The levies had started eagerly, early that morning, no doubt relieved to be leaving the miserable camp behind, but it hadn't been an hour before a man here or a man there, older than the others, or worse shod, had started to lag, and the column had grown ragged. Men slipped and stumbled in the half-frozen muck, cursing and barging into their neighbours, boots tripping on the boots of the man in front. The battalions had twisted, stretched, turned from neat blocks into shapeless blobs, merged with the units in front and behind, until the column moved in great ripples, one group hurrying forward while the next was still, like the segments of some monstrous, filthy earthworm.
As soon as they reached the bridge they had lost all semblance of order. The ragged companies squeezed into that narrow space, shoving and grunting, tired and bad-tempered. Those waiting behind pressed in tighter and tighter, impatient to be across so they could rest, slowing everything down still further with the weight of their bodies. Then a cart, which had no business being there in any case, had lost a wheel halfway across, and the sluggish flow of men over the bridge had become a trickle. No one seemed to know how to move it, or who to get to fix it, and contented themselves with clambering over it, or slithering around it, and holding up the thousands behind.
Quite a press had built up in the mud on this side of the fast-flowing water. Men barged and grumbled shoulder to shoulder, spears sticking up into the air at all angles, surrounded by shouting officers and an ever increasing detritus of rubbish and discarded gear. Behind them the great snake of shambling men continued its spastic forward movement, feeding ever more soldiers into the confusion before the bridge. There was not the slightest evidence that anyone had even thought about trying to make them stop, let alone succeeded.
All this in column, under no pressure from the enemy, and with a half decent road to march on. West dreaded to imagine trying to manoeuvre them in a battle line, through trees or over broken ground. He jammed his tired eyes shut, rubbed at them with his fingers, but when he opened them the horrifying, hilarious spectacle was still there before him. He hardly knew whether to laugh or cry.
He heard the sound of hooves on the rise behind him. Lieutenant Jalenhorm, big and solid in his saddle. Short on imagination, perhaps, but a fine rider, and a trustworthy man. A good choice for the task that West had in mind.
'Lieutenant Jalenhorm reporting, sir.' The big man turned in his saddle and looked down towards the river. 'Looks like they're having some trouble on the bridge.'
'Doesn't it just. Only the start of our troubles, I fear.'
Jalenhorm grinned down. 'I understand we have the advantage of numbers, and of surprise—'
'As far as numbers go, maybe. Surprise?' West gestured down at the men milling around on the bridge, heard the vague, desperate shouts of their officers. 'This rabble? A blind man would hear us coming from ten miles distance. A blind and a deaf one would probably smell us before we were halfway to battle order. We'll be all day just getting across the river. And that's hardly the worst of our shortcomings. In the area of command, I fear, the gulf between us and our enemy could not possibly be wider. The Prince lives in a dream, and his staff exist only to keep him there, at any price.'
'But surely—'
'The price could be our lives.'
Jalenhorm frowned. 'Come on, West, I hardly want to be going into battle with that thought first on my mind—'
'You won't be going.'
'I won't?'
'You will pick out six good men from your company, with spare mounts. You will ride as hard as possible for Ostenhorm, then north to Lord Marshal Burr's camp.' West reached into his coat and pulled out his letter. 'You will give him this. You will inform him that Bethod is already behind him with the greater part of his strength, and that Prince Ladisla has most ill-advisedly decided to cross the river Cumnur and give the Northmen battle, directly against the Marshal's orders.' West clenched his teeth. 'Bethod will see us coming from miles away. We are handing the choice of the ground to our enemy, so that Prince Ladisla can appear bold. Boldness is the best policy in war, apparently.'
'West, surely it's not that bad?'
'When you reach Marshal Burr, tell him that Prince Ladisla has almost certainly been defeated, quite possibly destroyed, and the road to Ostenhorm left open. He'll know what to do.'
