‘Bloody hell,’ said Shivers. ‘You ever see the like o’ this?’
Dogman’s neck was aching from staring round at it all. ‘They’ve got so much here. Why do they even want bloody Angland? Place is a shit-hole. ’
Logen shrugged. ‘Couldn’t say. Some men always want more, I guess.’
‘Some men always want more, eh, Brother Longfoot?’ Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. ‘I spared your other foot. I spared your life. Now you want freedom, too?’
‘Superior,’ he wheedled. ‘If I may, you did undertake to release me . . . I have upheld my side of the bargain. That door should open onto a square not far from the House of Questions—’
‘We shall see.’
One last splintering blow of the axe and the door shuddered back on its rusty hinges, daylight spilling into the narrow cellar. The mercenary with the tattooed neck stood aside and Glokta limped up and peered out. Ah, fresh air. A gift we so often take for granted. A short set of steps led up to a cobbled yard, hemmed in by the grubby backs of grey buildings. Glokta knew it. Just round the corner from the House of Questions, as promised.
‘Superior?’ murmured Longfoot.
Glokta curled his lip. But where’s the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. ‘Very well. Let him go.’ The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoot’s wrists. ‘It would be best if I didn’t ever see you again.’
The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing.’ He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.
‘Tell me you brought the things,’ said Glokta.
‘I’m untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent.’ Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. ‘Time, my friends. Let’s black up.’
As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majesty’s Inquisition. Not that there’s too much of a leap from one to the other.
Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. ‘Always wise to wear a choice of colours,’ he explained. ‘In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch.’ The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. ‘Can I keep it?’
‘No.’
‘You’re a hard man, Superior.’ He grinned as he tossed the cap away into the shadows. ‘And I love you for it.’ He pulled his own mask on, then frowned at Ardee, standing, confused and exhausted in a corner of the store-room. ‘What about her?’
‘Her? A prisoner, Practical Cosca! A spy in league with the Gurkish. His Eminence expressed his desire to question her personally.’ Ardee blinked at him. ‘It’s easy. Just look scared.’
She swallowed. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’
Wandering through the House of Questions with the aim of arresting the Arch Lector? I should say not. Glokta snapped his fingers. ‘We need to move.’
‘We need to move,’ said West. ‘Have we cleared the docks? Where the hell is Poulder?’
‘Nobody seems to know, sir.’ Brint tried to push his horse further, but they were squashed in by a grumbling throng. Spears waved, their points flailing dangerously close. Soldiers cursed. Sergeants bellowed. Officers clucked like frustrated chickens. It was hard to imagine more difficult terrain than the narrow streets behind the docks through which to manoeuvre an army of thousands. To make matters worse there was now an ominous flow of wounded, limping or being carried, in the opposite direction.
‘Make some room for the Lord Marshal!’ roared Pike. ‘The Lord Marshal!’ He lifted his sword as though he was more than willing to lay about him with the flat, and men rapidly cleared out of the way, a valley forming through the rattling spears. A rider came clattering up out of their midst. Jalenhorm, a bloody cut across his forehead.
‘Are you alright?’
The big man grinned. ‘It’s nothing, sir. Caught my head on a damn timber.’
‘Progress?’
‘We’re forcing them back towards the western side of the city. Kroy’s cavalry made it to the Four Corners, as far as I can tell, but the Gurkish still have the Agriont well surrounded, and now they’re regrouping, counterattacking from the west. A lot of Kroy’s foot are still all caught up in the streets on the other side of the river. If we don’t get reinforcement there soon—’
‘I need to speak to General Poulder,’ snapped West. ‘Where the hell is bloody Poulder? Brint?’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a couple of these fellows and bring Poulder here, right away!’ He stabbed at the air with a finger. ‘In person!’
‘Yes, sir!’ Brint did his best to turn his horse around.
‘What about at sea? Is Reutzer up?’
