Then the distant screaming reached him on his balcony, thrust out from the wall of the Citadel, high above the city. A screaming he remembered well from battlefields both old and new. And hardly happy memories. The Gurkish war cry. The enemy are coming. Now, he knew, they were charging across the open ground before the walls, as they had done so many times these past weeks. But this time they have a breach.
He watched the tiny shapes of soldiers moving on the dust-coated walls and towers to either side of the gap. He moved his eye-glass down to take in the wide half-circle of barricades, the triple ranks of men squatting behind them, waiting for the Gurkish to come. Glokta frowned and worked his numb left foot inside his boot. A meagre-seeming defence, indeed. But all we have.
Now Gurkish soldiers began to pour through the yawning breach like black ants swarming from a nest; a crowd of jostling men, twinkling steel, waving banners, emerging from the clouds of brown dust, scrambling down the great heap of fallen masonry and straight into a furious hail of flatbow bolts. First through the breach. An unenviable position. The front ranks were mown down as they came on, tiny shapes falling and tumbling down the hill of rubble behind the walls. Many fell, but there were always more, pressing in over the bodies of their comrades, struggling forward over the mass of broken stones and shattered timbers, and into the city.
Now another cry floated up, and Glokta saw the defenders charge from behind their barricades. Union soldiers, mercenaries, Dagoskans, all hurled themselves towards the breach. At this distance it all seemed to move with absurd slowness. A stream of oil and a stream of water dribbling towards one another. They met, and it became impossible to tell one side from the other. A flowing mass, punctuated by glittering metal, rippling and surging like the sea, a colourful flag or two hanging limp above.
The cries and screams hung over the city, echoing, shifting with the breeze. The far off swell of pain and fury, the clatter and din of combat. Sometimes it sounded like a distant storm, incomprehensible. Sometimes a single cry or word would float to Glokta’s ear with surprising clarity. It reminded him of the sound of the crowd at the Contest. Except the blades are not blunted now. Both sides are in deadly earnest. How many already dead this morning, I wonder? He turned to General Vissbruck, sweating beside him in his immaculate uniform.
“Have you ever fought in a melee like that, General? A straight fight, toe to toe, at push of pike, as they say?”
Vissbruck did not pause for a moment from squinting eagerly through his own eye-glass. “No. I have not.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. I have only done it once and I am not keen to repeat the experience.” He shifted the handle of his cane in his sweaty palm. Not that that’s terribly likely now, of course. “I fought on horseback often enough. Charged small bodies of infantry, broke and pursued them. A noble business, cutting men down as they run, I earned all kinds of praise for it. I soon discovered a battle on foot is a different matter. The crush is so tight you can hardly take a breath, let alone perform acts of heroism. The heroes are the ones lucky enough to live through it.” He snorted with joyless laughter. “I remember being pushed up against a Gurkish officer, as close to each other as lovers, neither one of us able to strike, or do anything but snarl at each other. Spear-points digging everywhere, at random. Men pushed onto the weapons of their own side, or crushed underfoot. More killed by mishap than design.” The whole business is one giant mishap.
“An ugly affair,” muttered Vissbruck, “but it has to be done.”
“So it does. So it does.” Glokta could see a Gurkish standard waving around above the boiling throng, silk flapping, tattered and stained. Stones flung from the broken walls above began to crash down amongst them. Men pressed in helpless, shoulder to shoulder, unable to move. A great vat of boiling water was upended into their midst from high above. The Gurkish had lost all semblance of order as they came through the breach, and now the formless mass of men began to waver. The defenders pressed in on them from all sides, relentless, shoving with pike and shield, hacking with sword and axe, trampling the fallen under their boots.
“We’re driving them back!” came Vissbruck’s voice.
“Yes,” muttered Glokta, peering through his eye-glass at the desperate fighting. “So it would seem.” And my joy is limitless.
