Before They Are Hanged tfl-2

by Joe Abercrombie

  “Your choice, I suppose.”

  “That’s right.” My last one.

  They came into Sult’s ante-room. He had to admit to being somewhat surprised to have come this far. He had been expecting every black-masked Practical they had passed in the building to seize hold of him. He had been expecting every black-clothed Inquisitor to point and scream for his immediate arrest. And yet here I am again. The heavy desk, the heavy chairs, the two towering Practicals flanking the heavy doors, were all the same.

  “I am—”

  “Superior Glokta, of course.” The Arch Lector’s secretary bowed his head respectfully. “You may go in at once. His Eminence is expecting you.” Light spilled out of the Arch Lector’s office and into the narrow chamber.

  “I’ll wait here.” Vitari slid into one of the chairs and swung her damp boots up on an other.

  “Don’t bother waiting too long.” My last words, perhaps? Glokta cursed inwardly as he shuffled towards the doorway. I really should have thought of something more memorable. He paused for just a moment at the threshold, took a deep breath, and hobbled through.

  The same airy, round room. The same dark furniture, the same dark pictures on the bright walls, the same great window with the same view of the University, and the House of the Maker beyond. No assassins loitering under the table, no axemen waiting behind the door. Only Sult himself, sitting at his desk with a pen in hand, the nib scratching calmly and evenly across some papers spread out before him.

  “Superior Glokta!” Sult started up and swept gracefully across the polished floor towards him, white coat flapping. “I’m so glad you are safely returned!” The Arch Lector gave every impression of being pleased to see him, and Glokta frowned. He had been prepared for almost anything but this.

  Sult held out his hand, the stone on his ring of office flashing purple sparks. Glokta grimaced as he bent slowly to kiss it. “I serve and obey, your Eminence.” He straightened up with an effort. No knife in the back of the neck? But Sult was already flowing across to the cabinet, grinning broadly.

  “Sit, please sit! You need not wait to be asked!”

  Since when? Glokta grunted his way into one of the chairs, taking only the briefest moment to check for poisoned spikes on the seat. The Arch Lector, meanwhile, had plucked open the cabinet and was rummaging inside. Will he pull out a loaded flatbow, and shoot me through the throat? But all that emerged were two glasses. “It would seem congratulations are in order,” he threw over his shoulder.

  Glokta blinked. “What?”

  “Congratulations. Excellent work.” Sult grinned down at him as he slid the glasses gracefully onto the round table, eased the stopper, clinking, from the decanter. What to say? What to say?

  “Your Eminence… Dagoska… I must be candid. It was on the point of falling when I left. Very soon now, the city will be overrun—”

  “Of course it will.” Sult dismissed it all with a wave of his white-gloved hand. “There was never the slightest chance of holding it. The best I was hoping for was that you’d make the Gurkish pay! And how you did that, eh, Glokta? How you did that!”

  “Then… you are… pleased?” He hardly dared say the word.

  “I am delighted! If I had written the tale myself, it could not have worked out better! The incompetence of the Lord Governor, the treachery of his son, it all showed how little the regular authorities can be relied upon in a crisis. Eider’s treason exposed the duplicity of the merchants, their dubious connections, their rotten morality! The Spicers have been dissolved alongside the Mercers: their trade rights are in our hands. The pair of them, consigned to the latrine of history and the power of the merchants broken! Only his Majesty’s Inquisition remained staunch in the face of the Union’s most implacable enemy. You should have seen Marovia’s face when I presented the confessions to the Open Council!” Sult filled Glokta’s glass all the way to the top.

  “Most kind, your Eminence,” he muttered as he took a sip from it. Excellent wine, as always.

  “And then he got up in the Closed Council, before the King himself, mark you, and declared to everyone that you wouldn’t last a week once the Gurkish attacked!” The Arch Lector spluttered with laughter. “I wish you could have been there. I’m confident he’ll do better than that, I said. Confident he’ll do better.” A ringing endorsement indeed.