‘As far as I’m aware he’s engaged the Gurkish fleet, but I’ve no idea how . . .’ The smell of rotting salt and burning wood intensified as they emerged from the buildings and onto the harbour. ‘Bloody hell.’
West could only agree.
The graceful curve of Adua’s docks had been transformed into a crescent of carnage. Near to them the quay was blackened, wasted, scattered with broken gear and broken bodies. Further off, crowds of men were struggling in ill-formed groups, polearms sticking up in all directions like hedgehog’s spines, the air heavy with their noise. Union battle-flags and Gurkish standards flailed like scarecrows in the breeze. The epic conflict covered almost the entire long sweep of the shoreline. Several warehouses were in flames, sending up a shimmering heat-haze, lending a ghostly air to the hundreds of men locked in battle beyond them. Long smears of choking smoke, black, grey, white, rolled from the burning buildings and out into the bay. There, in the churning harbour, a host of ships was engaged in their own desperate struggle.
Vessels ploughed this way and that under full sail, turning, tacking, jockeying for position, flinging glittering spray high into the air. Catapults hurled flaming missiles, archers on the decks loosed flaming volleys, sailors crawled high in the cobwebs of rigging. Other ships were locked together in ungainly pairs by rope and grapple, like fighting dogs snapping at one another, glinting sunlight showing men in savage mêlée on their decks. Stricken vessels limped vainly, torn sailcloth hanging, slashed rigging dangling. Several were burning, sending up brown columns of smoke, turning the low sun into an ugly smudge. Wreckage floated everywhere on the frothing water – barrels, boxes, shivered timbers and dead sailors.
West knew the familiar shapes of the Union ships, yellow suns stitched into their sails, he could guess which were the Gurkish vessels. But there were others there too – long, lean, black-hulled predators, each one of their white sails marked with a black cross. One in particular towered far over every other vessel in the harbour, and was even now being secured at one of the few wharves still intact.
‘Nothing good ever comes from Talins,’ muttered Pike.
‘What the hell are Styrian ships doing here?’
The ex-convict pointed to one in the very act of ramming a Gurkish ship in the side. ‘Fighting the Gurkish, by the look of it.’
‘Sir,’ somebody asked. ‘What shall we do?’
The eternal question. West opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How could one man hope to exert any measure of control over the colossal chaos spread out before him? He remembered Varuz, in the desert, striding around with his huge staff crowding after him. He remembered Burr, thumping at his maps and wagging his thick finger. The greatest responsibility of a commander was not to command, but to look like he knew how to. He swung his sore leg over the saddle bow and slid down to the sticky cobbles.<
br />
‘We will set up our headquarters here, for the time being. Major Jalenhorm?’
‘Sir?’
‘Find General Kroy and tell him to keep pressing north and west, towards the Agriont.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Somebody get some men together and start clearing this rubbish from the docks. We need to get our people through quicker.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And somebody find me General Poulder, damn it! Each man has to do his part!’
‘What’s this now?’ grunted Pike.
A strange procession was sweeping down the blasted quay towards them, almost dreamily out of place amongst the wreckage. A dozen watchful guards in black armour flanked a single man. He had black hair streaked with grey, sported a pointed beard, immaculately trimmed. He wore black boots, a fluted breastplate of black steel, a cloak of black velvet flowing majestically from one shoulder. He was dressed, in fact, like the world’s richest undertaker, but walked with the kind of steely self-importance reserved for the highest royalty. He plotted a direct course towards West, looking neither left nor right, the dumbfounded guards and staff forced effortlessly aside by his air of command like iron filings parted by magnetic repulsion.
He held out his black-gauntleted hand. ‘I am Grand Duke Orso, of Talins.’
