Mauthis gave a smile. If you could call it that. A neat, precise, and utterly joyless curving of the mouth. 'You misunderstand me, Superior Glokta. I have not come to collect a debt. For seven years, I have had the privilege of acting as the chief representative in Dagoska, of the banking house of Valint and Balk.'
Glokta paused, then tried to sound off-hand. 'Valint and Balk, you say? Your bank financed the Guild of Mercers, I believe.'
'We had some dealings with that guild, before their unfortunate fall from grace.' I'll say you did. You owned them, from the ground up. 'But then we have dealings with many guilds, and companies, and other banks, and individuals, great and small. Today I have dealings with you.'
'Dealings of what nature?'
Mauthis turned to the door and snapped his fingers. Two burly natives entered, grunting, sweating, struggling under the weight of a great casket: a box of polished black wood, bound with bands of bright steel, sealed with a heavy lock. They set it down carefully on the fine carpet, wiped sweat from their foreheads, and tramped out the way they came while Glokta frowned after them. What is this? Mauthis pulled a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. He reached forward and lifted the lid of the chest. He moved out of the way, carefully and precisely, so Glokta could see the contents.
'One hundred and fifty thousand marks in silver.'
Glokta blinked. And so it is. The coins flashed and glittered in the evening light. Flat, round, silver, five mark pieces. Not a jingling heap, not some barbarian's horde. Neat, even stacks, held in place by wooden dowels. As neat and even as Mauthis himself.
The two porters were gasping their way back into the room, carrying between them a second box, slightly smaller than the first. They placed it on the floor and strode out, not so much as glancing at the fortune glittering in plain view beside them.
Mauthis unlocked the second chest with the same key, raised the lid, and stood aside. 'Three hundred and fifty thousand marks in gold.'
Glokta knew his mouth was open, but he could not close it. Bright, clean, gold, glowing yellow. All that wealth seemed almost to give off warmth, like a bonfire. It tugged at him, dragged at him, pulled him forward. He took a hesitant step, in fact, before he stopped himself. Great big, golden, fifty mark pieces. Neat, even stacks, just as before. Most men would never in their lives see such coins. Few men indeed can ever have seen so many.
Mauthis reached into his coat and pulled out a flat leather case. He placed it carefully on the table and unfolded it: once, twice, three times.
'One half of one million marks in polished stones.'
There they lay on the soft black leather, on the hard brown table top, burning with all the colours under the sun. Two large handfuls, perhaps, of multi-coloured, glittering gravel. Glokta stared down at them, numb, and sucked at his gums. Magister Eiders jewels seem suddenly rather quaint.
'In total, I have been ordered by my superiors to advance to you, Sand dan Glokta, Superior of Dagoska, the sum of precisely one million marks.' He unrolled a heavy paper. 'You will sign here.'
Glokta stared from one chest to another and back. His left eye gave a flurry of twitches. 'Why?'
'To certify that you received the money.'
Glokta almost laughed. 'Not that! Why the money?' He flailed one hand at it all. 'Why all this?'
'It would appear that my employers share your concern that Dagoska should not fall to the Gurkish. More than that I cannot tell you.'
'Cannot, or will not?'
'Cannot. Will not.'
Glokta frowned at the jewels, at the silver, at the gold. His leg was throbbing, dully. All that I wanted, and far more. But banks do not become banks by giving money away. 'If this is a loan, what is the interest?'
Mauthis flashed his icy smile again. 'My employers would prefer to call it a contribution to the defence of the city. There is one condition, however.'
'Which is?'
'It may be that in the future, a representative of the banking house of Valint and Balk will come to you requesting… favours. It is the most earnest hope of my employers that, if and when that time comes, you will not disappoint them.'
One million marks worth of favours. And I place myself in the power of a most suspect organisation. An organisation whose motives I do not begin to understand. An organisation that, until recently, I was on the point of investigating for high treason. But what are my options? Without money, the city is lost, and I am finished. I needed a miracle, and here it is, sparkling before me. A man lost in the desert must take such water as is offered…
Mauthis slid the document across the table. Several blocks of neat writing, and a space, for a name. For my name. Not at all unlike a paper of confession. And prisoners always sign their confessions. They are only offered when there is no choice.