  Sult slapped the table with his white-gloved palm. “Two months, Glokta! Two months! With every day that passed he looked more of a fool, and I looked more of a hero… we, that is,” he corrected himself, “we looked like heroes, and all I had to do was smile! You could almost see them, each day, shuffling their chairs away from Marovia and down towards me! Last week they voted extra powers to the Inquisition. Nine votes to three. Nine to three! Next week we’ll go further! How the hell did you manage it?” And he gazed at Glokta expectantly.

  I sold myself to the bank that funded the Mercers, then used the proceeds to bribe the worlds least reliable mercenary. Then I murdered a defenceless emissary under flag of parley and tortured a serving girl until her body was mincemeat. Oh, and I let the biggest traitor of the lot go free. It was, without doubt, a heroic business. How did I manage it? “Rising early,” he murmured.

  Sult’s eye flickered, and Glokta caught it. A trace of annoyance, perhaps? A trace of mistrust? But it was quickly extinguished. “Rising early. Of course.” He raised his glass. “The second greatest virtue. It comes just behind ruthlessness. I like your style, Glokta, I’ve always said so.”

  Have you indeed? But Glokta humbly inclined his head.

  “Practical Vitari’s despatches were filled with admiration. I particularly enjoyed the way you dealt with the Gurkish emissary. That must have wiped the smile from the Emperor’s face, if only for a moment, the arrogant swine.” So she kept her end of the bargain, then? Interesting. “Yes, things proceed smoothly. Except for the damn peasants making a nuisance of themselves, and Angland of course. Shame about Ladisla.”

  “About Ladisla?” asked Glokta, baffled.

  Sult looked sour. “You didn’t hear? Another of High Justice Marovia’s brilliant notions. He had it in mind to lift the Crown Prince’s popularity by giving him a command in the North. Something out of the way, where he’d be in no danger and we could heap him with glory. It wasn’t a bad scheme, really, except that out of the way became in the way, and he commanded himself straight into his grave.”

  “His army with him?”

  “A few thousand of them, but mostly that rubbish the nobles sent as levies. Nothing of much significance. Ostenhorm is still in our hands, and it wasn’t my idea so, all in all, no harm done. Between you and me it’s probably for the best, Ladisla was insufferable. I had to dig him out of more than one scandal. Never could keep his trousers closed, the damn halfwit. Raynault seems to be a different kind of a man. Sober, sensible. Do as he’s bloody told. Better all round. Providing he doesn’t go and get himself killed, of course, we’d be in a pickle then.” Sult took another swig from his glass and worked it round his mouth with some satisfaction.

  Glokta cleared his throat. While he is in a good mood… “There was one issue I wished to discuss with you, your Eminence. The Gurkish agent we found within the city. She was…” How to describe this without sounding like a madman?

  But Sult was ahead of him once again. “I know. An Eater.” You know? Even about this? The Arch Lector sat back and shook his head. “An occult abomination. A tale straight from a story book. Eating the flesh of men. Apparently it is a practice well established down in the barbaric South. But don’t concern yourself about it. I am already taking advice.”

  “Who gives advice about such things as these?” The Arch Lector only flashed his silky smile. “You must be tired. The weather over there can be so very draining. All that heat and dust, even in the winter. Take a rest. You deserve it. I’ll send for you if anything comes up.” And Sult took up his pen and looked back to his papers, leaving Glokta with nothing to do but shuffle for the door, a look of
profound puzzlement on his face. “You almost look like you’re still alive,” muttered Vitari as he hobbled out into the anteroom.

  True. Or about as close as I come to it. “Sult was… pleased.” He still could hardly believe it. The very words sounded strange together.

  “He damn well should be, after the talking-up I gave you.”

  “Huh.” Glokta frowned. “It seems I owe you an apology.”

  “Keep it. It isn’t worth shit to me. Just trust me next time.”

  “A fair demand,” he conceded, glancing sideways at her. But you have to be joking.

