'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.'
That much I know. Let us try another tack. 'What do you know… about Bayaz.'
'Ah, Bayaz. He was the Prophet's brother. He is the start of this, and will be the end.' Her voice dropped to a whisper. 'Liar and traitor. He killed his master. He murdered Juvens.'
Glokta frowned. 'That is not the way I heard the story.'
'Everyone has their own way of telling every story, broken man. Have you not learned that yet?' Her lip curled. 'You have no understanding of the war you fight in, of the weapons and the casualties, of the victories and the defeats, every day. You do not guess at the sides, or the causes, or the reasons. The battlefields are everywhere. I pity you. You are a dog, trying to understand the argument of scholars, and hearing nothing but barking. The righteous are coming. Khalul will sweep the earth clean of lies and build a new order. Juvens will be avenged. It is foretold. It is ordained. It is promised.'
'I doubt you'll see it.'
She grinned at him. 'I doubt you will either. My father would rather have taken this city without a fight, but if he must fight for it then he will, and with no mercy, and with the fury of God behind him. That is the first step on the path he has chosen. On the path he has chosen for all of us.'
'What step comes next?'
'Do you think my masters tell me their plans? Do yours? I am a worm. I am nothing. And yet I am more than you are.'
'What comes next?' hissed Glokta. Nothing but silence.
'Answer him!' hissed Vitari. Frost hauled an iron from the brazier, the tip glowing orange, and ground it into Shickel's bare shoulder. Foul-smelling steam hissed up, fat spat and sizzled, but the girl said nothing. Her lazy eyes watched her own flesh burn, without emotion. There will be no answers here. Only more questions. Always more questions.
'I've had enough,' snarled Glokta as he seized hold of his cane and struggled up, squirming in a painful and futile effort to make his shirt come unstuck from his back.
Vitari gestured at Shickel, her gleaming eyes still fixed on Glokta under their drooping lids, a faint smile still clinging to her lips. 'What should we do with this?'
An expendable agent of an uncaring master, sent unwilling to a faraway place, to fight, and kill, for reasons she hardly understands. Sound familiar? Gl
okta grimaced as he turned his aching back on the stinking chamber.
'Burn it,' he said.
Glokta stood on his balcony in the sharp evening, frowning down towards the Lower City.
It was windy up here on the rock, a cold wind off the dark sea, whipping at Glokta's face, at his fingers on the dry parapet, slapping the tails of his coat against his legs. The closest thing we'll get to winter in this cursed crucible. The flames of the torches by the door flapped and flickered in their iron cages, two lights in the gathering darkness. There were more lights out there, many more. Lamps burned on the rigging of the Union ships in the harbour, their reflections flashing and breaking in the water below. Lights glowed in the windows of the dark palaces under the citadel, in the tops of the lofty spires of the Great Temple. Down in the slums, thousands of torches burned. Rivers of tiny points of light, flowing out of the buildings, onto the roads, towards the gates of the Upper City. Refugees leaving their homes, such as they are. Heading for safety, such as it is. How long can we keep them safe, I wonder, once the land walls fall? He knew the answer already. Not long.
'Superior!'
'Why, Master Cosca. I'm so glad you could join me.'
'Of course! There's nothing like a stroll in the evening air after a skirmish.' The mercenary strutted over. Even in the gloom, Glokta could see the difference in him. He walked with a spring in his step, a glint in his eye, his hair neatly brushed, his moustache waxed stiff. An inch or two taller and a good ten years younger, all of a sudden. He pranced to the parapet, closed his eyes and sucked a deep breath through his sharp nose.
'You look remarkably well for someone who has just fought in a battle.'
The Styrian grinned at him. 'I wasn't so much in the battle as just behind it. I've always felt the very front is a poor place to fight from. No one can hear you with all the clatter. That, and the chances of being killed there are really very high.'
'Doubtless. How did it go for us?'
'The Gurkish are still outside, so I'd say, as far as battles go, it went well. I doubt the dead would agree with me, but who cares a shit for their opinion?' He scratched happily at his neck. 'We did well today. But tomorrow, and the day after, who can say? Still no chance of reinforcement?' Glokta shook his head and the Styrian took in a sharp breath. 'It's all the same to me, of course, but you may want to consider a withdrawal while we still hold the bay.'
Everyone would like to withdraw. Even me. Glokta snorted. 'The Closed Council hold my leash, and they say no. The King's honour will not permit it, they inform me, and apparently his honour is more valuable than our lives.'
Cosca raised his brows. 'Honour, eh? What the hell is that anyway? Every man thinks it's something different. You can't drink it. You can't fuck it. The more of it you have the less good it does you, and if you've got none at all you don't miss it.' He shook his head. 'But some men think it's the best thing in the world.'
'Uh,' muttered Glokta, licking at his empty gums. Honour is worth less than one's legs, or one's teeth. A lesson I paid dearly for. He peered towards the shadowy outline of the land walls, studded with burning bonfires. The vague sounds of fighting could still be heard, the odd flaming arrow soared high into the air and fell in the ruined slums. Even now, the bloody business continues. He took a deep breath. 'What are our chances of holding out for another week?'
'Another week?' Cosca pursed his lips. 'Reasonable.'
'Two weeks?'
'Two?' Cosca clicked his tongue. 'Less good.'
'Which would make a month a hopeless cause.'
'Hopeless would be the word.'
'You seem almost to revel in the situation.'
'Me? I've made a speciality from hopeless causes.' He grinned at Glokta. 'These days, they're the only ones that will have me.'
I know the feeling. 'Hold the land walls as long as you can, then pull back. The walls of the Upper City must be our next line of defence.'