The Gurkish assault had been surrounded and men were falling fast, stumbling back up the hill of rubble towards the breach. Gradually the survivors were driven out and down into the no-man’s-land behind, flatbows on the walls firing into the mass of men as they fled, spreading panic and murder. The vague sound of the defenders cheering filtered up to them on the walls of the citadel.
One more assault defeated. Scores of Gurkish killed, but there are always more. If they break through the barricades, and into the Lower City, we are finished. They can keep coming as often as they like. We need only lose once, and the game is done.
“It would seem the day is ours. This one, at least.” Glokta limped to the corner of the balcony and peered southwards through his eye-glass, down into the bay and the Southern Sea beyond. There was nothing but calm water, glittering bright to the flat horizon. “And still no sign of any Gurkish ships.”
Vissbruck cleared his throat. “With the greatest of respect…” Meaning none, I suppose. “The Gurkish have never been sailors. Is there any reason to suppose that they have ships now?”
Only that an old black wizard appeared in my chambers in the dead of night, and told me to watch out for some. “Simply because we fail to see a thing, it does not mean it is not there. The Emperor has us on the rack as it is. Perhaps he keeps his fleet in reserve, waiting for a better time, refusing to show his whole hand until he needs to.”
“But with ships, he could blockade us, starve us out, get around our defences! He need not have squandered all those soldiers—”
“If the Emperor of Gurkhul has one thing in abundance, General, it is more soldiers. They have made a workable breach.” Glokta scanned along the walls until he came to the other weak spot. He could see the great cracks in the masonry on the inside, shored up with heavy beams, with heaped-up rubble, but still bowing inwards, more each day. “And they will soon have another. They have filled the ditch in four places. Meanwhile our numbers dwindle, our morale falters. They don’t need ships.”
“But we have them.” Glokta was surprised to find the General had stepped up close beside him and was speaking softly and urgently, looking earnestly into his eyes. Like a man proposing marriage. Or treason. I wonder which we have here? “There is still time,” muttered Vissbruck, his eyes swivelling nervously towards the door and back. “We control the bay. As long as we still hold the Lower City we hold the wharves. We can pull out the Union forces. The civilians at least. There are still some wives and children of officers left in the Citadel, a scattering of merchants and craftsmen who settled in the Upper City and are reluctant to leave. It could be done swiftly.”
Glokta frowned. True, perhaps, but the Arch Lector’s orders were otherwise. The civilians can make their own arrangements, if they so desire. The Union troops will not be going anywhere. Except onto their funeral pyres, of course. But Vissbruck took his silence for encouragement. “If you were to give me the word it could be done this very evening, and all away before—”
“And what will become of us all, General, when we step down onto Union soil? A tearful reunion with our masters in the Agriont? Some of us would soon be crying, I do not doubt. Or should we take the ships and sail to far-off Suljuk, do you suppose, to live long lives of ease and plenty?” Glokta slowly shook his head. “It is a charming fantasy, but that’s all it is. Our orders are to hold the city. There can be no surrender. No backing down. No sailing home.”
“No sailing home,” echoed Vissbruck sourly. “Meanwhile the Gurkish press in closer every day, our losses mount, and the lowest beggar in the city can see that we cannot hold the land walls for much longer. My men are close to mutiny, and the mercenaries are considerably less dependable. W
hat would you have me tell them? That the Closed Council’s orders do not include retreat?”
“Tell them that reinforcements will be here any day.”
“I’ve been telling them that for weeks!”
“Then a few more days should make no difference.”
Vissbruck blinked. “And might I ask when reinforcements will arrive?”
“Any.” Glokta narrowed his eyes. “Day. Until then we hold.”
“But why?” Vissbruck’s voice had gone high as a girl’s. “What for? The task is impossible! The waste! Why, damn it?”
Why. Always why. I grow bored of asking it. “If you think I know the Arch Lector’s mind you’re an even bigger idiot than I supposed.” Glokta sucked slowly at his gums, thinking. “You are right about one thing, however. The land walls may fall at any moment. We must prepare to withdraw into the Upper City.”