  The chamber was filled with fine furniture. Almost overfilled. Richly upholstered chairs, an antique table, a polished cabinet, all lavish for the small sitting-room. A huge old painting of the Lords of the Union paying homage to Harod the Great entirely filled one wall. A thick Kantic carpet had been rolled out across the boards, almost too big for the floor. A healthy fire crackled in the grate between two antique vases, and the room was homely, and pleasant, and warm. What a difference a day can make, with the right encouragement.

  “Good,” said Glokta as he looked round. “Very good.”

  “Of course,” muttered Fallow, head bowed respectfully, hat halfway to being crushed in his hands. “Of course, Superior, I have done everything possible. Most of the furniture I had… I had sold already, and so I replaced with better, the best I could find. The rest of the house is just the same. I hope that… I hope that it’s adequate?”

  “I hope so too. Is it adequate?”

  Ardee was scowling at Fallow. “It will serve.”

  “Excellent,” said the moneylender nervously, glancing briefly at Frost and then down at his boots. “Excellent! Please accept my very deepest apologies! I had no idea, of course, absolutely no idea, Superior, that you were involved in any way. Of course, I would never… I am so very sorry.”

  “It really isn’t me you should be apologising to, is it?”

  “No, no, of course.” He turned slowly to Ardee. “My lady, please accept my deepest apologies.”

  Ardee glared at him, lip curled, and said nothing.

  “Perhaps if you were to beg,” suggested Glokta. “On your knees. That might do it.”

  Fallow dropped to his knees without hesitation. He wrung his hands “My lady, please—”

  “Lower,” said Glokta.

  “Of course,” he muttered as he fell to all fours. “I do apologise, my lady. Most humbly. If you could only find it in your heart, I beg you—” He reached out gingerly to touch the hem of her dress and she jerked back, then swung her foot and kicked him savagely in the face.

  “Gah!” squawked the moneylender, rolling onto his side, dark blood bubbling out of his nose and all over the new carpet. Glokta felt his brows go up. That was unexpected.

  “That’s for you, fucker!” The next kick caught him in the mouth and his head snapped back, spots of blood spattering onto the far wall. Ardee’s shoe thudded into his gut and folded him up tight.

  “You,” she snarled, “you…” She kicked him again and again and Fallow shuddered and grunted and sighed, curling up in a ball. Frost moved away from the wall a step, and Glokta held up his finger.

  “That’s alright,” he murmured, “I think she has it covered.”

  The kicks began to slow. Glokta could hear Ardee gasping for air. Her heel dug into Fallow’s ribs, her toe cracked into his nose again. If she ever gets bored, she might have a bright future as a Practical. She worked her mouth, leaned over and spat onto the side of his face. She kicked him again, weakly, then stumbled back against the cabinet and leaned on the polished wood, bent over and breathing hard.

  “Happy?” asked Glokta.

  She stared up at him through her tangled hair. “Not really.”

  “Will kicking him some more make you happier?”

  Her brows wrinkled as she looked down at Fallow, wheezing on his side on the carpet. She took a step forward and booted him hard in the chest one more time, rocked away, wiping some snot from under her nose. She pushed her hair out of her face. “I’m done.”

  “Fine. Get out,” hissed Glokta. “Out, worm!”

  “Of course,” Fallow drooled through his bloody lips, crawling for the door, Frost looming over him the whole way. “Of course! Thank you! Thank you all so much!” The front door banged shut.

  Ardee sat down heavily in one of the chairs, elbows resting on her knees, forehead resting on her palms. Glokta could see her hands trembling slightly. It can really be very tiring, hurting someone. I should know. Especially if you aren’t used to it. “I wouldn’t feel too badly,” he said. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

  She looked up, and her eyes were hard. “I don’t. He deserves worse.”

  That was unexpected too. “Do you want him to have worse?”

  She swallowed, slowly sat back. “No.”

  “Up to you.” But it’s nice to have the option. “You may want to change your clothes.”

  She looked down. “Oh.” Spots of Fallow’s blood were spattered as far as her knees. “I don’t have anything—”

  “There’s a room full of new ones, upstairs. I made sure of it. I’ll arrange for some dependable servants as well.”

  “I don’t need them.”

  “Yes, you do. I won’t hear of you here alone.”