Cosca's grin could just be seen shining in the darkness. 'Hold as long as we can, and then pull back! I can hardly wait!'
'And perhaps we should prepare some surprises for our Gurkish guests when they finally make it past the walls. You know,' and Glokta waved his hand absently, 'tripwires and hidden pits, spikes daubed with excrement and so on. You've some experience in that type of warfare, I daresay.'
'I am experienced in all types of warfare.' Cosca snapped his heels together and gave an elaborate salute. 'Spikes and excrement! There's honour for you.'
This is war. The only honour is in winning. 'Talking of honour, you'd best let our friend General Vissbruck know where your surprises are. It would be a shame if he were to impale himself by accident.'
'Of course, Superior. A dreadful shame.'
Glokta felt his hand bunching into a fist on the parapet. 'We must make the Gurkish pay for every stride of ground.' We must make them pay for my ruined leg. 'For every inch of dirt.' For my missing teeth. 'For every meagre shack, and crumbling hut, and worthless stretch of dust.' For my weeping eye, and my twisted back, and my repulsive shadow of a life. He licked at his empty gums. 'Make them pay.'
'Excellent! The only good Gurkish are the dead ones!' The mercenary spun and marched through the door into the Citadel, his spurs jingling, leaving Glokta alone on the flat roof.
One week? Yes. Two weeks? Perhaps. Any longer? Hopeless. There may have been no ships, but that old riddler Yulwei was still right. And so was Eider. There never was any chance. For all our efforts, for all our sacrifices, Dagoska must surely fall. It is only a matter of time, now.
He stared out across the darkened city. It was hard to separate the land from the sea in the blackness, the lights on the boats from the lights in the buildings, the torches on the rigging from the torches in the slums. All was a confusion of points of light, flowing around each other, disembodied in the void. There was only one certainty in all of it.
We're finished. Not tonight, but soon. We are surrounded, and the net will only draw tighter. It is a matter of time.
* * *
Scars
« ^ »
One by one, Ferro took out the stitches—slitting the thread neatly with the shining point of her knife, working them gently out of Luthar's skin, dark fingertips moving quick and sure, yellow eyes narrowed with concentration. Logen watched her work, shaking his head slowly at the skill of it. He'd seen it done often, but never so well. Luthar barely even looked in pain, and he always looked in pain lately.
'Do we need another bandage on it?'
'No. We let it breathe.' The last stitch slid out, and Ferro tossed the bloody bits of thread away and rocked back on her knees to look at the results.
'That's good,' said Logen, voice hushed. He'd never guessed that it could come out half so well. Luthar's jaw looked slightly bent in the firelight, like he was biting down on one side. There was a ragged notch out of his lip, and a forked scar torn from it down to the point of his chin, pink dots on either side where the stitches had been, the skin around it stretched and twisted. Nothing more, but for some swelling that'd soon go down. 'That's some damn good stitching. I never saw any better. Where d'you learn healing?'
'A man called Aruf taught me.'
'Well he taught you well. Rare skill to have. Happy chance for us that he did it.'
'I had to fuck him first.'
'Ah.' That did shine a bit of a different light on it.
Ferro shrugged. 'I didn't mind. He was a good man, more or less, and he taught me how to kill, into the bargain. I've fucked a lot of worse men for a lot less.' She frowned at Luthar's jaw, pressing it with her thumbs, testing the flesh round the wound. 'A lot less.'
'Right,' muttered Logen. He exchanged a worried glance with Luthar. This conversation hadn't gone at all the way he'd imagined. Maybe he should've expected that with Ferro. He spent half the time trying to prise a word out of her, then when she did give him something, he didn't have a clue where to go with it.
'It's set,' she grunted, after probing Luthar's face for a mo
ment in silence.
'Thank you.' He grabbed hold of her hand as she moved back. 'Truly. I don't know what I'd have—'
She grimaced as if he'd slapped her and snatched her fingers away. 'Fine! But if you get your face smashed again you can stitch it yourself.' And she got up and stalked off, sat down in the shifting shadows in the corner of the ruin, as far away from the others as she could get without going outside. She seemed to like thanks even less than she liked any other kind of talk, but Luthar was too pleased to finally have the dressings off to worry much about it.
'How does it look?' he asked, peering down cross-eyed at his own chin, wincing and prodding at it with one finger.
'It's good,' said Logen. 'You're lucky. You might not be quite so pretty as you were, but you're still a damn sight better-looking than me.'
'Of course,' he said, licking at the notch in his lip, half-smiling. 'It isn't as though they cut my head right off.'
Logen grinned as he knelt down beside the pot and gave it a stir. He was getting on alright with Luthar now. It was a harsh lesson, but a broken face had done that boy a power of good. It had taught him some respect, and a lot quicker than any amount of talk. It had taught him to be realistic, and that had to be a good thing. Small gestures and time. Rarely failed to win folk over. Then he caught sight of Ferro, frowning at him from the shadows, and he felt his grin sag. Some folk take longer than others, and a few never really get there. Black Dow had been like that. Made to walk alone, Logen's father would have said.
He looked back to the pot, but there wasn't much encouragement in it. Just porridge with some shreds of bacon and some chopped-up roots. There was nothing to hunt out here. Dead land meant what it said. The grass on the plain had dwindled to brown tufts and grey dust. He looked round the ruined shell of the house they'd pitched camp in. Firelight flickered on broken stone, crumbled render, ancient splintered wood. No ferns rooted in the cracks, no saplings in the earth floor, not even a shred of moss between the stones. Seemed to Logen as if no one but them had trodden there in centuries. Maybe they hadn't.
Before They Are Hanged Page 35