hiding in the Gloktas’ old house, of all places, with bloody Black Rikke.” She went to the lamp and blew it out, sinking the room into darkness. “She gave him up.”
Tallow looked sadly into a corner. “Guess you can’t trust anyone.”
“The Lord Regent has him…” She sidled to the window and peered down into the darkened streets. “Somewhere in the city.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“It won’t be long until they find out I helped him escape.”
Tallow stared. “You helped him… what? I thought we were supposed to stand with the winners—”
“I’m in danger, Tallow, and that means all my friends are in danger. Luckily, I don’t have any friends.”
“I’m probably the closest thing.”
“Exactly.” She flicked the shabby curtains closed. “Which is why you have to come with me.”
“I what? Where?”
“Still working out the details. The main thing is, not here. Believe me, I’m less than delighted about it myself.”
“What about my sister?”
Vick winced. The question she’d always known was coming.
“I can’t leave her,” he said, voice getting higher and higher, more and more panicked. “I mean, she won’t get by on her own, I can’t go without her, I—”
“Fine!” snapped Vick. “We’ll get her next. But we travel light, you understand?”
“Be gentle,” muttered Tallow, stepping up to the door. “She scares easily.”
He knocked. Three slow, steady knocks. “It’s me,” he hissed at the lock.
Nothing. He knocked again. Three slow, steady knocks. “It’s me!”
“Let’s go,” hissed Vick. This broke all her rules, and she had a bad feeling. She’d had a bad feeling for years.
Tallow slipped out a key, unlocked the door with a trembling hand, turned the knob and pushed it creaking open. There was a musty-smelling little hall beyond, paper peeling from the mould-speckled plaster.
“Inquisitor Teufel’s with me,” he said softly, like he was trying to coax a skittish cat down from a windowsill. He stepped into a room where dim light flickered, and Vick followed. “You remember Inquisitor Teufel, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said Pike.
He was standing in the centre of the floor with his hands clasped behind him. As if he’d been expecting her for hours.
Vick hadn’t often been taken by total surprise. But this was the second time he’d managed it. She spun around, but there were Practicals in the hallway. Four of them, black-dressed and black-masked. The way they used to be, before the Great Change.
“I get the feeling you might have been expecting someone else,” said Pike. “I can only apologise for that. Please don’t blame Master Tallow. He was only doing his job. Extremely well, I might add.”
Vick stared at Tallow. Somehow, he didn’t look so much like her brother any more. His eyes weren’t sad, they were hard and careful. The way she might’ve looked at a prisoner before she started asking questions.
“Sorry,” he said. But he didn’t look sorry at all.
Pike watched, his burned face, as usual, showing no emotion. She wondered, as usual, whether behind the ruined nerves, the ruined muscles, the ruined skin, he was bursting with feeling, or if he really was a void inside. “The Weaver would like a word,” he said.
Vick swallowed. “Aren’t you the Weaver?”
The corner of Pike’s mouth quivered. “A title I borrowed from a better man.” He gave a nod.
She was seized from behind and a bag was forced over her head.
She didn’t know where they were taking her. She didn’t know who was behind this. She hardly knew what the sides were any more, let alone which one she was supposed to be on. She didn’t even know what betrayal, what deception, what secret she was paying for. Probably she’d never know. Body found floating by the docks. An unsatisfactory ending to her bitter little story.
Occasionally one of the Practicals would murmur, “Steps up here,” or, “Mind your shoulder,” in a polite, disinterested tone, often with a steering tug or a gentle nudge. But never rough. No violence whatsoever.
That, no doubt, would come later.
It took a while to get wherever they were going. Lots of time to think. To feel her stiff hip aching. To listen to her quick breath echoing. To mull over all the deceptions, all the betrayals. The ones she’d done and the ones done to her. By the time they stopped, she’d steeled herself. By the time they pulled off the bag, she was ready for anything. Except the one thing she got.
Her own front door.
One of the Practicals carefully flattened the bag, folded it with fussy precision, then slipped it into a pocket while the other untied her hands.
They stood there, in front of her little apartment. Fitting, in a way. All that pain and worry just to get back to where she’d started. They didn’t force her in. But they weren’t giving her any other choices.
One pointed out the door like an usher showing a valued client to her seat in the theatre. “Just inside, Inquisitor, if you’d be so kind?”
She could’ve fought, she supposed, but she’d have lost. She could’ve run, but they’d have caught her. She could’ve screamed for help, but no help would come. And anyway, now the moment had arrived, she wanted answers. It might be she’d only get more questions. It might be she’d get a final, crushing blow to the back of the skull, and darkness. But she wanted answers.
She pushed the door open with a fingertip. Her face was sweaty from the inside of the bag, the air cool on her skin. A lamp was lit in the dining room. An accusing finger of light stretched out across the boards towards her. She followed it down the hall, her knees a little weak, her mouth a little dry, her heart beating hard.
Vick’s guest sat at the dining table in the light of a single lamp, brightness splashed across the sharp bones of his face, darkness gathered in the deep lines. The squares board was set before him, the pieces Vick had knocked over returned to their places, casting long shadows across the chequered wood.
“Inquisitor Teufel. I have been waiting for you.”
Now it all made sense. And like every illusion, once Vick knew how it worked, she couldn’t understand how she hadn’t seen it right away.
“You’re the Weaver,�
� she said.
Sand dan Glokta bared his ruined teeth as he sat back in his wheeled chair and considered her calmly. “Yes.”
“Not Pike. Not Risinau. You.”
“Me.”
“You made the Breakers.”
“Made? No, no.” Glokta let one thin finger trail across the pieces on the squares board, as though considering his next move. “Society is a competition, and one cannot have winners without creating losers. People who lose once tend to lose more, and people who lose too often become discontented. I merely… gathered them into a group. Gave them a name. Pointed them in the right direction.”
“You… were the architect of the Great Change?”
“Architect sounds so grand. There was dry straw everywhere, I simply struck the match.”
She thought of the bank in flames in Valbeck, the ash fluttering down. She thought of the fires leaving their black scars through Adua. She thought of the Court of the People, burning up like a great torch to leave a blasted shell. “Why?”
“Ah, why do I do this? Why?” Glokta gazed down at the squares board. “Because sometimes… to change the world… we must burn it down. Bayaz controlled everything. We all were pieces in his game.” He nudged one of the smallest pieces forwards into empty space. “He owned the banks, and the banks owned the merchants, owned the nobles, owned the treasury, even. The king himself danced to Bayaz’s music. The Closed Council, too. Even me, though I’m not much of a dancer these days. The Great Change was the only way I could see to cut all the puppet strings at once. The only way I could see to make us…” Glokta shrugged his bony shoulders, wincing as though even that much movement gave him pain. “Free.”
“Free?” Vick stared at him. “Is that what we are now?”
“Within reason. People love the idea of freedom but, in my experience, there is only so much they can be trusted with. You saw what Judge did with it. Take it far enough, freedom becomes chaos. The voice of the people… is just noise. It is the blather of the lunatics in the madhouse. It is the squeal of the pigs in the slaughterhouse. It is a choir of morons. Most of them don’t even know what they want, let alone how to get it. They need someone to tell them what to do.”
The Wisdom of Crowds Page 56