Jalenhorm stared down at the letter, reached out to take it, then paused. 'Colonel, I really wish that you'd send someone else. I should fight—'
'Your fighting cannot possibly make any real difference, Lieutenant, but your carrying this message might. There is no sentiment in this, believe me. I have no more important task than this one, and you are the man I trust to get it done. Do you understand your orders?'
The big man swallowed, then he took the letter, undid a button and slid it carefully down inside his coat. 'Of course, sir. I am honoured to carry it.' He began to turn his horse.
'There is one more thing.' West took a deep breath. 'If I should… get myself killed. When this is over, could you carry a message to my sister?'
'Come on, there'll be no need for—'
'I hope to live, believe me, but this is war. Not everyone will. If I don't come back, just tell Ardee…' He thought about it for a moment. 'Just tell her I'm sorry. That's all.'
'Of course. But I hope you'll tell her yourself.'
'So do I. Good luck.' West held out his hand.
Jalenhorm reached down and squeezed it in his own. 'And to you.' He spurred his mount down the rise, away from the river. West watched him go for a minute, then he took a deep breath and set off in the other direction, towards the bridge.
Someone had to get that damn column moving again.
* * *
Necessary Evils
« ^ »
The sun was half a shimmering golden disc beyond the land walls, throwing orange light into the hallway down which Glokta shuffled, Practical Frost looming at his shoulder. Through the windows as he passed painfully by he could see the buildings of the city casting long shadows up towards the rock. He could almost tell, at each window that he came to, that the shadows were longer and less distinct, the sun was dimmer and colder. Soon it would be gone. Soon it will be night.
He paused for a moment before the doors to the audience chamber, catching his breath, letting the ache in his leg subside, licking at his empty gums. 'Give me the bag, then.'
Frost handed him the sack, put one white hand against the doors. 'You reathy?' he mumbled.
Ready as I'll ever be. 'Let's get on with it.'
General Vissbruck was sitting stiff in his well-starched uniform, jowls bulging slightly over his high collar, hands plucking nervously at each other. Korsten dan Vurms was doing his best to look nonchalant, but his darting tongue betrayed his anxiety. Magister Eider was sitting upright, hands clasped on the table before her, face stern. All business. A necklace of large rubies glowed with the last embers of the setting sun. Didn't take her too long to find some more jewels, I see.
There was one more member of the gathering, and he showed not the slightest sign of nerves. Nicomo Cosca was lounging against the far wall, not far behind his employer, arms crossed over his black breastplate. Glokta noted that he had a sword at his hip, and a long dagger at the other.
'What's he doing here?'
'This concerns everyone in the city,' said Eider calmly. 'It is too important a decision for you to make alone.'
'So he's going to ensure that you get a fair say, eh?' Cosca shrugged and examined his dirty fingernails. 'And what of the writ, signed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council?'
'Your paper will not save us from the Emperor's vengeance if the Gurkish take the city.'
'I see. So you have it in mind to defy me, to defy the Arch Lector, to defy the King?'
'I have it in mind to hear out the Gurkish emissary, and to consider the facts.'
'Very well,' said Glokta. He stepped forwards and upended the bag. 'Give him your ear.' Islik's head dropped onto the table with a hollow clonk
ing sound. It had no expression to speak of, beyond an awful slackness, eyes open and staring off in different directions, tongue lolling slightly. It rolled awkwardly along the beautiful table top, leaving an uneven curve of bloody smears on the brightly polished wood, and came to rest, face up, just in front of General Vissbruck.
A touch theatrical, perhaps, but dramatic. You'd have to give me that. No one can be left in any doubt as to my level of commitment. Vissbruck gawped down at the bloody head on the table before him, his mouth slowly falling further and further open. He started up from his seat and stumbled back, his chair clattering over on the tiles. He raised a shaking finger to point at Glokta.
'You're mad! You're mad! There'll be no mercy for anyone! Every man, woman, and child in Dagoska! If the city falls now, there's no hope for any of us!'
Glokta smiled his toothless smile. 'Then I suggest that every one of you commits themselves wholeheartedly to ensuring that the city does not fall.' He looked over at Korsten dan Vurms. 'Unless it's already too late for that, eh? Unless you've already sold the city to the Gurkish, and you can't go back!'