“But… if we abandon the Lower City we abandon the docks! There can be no supplies brought in! No reinforcements, even if they do arrive! What of your fine speech to me, Superior? The walls of the Upper City are too long and too weak? If the land walls fall the city is doomed? We must defeat them there or not at all, you told me! If the docks are lost… there can be no escape!” My dear, plump, pudding of a General, do you not see it? Escape has never been an option.
Glokta grinned, showing Vissbruck the empty holes in his teeth. “If one plan fails, we must try another. The situation, as you have so cleverly pointed out, is desperate. Believe me, I would prefer it if the Emperor simply gave up and went home, but I hardly think we can count on that, do you? Send word to Cosca and Kahdia, all civilians should be moved out of the Lower City tonight. We may need to pull back at a moment’s notice.” At least I won’t have to limp so far to reach the front lines.
“The Upper City will scarcely hold so many! They will be lining the streets!” Better than lining a grave pit. “They will be sleeping in the squares and the hallways!” Preferable to sleeping in the ground. “There are thousands of them down there!”
“Then the sooner you start the better.”
Glokta half ducked back as he stepped through the doorway. The heat beyond was almost unbearable, the reek of sweat and burnt flesh tickled unpleasantly at his throat.
He wiped his eyes, already running with tears, on the back of his trembling hand and squinted into the darkness. The three Practicals took shape in the gloom. They were gathered round, masked faces lit from underneath by the angry orange of the brazier, all hard bright bone and hard dark shadow. Devils, in hell.
Vitari’s shirt was soaked right through and stuck to her shoulders, furious creases cut into her face. Severard was stripped to the waist, gasping breath muffled through his mask, lank hair flapping with sweat. Frost was as wet as if he had stood out in the rain, fat drops running down his pale skin, jaw muscles locked and bulging. The only one in the room who showed no sign of discomfort was Shickel. The girl had an ecstatic smile across her face as Vitari ground the sizzling iron into her chest. Just as if it were the happiest moment of her life.
Glokta swallowed as he watched, remembering being shown the brand himself. Remembering pleading, begging, blubbering for mercy. Remembering the feeling of the metal pressed into his skin. So searing hot it feels almost cold. The mindless din of his own screams. The stink of his own flesh burning. He could smell it now. First you suffer it yourself then you inflict it on others, then you order it done. Such is the pattern of life. He shrugged his aching shoulders and hobbled forwards into the room. “Progress?” he croaked.
Severard straightened up, grunting and arching his back, wiped his forehead and flicked sweat onto the slimy floor. “I don’t know about her, but I’m more than halfway to breaking.”
“We’re getting nowhere!” snapped Vitari, tossing the black iron back in the brazier and sending up a shower of sparks. “We tried blades, we tried hammers, we tried water, we tried fire. She won’t say a word. Fucking bitch is made of stone.”
“Softer than stone,” hissed Severard, “but she’s nothing like us.” He took a knife from the table, the blade briefly flashing orange in the darkness, leaned forward and carved a long gash into Shickel’s thin forearm. Her face barely even twitched while he did it. The wound hung open, glistening angry red. Severard dug his finger into it and twisted it round. Shickel showed not the slightest sign of being in pain. He pulled his finger out and held it up, rubbed the tip against his thumb. “Not even wet. It’s like cutting into a week-old corpse.”
Glokta felt his leg trembling, and he winced and slid into the spare seat. “Plainly, this is not normal.”
“Unnerthatement,” grunted Frost.
“But she’s not healing the way she was.” None of the cuts in her skin were closing. All hanging open, dead and dry as meat in a butchers shop. Nor were the burns fading. Charred black stripes across her skin, like meat fresh from the grill.
“Just sits there, watching,” said Severard, “and not a word.”
Glokta frowned. Can this really be what I had in mind when I joined the Inquisition? The torture of young girls? He wiped the wet from under his stinging eyes. But then, this is both much more and much less than a girl. He remembered the hands clutching at him, the three Practicals straining to pull her back. Much more and much less than human. We must not make the same mistakes we made with the First of the Magi.