Glokta reached for the pen, dipped it in the ink, wrote his name in the space provided.
'That concludes our business.' Mauthis rolled up the document, smoothly and precisely. He slipped it carefully into his coat. 'My colleagues and I are leaving Dagoska this evening.' A great deal of money to contribute to the cause, but precious little confidence in it. 'Valint and Balk are closing their offices here, but perhaps we will meet in Adua, once this unfortunate situation with the Gurkish is resolved.' The man gave his mechanical smile one more time. 'Don't spend it all at once.' And he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving Glokta alone with his monumental windfall.
He shuffled over to it, breathing hard, and stared down. There was something obscene about all that money. Something disgusting. Something frightening, almost. He snapped shut the lids of the two chests. He locked them with trembling hands. He shoved the key in his inside pocket. He stroked the metal bindings of the two boxes with his fingertips. His palms were greasy with sweat. I am rich.
He picked up a clear, cut stone the size of an acorn, and held it up to the window between finger and thumb. The dim light shone back at him through the many facets, a thousand brilliant sparks of fire—blue, green, red, white. Glokta did not know much about gemstones, but he was reasonably sure that this one was a diamond. I am very, very rich.
He looked back at the rest, sparkling on the flat piece of leather. Some of them were small, but many were not. Several were larger than the one he held in his hand. I am immensely, fabulously wealthy. Imagine what one could do with so much money. Imagine what one could control… perhaps, with this much, I can save the city. More walls, more supplies, more equipment, more mercenaries. The Gurkish, thrown back from Dagoska in disarray. The Emperor of Gurkhul, humbled. Who would have thought it? Sand dan Glokta, once more the hero.
He rolled the shining little pebbles around with a finger-tip, lost in thought. But so much spending in so little time could raise questions. My faithful servant Practical Vitari would be curious, and she would make my noble master the Arch Lector curious. One day I beg for money, the next I spend it as if it burns? I was forced to borrow, your Eminence. Indeed? How much? No more than a million marks. Indeed? And who would lend such a sum? Why, our old friends at the banking house of Valint and Balk, your Eminence, in return for unspecified favours, which they might call in at any moment. Of course, my loyalty is still beyond question. You understand, don't you? I mean to say, it's only a fortune in jewels. Body found floating by the docks…
He pushed his hand absently through the cold, hard, glittering stones, and they tickled pleasantly at the skin between his fingers. Pleasant, but perilous. We must still tread carefully. More carefully than ever…
* * *
Fear
« ^ »
It was a long way to the edge of the World, of that there could be no doubt. A long, and a lonely, and a nervous way. The sight of the corpses on the plain had worried everyone. The passing riders had made matters worse. The discomforts of the journey had in no way diminished. Jezal was still constantly hungry, usually too cold, often wet through, and would probably be saddle-sore for the rest of his days. Every night he stretched out on the hard and l
umpy ground, dozed and dreamed of home, only to wake to the pale morning more tired and aching than when he lay down. His skin crawled, and chafed, and stung with the unfamiliar feeling of dirt, and he was forced to admit that he had begun to smell almost as vile as the others. It was enough, altogether, to make a civilised man run mad, and now, to add to all of this, there was the constant nagging of danger.
From that point of view, the terrain was not on Jezal's side. Hoping to shake off any pursuers, Bayaz had ordered them away from the river a few days earlier. The ancient road wound now through deep scars in the plain, through rocky gullies, through shadowy gorges, alongside chattering streams in deep valleys.