The idea, perhaps, was that West should kneel and kiss it. Instead he seized it with his own and gave it a firm shake. ‘Your Excellency, an honour.’ He had no idea if that was even the proper form of address. He had scarcely been expecting to encounter one of the most powerful men in the world in the midst of a bloody battle on the docks of Adua. ‘I am Lord Marshal West, commander of his Majesty’s Army. Not to appear ungrateful, but you are far from home—’
‘My daughter is your Queen. On her behalf, the people of Talins are prepared to make any sacrifice. As soon as I heard of the . . .’ He arched one black eyebrow at the burning harbour. ‘Troubles, here, I prepared an expedition. The ships of my fleet, as well as ten thousand of my best troops, stand at your disposal.’
West hardly knew how to respond. ‘They do?’
‘I have taken the liberty of disembarking them. They are engaged in clearing the Gurkish from the southwestern quarter of the city. The Three Farms, is it called?’
‘Er . . . yes.’
Duke Orso gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘A picturesque name for an urban area. You need no longer trouble yourself with your western flank. I wish you the best of luck with your endeavours, Lord Marshal. If fate is willing, we will meet each other afterward. Victorious.’ He bowed his magnificent head and swept away.
West stared after him. He knew that he really should have been grateful for the sudden appearance of ten thousand helpful Styrian troops, but he could not escape the nagging feeling that he would have been happier if Grand Duke Orso had never arrived. For the time being, however, he had more pressing worries.
‘Lord Marshal!’ It was Brint, hurrying down the quay at the front of a group of officers. One side of his face was covered in a long smear of ash. ‘Lord Marshal, General Poulder—’
‘At long bloody last!’ snapped West. ‘Now perhaps we’ll have some answers. Where the hell is that bastard?’ He shouldered Brint aside, and froze. Poulder lay on a stretcher held by four muddy and miserable-looking members of his staff. He had the expression of a man in peaceful sleep, to the degree that West kept expecting to hear him snore. A huge, ragged wound in his chest rather spoiled the effect, however.
‘General Poulder led the charge from the front,’ said one of the officers, swallowing his tears. ‘A noble sacrifice . . .’
West stared down. How often had he wished that man dead? He jerked one hand over his face at a sudden wave of nausea. ‘Damn it,’ he whispered.
‘Damn it!’ hissed Glokta as he twisted his trembling ankle on the topmost step and nearly pitched onto his face. A bony Inquisitor coming the other way gave him a long look. ‘Is there a problem?’ he snarled back. The man lowered his head and hurried past without speaking.
Click, tap, pain. The dim hallway slid by with agonising slowness. Every step was an ordeal, now, but he forced himself on, legs burning, foot throbbing, neck aching, sweat running down his twisted back under his clothes, a rictus of toothless nonchalance clamped onto his face. At every gasp and grunt through the building he had expected a challenge. With each twinge and spasm he had been waiting for the Practicals to flood from the doorways and butcher him and his thinly disguised hirelings like hogs.
But those few nervous people they had passed had scarcely looked up. Fear has made them sloppy. The world teeters at a precipice. All scared to take a step in case they put a foot into empty air. The instinct of self-preservation. It can destroy a man’s efficiency.
He lurched through the open doors and into the anteroom outside the Arch Lector’s office. The secretary’s head jerked angrily up. ‘Superior Glokta! You cannot simply . . .’ He stumbled on the words as the mercenaries began to tramp into the narrow room behind him. ‘I mean to say . . . you cannot . . .’
‘Silence! I am acting on the express orders of the king himself.’ Well, everyone lies. The difference between a hero and a villain is whether anyone believes him. ‘Step aside!’ he hissed at the two Practicals flanking the door, ‘or be prepared to answer for it.’ They glanced at each other, then, as more of Cosca’s men appeared, raised their hands together and allowed themselves to be disarmed. The instinct of self-preservation. A decided disadvantage.
Glokta paused before the doorway. Where I have cringed so often at the pleasure of his Eminence. His fingers tingled against the wood. Can it possibly be this easy? To simply walk up in broad daylight and arrest the most powerful man in the Union? He had to suppress a smirk. If only I had thought of it sooner. He wrenched the doorknob round and lurched over the threshold.