“We must keep an open mind,” he murmured.
“Do you know what my father would say to that?” The voice croaked out, deep and grinding raw, like an old man’s, oddly wrong from that young, smooth face.
Glokta felt his left eye twitching, the sweat trickling under his coat. “Your father?”
Shickel smiled at him, eyes glinting in the darkness. It almost seemed as if the cuts in her flesh smiled with her. “My father. The Prophet. Great Khalul. He would say that an open mind is like to an open wound. Vulnerable to poison. Liable to fester. Apt to give its owner only pain.”
“Now you want to talk?”
“Now I choose to.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Now that you know it is my choice, and not yours. Ask your questions, cripple. You should take your chances to learn when you can. God knows you could do with them. A man lost in the desert—”
“I know the rest.” Glokta paused. So many questions, but what to ask one such as this? “You are an Eater?”
“We have other names for ourselves, but yes.” She inclined her head gently, her eyes never leaving his. “The priests made me eat my mother first. When they found me. It was that or die, and the need to live was so very great, before. I wept afterwards, but that was long ago and there are no tears left in me. I disgust myself, of course. Sometimes I need to kill, sometimes I wish to die. I deserve to. Of that I have no doubts. My only certainty.”
I should have known better than to expect straight answers. One almost feels nostalgic for the Mercers. Their crimes, at least, I could understand. Still, any answers are better than none. “Why do you eat?”
“Because the bird eats the worm. Because the spider eats the fly. Because Khalul desires it and we are the Prophet’s children. Juvens was betrayed, and Khalul swore vengeance, but he stood alone against many. So he made his great sacrifice, and broke the Second Law, and the righteous joined with him, more and more with the passing years. Some joined him willingly. Some not. But none have denied him. My siblings are many, now, and each of us must make our sacrifice.”
Glokta gestured at the brazier. “You feel no pain?”
“I do not, but plentiful remorse.”
“Strange. It’s the other way around for me.”
“You, I think, are the lucky one.”
He snorted. “Easy to say until you find you can’t piss without wanting to scream.”
“I hardly remember what pain feels like, now. All that was long ago. The gifts are different for each of us. Strength, and speed, and endurance beyond the limits of the human. Some of us can take forms, or trick the eye, or even use
the Art, the way that Juvens taught his apprentices. The gifts are different for each of us, but the curse is the same.” She stared at Glokta, head cocked over to one side.
Let me guess. “You can’t stop eating.”
“Not ever. And that is why the Gurkish appetite for slaves is never-ending. There is no resisting the Prophet. I know. Great Father Khalul.” And her eyes rolled up reverently towards the ceiling. “Arch Priest of the Temple of Sarkant. Holiest of all whose feet touch the earth. Humbler of the proud, righter of wrongs, teller of truths. Light shines from him as it shines from the stars. When he speaks it is with the voice of God. When he—”
“No doubt he shits golden turds as well. You believe all that rubbish?”
“What does it matter what I believe? I don’t make the choices. When your master gives you a task, you do your best at it. Even if the task is a dark one.”
That much I can understand. “Some of us are only suited to dark tasks. Once you’ve chosen your master—”
Shickel croaked dry laughter across the table. “Few indeed are those who get a choice. We do as we are told. We stand or fall beside those who were born near to us, who look as we do, who speak the same words, and all the while we know as little of the reasons why as does the dust we return to.” Her head sagged sideways and a gash in her shoulder opened up as wide as a mouth. “Do you think I like what I have become? Do you think I do not dream of being as others are? But once the change has come, you can never go back. Do you understand?”
Oh, yes. Few better. “Why were you sent here?”
“The work of the righteous is never-ending. I came to see Dagoska returned to the fold. To see its people worship God according to the Prophet’s teachings. To see my brothers and sisters fed.”
“It seems you failed.”
“Others will follow. There is no resisting the Prophet. You are doomed.”
Before They Are Hanged tfl-2 Page 35