Jezal began to think on the endless, grinding flatness almost with nostalgia. At least out there one did not look at every rock, and shrub, and fold in the ground and wonder whether there was a crowd of bloodthirsty enemies behind it. He had chewed his fingernails almost until the blood ran. Every sound made him bite his tongue and spin around in his saddle, clutching at his steels, staring for a murderer, who turned out to be a bird in a bush. It was not fear, of course, for Jezal dan Luthar, he told himself, would laugh in the face of danger. An ambush, or a battle, or a breathless pursuit across the plain—these things, he imagined, he could have taken in his stride. But this endless waiting, this mindless tension, this merciless rubbing-by of slow minutes was almost more than he could stand.
It might have helped had there been someone with whom he could share his unease, but, as far as companionship went, little had changed. The cart still rolled along the cracked old road while Quai sat grim and silent on top. Bayaz said nothing but for the occasional lecture on the qualities of great leadership, qualities which seemed markedly absent in himself. Longfoot was off scouting out the route, only appearing every day or two to let them know how skilfully he was doing it. Ferro frowned at everything as though it was her personal enemy, and at Jezal most of all, it sometimes seemed, her hands never far from her weapons. She spoke rarely, and then only to Ninefingers, to snarl about ambushes, or covering their tracks better, or the possibilities of being followed.
The Northman himself was something of a puzzle. When Jezal had first laid eyes on him, gawping at the gate of the Agriont, he had seemed less than an animal. Out here in the wild, though, the rules were different. One could not simply walk away from a man one disliked, then do one's best to avoid him, belittle him in company, and insult him behind his back. Out here you were stuck with the companions you had, and, being stuck with him, Jezal had come slowly to realise that Ninefingers was just a man, after all. A stupid, and a thuggish, and a hideously ugly one, no doubt. As far as wit and culture went, he was a cut below the lowliest peasant in the fields of the Union, but Jezal had to admit that out of all the group, the Northman was the one he had come to hate least. He had not the pomposity of Bayaz, the watchfulness of Quai, the boastfulness of Longfoot, or the simple viciousness of Ferro. Jezal would not have been ashamed to ask a farmer his opinion on the raising of crops, or a smith his opinion on the making of armour, however dirty, ugly or lowborn they might have been. Why not consult a hardened killer on the subject of violence?
'I understand that you have led men in battle,' Jezal tried as his opening.
The Northman turned his dark, slow eyes on him. 'More than once.'
'And fought in duels.'
'Aye.' He scratched at the ragged scars on his stubbly cheek. 'I didn't come to look like this from a wobbly hand at shaving.'
'If your hand was that wobbly, you would choose, perhaps, to grow a beard.'
Ninefingers chuckled. Jezal was almost used to the sight now. It was still hideous, of course, but smacked more of good-natured ape than crazed murderer. 'I might at that,' he said.
Jezal thought about it a moment. He did not wish to make himself appear weak, but honesty might earn the trust of a simple man. If it worked with dogs, why not with Northmen? 'I myself,' he ventured, 'have never fought in a full-blooded battle.'
'You don't say?'
'No, truly. My friends are in Angland now, fighting against Bethod and his savages.' Ninefingers' eyes swivelled sideways. 'I mean… that is to say… fighting against Bethod. I would be with them myself, had not Bayaz asked me to come on this… venture.'
'Their loss is our gain.'
Jezal looked sharply across. From a subtler source, that might almost have sounded like sarcasm. 'Bethod started this war, of course. A most dishonourable act of unprovoked aggression on his part.'
'You'll get no argument from me on that score. Bethod's got a gift when it comes to starting wars. The only thing he's better at is the finishing of 'em.'
Jezal laughed. 'You can't mean that you think he'll beat the Union?'
'He's beaten worse odds, but you know best. We don't all have your experience.'
The laughter stuttered out in Jezal's throat. He was almost sure that had been irony, and it made him think for a moment. Was Ninefingers looking at him now, and behind that scarred, that plodding, that battered mask thinking, 'what a fool'? Could it be that Bayaz had been right? That there was something to be learned from this Northman after all? There was only one way to find out.
'What's a battle like?' he asked.
'Battles are like men. No two are ever quite the same.'
'How do you mean?'