Sult’s office was much as it had always been. The great windows, with their view of the University, the huge round table with its jewelled map of the Union, the ornate chairs and the brooding portraits. It was not Sult sitting in the tall chair, however. It was none other than his favourite lapdog, Superior Goyle. Trying the big seat out for size, are we? Far too big for you, I’m afraid.
Goyle’s first reaction was outrage. How dare anyone barge in here like this? His second was confusion. Who would dare to barge in here like this? His third was shock. The cripple? But how? His fourth, as he saw Cosca and four of his men follow Glokta through the door, was horror. Now we’re getting somewhere.
‘You!’ he hissed. ‘But you’re—’
‘Slaughtered? Change of plans, I’m afraid. Where’s Sult?’
Goyle’s eyes flickered around the room, over the dwarfish mercenary, the one with a hook for a hand, the one with the hideous boils, and came to rest on Cosca, swaggering round the edge of the chamber with one fist on his sword-hilt.
‘I’ll pay you! Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it!’
Cosca held out his open palm. ‘I prefer cash in hand.’
‘Now? I don’t have . . . I don’t have it with me!’
‘A shame, but I work on the same principle as a whore. You’ll buy no fun with promises, my friend. No fun at all.’
‘Wait!’ Goyle stumbled up and took a step back, his trembling hands held up in front of him. But there’s nowhere to go but out the window. That’s the trouble with ambition. It’s easy to forget, when you’re always looking upwards, that the only way down from the dizzy heights is a long drop.
‘Sit down, Goyle,’ growled Glokta.
Cosca grabbed his wrist, twisted his right arm savagely behind him and made him squeal, forced him back into the chair, clamped one hand round the back of his head and smashed his face into the beautiful map of the Union. There was a sharp crunch as his nose broke, spattering blood across the western part of Midderland.
Hardly subtle, but then the time for subtlety is behind us. The Arch Lector’s confession, or someone close to him . . . Sult would have been better, b
ut if we cannot have the brains, I suppose we must make do with the arsehole. ‘Where is that girl with my instruments?’ Ardee crept cautiously into the room, came slowly across to the table and put the case down.
Glokta snapped his fingers, pointed. The fat mercenary ambled up and took a firm grip on Goyle’s free arm, dragged it sharply out across the table. ‘I expect you think you know an awful lot about torture, eh, Goyle? Believe me, though, you don’t really understand a thing until you’ve spent some time on both sides of the table.’
‘You mad bastard!’ The Superior squirmed, smearing blood across the Union with his face. ‘You’ve crossed the line!’
‘Line?’ Glokta spluttered with laughter. ‘I spent the night cutting the fingers from one of my friends and killing another, and you dare to talk to me about lines?’ He pushed open the lid of the case and his instruments offered themselves up. ‘The only line that matters is the one that separates the strong from the weak. The man who asks the questions from the man who answers them. There are no other lines.’ He leaned forward and ground the tip of his finger into the side of Goyle’s skull. ‘That’s all in your head! The manacles, if you please.’
‘Eh?’ Cosca looked to the fat mercenary, and the man shrugged, the blurred tattoos on his thick neck squirming.
‘Pffft,’ said the dwarf. Boil-face was silent. The one-handed mercenary had pulled down his mask and was busy picking his nose with his hook.
Glokta arched his back and gave a heavy sigh. There really is no replacement for experienced help. ‘Then I suppose we must improvise.’ He scooped up a dozen long nails and scattered them jingling across the tabletop. He slid out the hammer, its polished head shining. ‘I think you can see where we’re going with this.’
‘No. No! We can work something out, we can—’ Glokta pressed the point of one nail into Goyle’s wrist. ‘Ah! Wait! Wait—’
‘Would you be good enough to hold this? I have only one hand to spare.’
Cosca took the nail gingerly between finger and thumb. ‘Mind where you aim with the hammer, though, eh?’
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 173