Vurms' eyes flickered to the door, to Cosca, to the horrified General Vissbruck, to Frost, hulking ominous in the corner, and finally to Magister Eider, still sitting steely calm and composed. And our little conspiracy is jerked from the shadows.
'He knows!' screamed Vurms, shoving back his chair and stumbling up, taking a step towards the windows.
'Clearly he knows.'
'Then do something, damn it!'
'I already have,' said Eider. 'By now, Cosca's men will have seized the land walls, bridged your channel, and opened the gates to the Gurkish. The docks, the Great Temple, and even the Citadel itself, are also in their hands.' There was a faint rattling beyond the door. 'I do believe that I can hear them now, just outside. I am sorry, Superior Glokta, indeed I am. You have done everything his Eminence could have expected, and more, but the Gurkish will already be pouring into the city. You see that further resistance is pointless.'
Glokta looked up at Cosca. 'May I retort?' The Styrian gave a small smile, a stiff bow. 'Most kind. I hate to disappoint you, but the gates are in the hands of Haddish Kahdia, and several of his most committed priests. He said that he would open them to the Gurkish—what was his phrase—"when God himself commanded it." Do you have a divine visitation planned?' It was plain from Eider's face that she had not. 'As for the Citadel, it has been seized by the Inquisition, for the safety of his Majesty's loyal subjects, of course. Those are my Practicals that you can hear outside. As for Master Cosca's mercenaries—'
'At their posts on the walls, Superior, as ordered!' The Styrian snapped his heels together and gave an impeccable salute. 'They stand ready to repel any assault by the Gurkish.' He grinned down at Eider. 'I do apologise that I must leave your service at such a crucial time, Magister, but you understand that I had a better offer.'
There was a stunned pause. Vissbruck could hardly have looked more flabbergasted if he had been struck by lightning. Vurms stared around, wild-eyed. He took one more step back and Frost took a stride towards him. Magister Eider's face had drained of colour. And so the chase ends, and the foxes are at bay.
'You should hardly be surprised.' Glokta settled back comfortably in his chair. 'Nicomo Cosca's disloyalty is a legend throughout the Circle of the World. There's hardly a land under the sun in which he hasn't betrayed an employer.' The Styrian smiled and bowed once more.
'It is your wealth,' muttered Eider, 'not his disloyalty, that surprises me. Where did you get it?'
Glokta grinned. 'The world is full of surprises.'
'You fucking stupid bitch!' screamed Vurms. His steel was only halfway out before Frost's white fist crunched into his jaw and flung him senseless against the wall. Almost at the same moment the doors crashed open and Vitari burst into the room, half a dozen Practicals behind her, weapons at the ready.
'Everything alright?' she asked.
'Actually, we're just finishing up. Take out the rubbish would you, Frost?'
The albino's fingers closed around Vurms' ankle and hauled him bodily across the floor and out of the audience chamber. Eider watched his slack face slide across the tiles, then looked up at Glokta. 'What now?'
'Now the cells.'
'Then?'
'Then we'll see.' He snapped his fingers at the Practicals, jerked his thumb towards the door. Two of them tramped round the table, seized the Queen of merchants by her elbows and bundled her impassively out of the room.
'So,' asked Glokta, looking over at Vissbruck. 'Does anyone else wish to accept the ambassador's offer of surrender?'
The General, who had been standing silently the whole time, snapped his mouth shut, took a deep breath and stood to stiff attention. 'I am a simple soldier. Of course I will obey any order from his Majesty, or his Majesty's chosen representative. If the order is to hold Dagoska to the last man, I will give the last drop of my blood to do it. I assure you that I knew nothing of any plot. I acted rashly, perhaps, but at all times honestly, in what I felt were the best interests of—'
Glokta waved his hand. 'I am convinced. Bored, but convinced.' I have already lost half the ruling council today. To lose any more might make me look greedy. 'The Gurkish will no doubt make their assault at first light. You should look to our defences, General.'