'Imagine waking up at night to hear a crashing and a shouting, scrambling out of your tent into the snow with your trousers falling down, to see men all around you killing one another. Nothing but moonlight to see by, no clue who're enemies and who're friends, no weapon to fight with.'
'Confusing,' said Jezal.
'No doubt. Or imagine crawling in the mud, between the stomping boots, trying to get away but not knowing where to go, with an arrow in your back and a sword cut across your arse, squealing like a pig and waiting for a spear to stick you through, a spear you won't even see coming.'
'Painful,' agreed Jezal.
'Very. Or imagine standing in a circle of shields no more than ten strides across, all held by men roaring their loudest. There's just you and one other man in there, and that man's won a reputation for being the hardest bastard in the North, and only one of you can leave alive.'
'Hmm,' murmured Jezal.
'That's right. You like the sound of any of those?' Jezal did not, and Ninefingers smiled. 'I didn't think so, and honestly? Nor do I. I've been in all kind of battles, and skirmishes, and fights. Most of them started in chaos, and all of 'em ended in it, and not once did I not come near to shitting myself at some point.'
'You?'
The Northman chuckled. 'Fearlessness is a fool's boast, to my mind. The only men with no fear in them are the dead, or the soon to be dead, maybe. Fear teaches you caution, and respect for your enemy, and to avoid sharp edges used in anger. All good things in their place, believe me. Fear can bring you out alive, and that's the very best anyone can hope for from any fight. Every man who's worth a damn feels fear. It's the use you make of it that counts.'
'Be scared? That's your advice?'
'My advice would be to find a good woman and steer well clear of the whole bloody business, and it's a shame no one told me the same twenty years ago.' He looked sideways at Jezal. 'But if, say, you're stuck out on some great wide plain in the middle of nowhere and can't avoid it, there's three rules I'd take to a fight. First, always do your best to look the coward, the weakling, the fool. Silence is a warrior's best armour, the saying goes. Hard looks and hard words have never won a battle yet, but they've lost a few.'
'Look the fool, eh? I see.' Jezal had built his whole life around trying to appear the cleverest, the strongest, the most noble. It was an intriguing idea, that a man might choose to look like less than he was.
'Second, never take an enemy lightly, however much the dullard he seems. Treat every man like he's twice as clever, twice as strong, twice as fast as you are, and you'll only be pleasantly surprised. Respect costs you nothing, and nothing gets a man killed quicker than confidence.'
'Never underestimate the foe. A wise precaution.' Jezal was beginning to realise that he had underestimated this Northman. He wasn't half the idiot he appeared to be.
'Third, watch your opponent as close as you can, and listen to opinions if you're given them, but once you've got your plan in mind, you fix on it and let nothing sway you. Time comes to act, you strike with no backward glances. Delay is the parent of disaster, my father used to tell me, and believe me, I've seen some disasters.'
'No backward glances,' muttered Jezal, nodding slowly to himself. 'Of course.'
Ninefingers puffed out his pitted cheeks. 'There's no replacement for seeing it, and doing it, but master all that, and you're halfway to beating anyone, I reckon.'
'Halfway? What about the other half?'
The Northman shrugged. 'Luck.'
'I don't like this,' growled Ferro, frowning up at the steep sides of the gorge. Jezal wondered if there was anything in the world she did like.
'You think we're followed?' asked Bayaz. 'You see anyone?'
'How could I see anyone from down here? That's the point!'
'Good ground for an ambush,' muttered Ninefingers. Jezal looked around him, nervously. Broken rocks, bushes, scrubby trees, the ground was full of hiding places.
'Well, this is the route that Longfoot picked for us,' grumbled Bayaz. 'and there's no purpose in hiring a cleaner if you're going to swab the latrines yourself. Where the hell is that damn Navigator anyway? Never around when you want him, only turns up to eat and boast for hours on end! If you knew how much that bastard cost me—'
'Damn it.' Ninefingers pulled his horse up and clambered stiffly down from his saddle. A fallen tree trunk, wood cracked and grey, lay across the gorge, blocking the road.
Before They Are Hanged Page 18