  She shrugged her shoulders hopelessly. “I have nothing to pay them with.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” All compliments of the hugely generous Valint and Balk, after all. “Don’t worry about anything. I made a promise to your brother, and I mean to see it through. I’m very sorry that things came this far. I had a great deal to take care of… in the South. Have you heard from him, by the way?”

  Ardee looked up sharply, her mouth slightly open. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  She swallowed, and stared down at the floor. “Collem was with Prince Ladisla, at this battle that everyone is talking of. Some prisoners were taken, have been ransomed—he wasn’t among them. They presume…” She paused for a moment, staring at the blood on her dress. “They presume he was killed.”

  “Killed?” Glokta’s eyelid fluttered. His knees felt suddenly weak. He took a lurching step back and sank into a chair. His own hands were trembling now, and he clasped them together. Deaths. They happen every day. I caused thousands of them not long ago, with hardly a thought. I looked at heaps of corpses and shrugged. What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was.

  “Killed?” he whispered.

  She nodded slowly, and put her face in her hands.

  Cold Comfort

  West peered out of the bushes, through the drifting flakes of snow, down the slope toward the Union picket. The sentries were sat in a rough circle, hunched round a steaming pan over a miserable tongue of fire on the far side of the stream. They wore thick coats, breath smoking, weapons almost forgotten in the snow around them. West knew how they felt. Bethod might come this week, he might come next week, but the cold they had to fight every minute of every day.

  “Right then,” whispered Threetrees. “You’d best go down there on your own. They might not like the looks of me and the rest of the boys, all rushing down on ’em from the trees.”

  The Dogman grinned. “Might shoot one of us.”

  “And that’d be some kind o’ shame,” hissed Dow, “after we come so far.”

  “Give us the shout when they’re good and ready for a crew of Northmen to come wandering out the woods, eh?”

  “I will,” said West. He dragged the heavy sword out of his belt and handed it to Threetrees. “You’d better hold on to this for me.”

  “Good luck,” said the Dogman.

  “Good luck,” said Dow, lips curling back into his savage grin. “Furious.”

  West walked out slowly from the trees and down the gentle slope towards the stream, his stolen boots crunching in the snow, his hands held up above his head, to show he was unarmed. Even so, he could hardly have blame
d the sentries if they shot him on sight. No one could have looked more like a dangerous savage than he did now, he knew. The last tatters of his uniform were hidden beneath a bundle of furs and torn scraps, tied around his body with twine, a stained coat stolen from a dead Northman over the top. He had a few weeks’ growth of scraggy beard across his scabby face, his eyes were sore and watering, sunken with hunger and exhaustion. He looked like a desperate man, and what was more, he knew, he was one. A killer. The man who murdered Crown Prince Ladisla. The very worst of traitors.

  One of the sentries looked up and saw him, started clumsily from his place, knocking the pan hissing into the fire, snatching his spear out of the snow. “Stop!” he shouted, in slurred Northern. The others jumped up after him, grabbing at their weapons, one fumbling at the string on his flatbow with mittened fingers.

  West stopped, flecks of snow settling gently on his tangled hair and across his shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he shouted back in common. “I’m on your side.”

  They stared at him for a moment. “We’ll see!” shouted one. “Come on across the water, but do it slow!”

  He crunched on down the slope and sloshed out into the stream, gritted his teeth as the freezing water soaked him up to his thighs. He struggled up the far bank and the four sentries shuffled into a nervous half circle around him, weapons raised.

  “Watch him!”

  “It could be a trick!”

  “It’s no trick,” said West slowly, keeping his eyes on the various hovering blades and trying to stay calm. It was vitally important to stay calm. “I’m one of you.”

  “Where the hell have you come from?”

  “I was with Prince Ladisla’s division.”

  “With Ladisla? You walked up here?”

  West nodded. “I walked.” The bodies of the sentries started to relax, the spear-points started to waver and drift upwards. They were on the point of believing him. After all, he spoke the common tongue like a native, and certainly looked as if he had slogged a hundred leagues across country. “What’s your name, then?” asked the one with the flatbow.