Vissbruck closed his eyes, swallowed, wiped some sweat from his forehead. 'You will not regret your faith in me, Superior.'
'I trust that I will not. Go.'
The General hurried from the room, as though worried that Glokta might change his mind, and the rest of the Practicals followed him. Vitari bent and lifted Vurms' fallen chair and slid it carefully back under the table.
'A neat job.' She nodded slowly to herself. 'Very neat. I'm happy to say I was right about you all along.'
Glokta snorted. 'Your approval is worth less to me than you can ever know.'
Her eyes smiled at him above her mask. 'I didn't say that I approved. I just said that it was neat,' and she turned and sauntered out into the hallway.
That only left him and Cosca. The mercenary leaned against the wall, arms folded carelessly across his breastplate, regarding Glokta with a faint smile. He had not moved the whole time.
'You'd do well in Styria, I think. Very… ruthless? Is that the word? Anyway,' and he gave a flamboyant shrug, 'I look forward very much to serving with you.' Until such time as someone offers you more, eh, Cosca? The mercenary waved a hand at the severed head on the table. 'Would you like me to do something with that?'
'Stick it on the battlements of the land walls, somewhere it can be easily seen. Let the Gurkish understand the strength of our resolve.'
Cosca clicked his tongue. 'Heads on spikes, eh?' He dragged the head off the table by its long beard. 'Never goes out of fashion.'
The doors clicked shut behind him, and Glokta was left alone in the audience chamber. He rubbed at his stiff neck, stretched his stiff leg out beneath the bloody table. A good day's work, all in all. But the day is over now. Outside the tall windows, the sun had finally set over Dagoska.
The sky was dark.
* * *
Among the Stones
« ^ »
The first traces of dawn were creeping over the plain. A glimmer of light on the undersides of the towering clouds and along the edges of the ancient stones, a muddy flare on the eastern horizon. A sight a man rarely saw, that first grey glow, or one that Jezal had rarely seen anyway. At home he would have been safely in his quarters now, sleeping soundly in a warm bed. None of them had slept last night. They had spent the long, cold hours in silence, sitting in the wind, peering into the dark for shapes out on the plain, and waiting. Waiting for the dawn.
Ninefingers frowned at the rising sun. 'Almost time. Soon they'll be coming.'
'Right,' muttered Jezal numbly.
'Listen to me, now. Stay here, and watch the cart. There's plenty of 'em, and more than likely some will get round the back of us. That's why yo
u're here. You understand?'
Jezal swallowed. His throat was tight with the tension. All he could think about was how unfair it was. How unfair, that he should die so young.
'Alright. Me and her will be round the front of the hill there, in around the stones. Most of 'em will come up that way, I reckon. You get in trouble, you shout for us, but if we don't come, well… do what you can. Might be we're busy. Might be we're dead.'
'I'm scared,' said Jezal. He hadn't meant to say it, but it hardly seemed to matter, now.
Ninefingers only nodded, though. 'And me. We're all scared.'
Ferro had a fierce smile on her face as she tightened the straps of her quiver around her chest, pulled the buckle on her sword-belt one notch further, dragged on her archery guard and worked her fingers, twanged at her bow-string, everything neat, and quick, and ready for violence. While she prepared for a fight that would most likely be the death of them all, she looked as Jezal might have done dressing for a night round the taverns of Adua. Yellow eyes shining, excited in the half light, as if she couldn't wait to get started. He had never seen her look happy before. 'She doesn't look scared.' he said.
Ninefingers frowned over at her. 'Well, maybe not her, but she's not an example I'd want to follow.' He watched her for a moment. 'Sometimes, when someone lives in danger for too long, the only time they feel alive is when death's breathing on their shoulder.'
'Right,' muttered Jezal. The sight of the buckle on his own sword-belt, of the grips of his own steels, so proudly polished, made him feel sick now. He swallowed again. Damn it, but his mouth had never been so full of spit.
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