He felt a sudden touch on his shoulder and he caught his breath and spun round. His leg buckled and he stumbled back against a pillar, almost treading on a gasping native with bandages across his face. Vitari was standing behind him, frowning. “Damn it!” Glokta bit on his lip with his remaining teeth against a searing spasm in his leg. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to sneak up on people?”
“They taught me the opposite. I need to talk to you.”
“Then talk. Just don’t touch me again.”
She eyed the wounded. “Not here. Alone.”
“Oh, come now. What can you have to say to me that you can’t say in front of a room full of dying heroes?”
“You’ll find out when we get outside.”
A chain around the throat, nice and tight, courtesy of his Eminence? Or merely some chat about the weather? Glokta felt himself smiling. I can hardly wait to find out. He held one hand up to Frost and the albino faded back into the shadows, then he limped after Vitari, threading their way through the groaning casualties and out through the door at the back, into the open air. The sharp smell of sweat swapped for the sharp smell of burning, and something else…
Long, lozenge shapes were stacked up shoulder high against the wall of the temple, swathed in rough grey cloth, some of it spotted and stained with brown blood. A whole heap of them. Corpses, waiting patiently to be buried. This morning’s harvest. What a wonderfully macabre spot for a pleasant little chat. I could hardly have picked a better.
“So, how are you enjoying the siege? It’s a bit noisy for my taste, but your friend Cosca seems to like it—”
“Where’s Eider?”
“What?” snapped Glokta, stalling for time while he thought about how to answer. I hardly expected her to find out about that so soon.
“Eider. You remember? Dressed like an expensive whore? Adornment to the city’s ruling council? Tried to betray us to the Gurkish? Her cell’s empty. Why?”
“Oh, her. She’s at sea.” True. “With fifty strides of good chain round her.” False. “She’s adorning the bottom of the bay now, since you ask.”
Vitari’s orange brows drew in with suspicion. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“I’ve got better things to do than keep you informed. We’ve a war to lose, or hadn’t you noticed?” Glokta turned away but her hand shot out in front of him and slapped on to the wall, her long arm barring his path.
“Keeping me informed means keeping Sult informed. If we start telling him different stories—”
“Where have you been the last few weeks?” He chuckled as he gestured at the pile of shrouded shapes beside the wall. “It’s a funny thing. The closer the Gurkish get to breaking through our walls and murdering every living thing in Dagoska, the less I seem to care about his fucking Eminence! Tell him what you please. You’re boring me.” He made to push past her arm but found it did not move.
“What if I were to tell him what you please?” she whispered.
Glokta frowned. Now that isn’t boring. Sult’s favourite Practical, sent here to make sure I tread the righteous path, offering deals? A trick? A trap? Their faces were no more than a foot apart, and he stared hard into her eyes, trying to guess what she was thinking. Is there just the slightest trace of desperation there? Could the motive be nothing more than simple self-preservation? When you lose the instinct yourself, it’s hard to remember how powerful it is for everyone else. He felt himself starting to smile. Yes, I see it now. “You thought you’d be recalled once the traitors had been found, didn’t you? You thought Sult would arrange a nice little boat home! But now there are no boats for anyone, and you’re worried your kindly uncle’s forgotten all about you! That you’ve been tossed to the Gurkish with the rest of the damn dogmeat!”
Vitari’s eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you a secret. I didn’t choose to be here any more than you did, but I learned a long time ago that when Sult tells you to do a thing you’d better look like you did it. All I care about is getting out of here alive.” She moved even closer. “Can we help each other?”
Can we indeed? I wonder. “Alright then. I daresay I can squeeze one extra friend into the social whirl that is my life. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
“You’ll see what you can do?”
“That’s the best you’ll get. The fact is I’m not much good at helping people. Out of practice, you see.” He leered his toothless grin in her face, lifted her slack arm out of the way with his cane, then hobbled past the heap of bodies and back towards the temple door.
“What shall I tell Sult about Eider?”
“Tell him the truth,” Glokta called over his shoulder. “Tell him she’s dead.”
Tell him we all are.
So This is Pain
“Where am I?” asked Jezal, only his jaw would not move. The cartwheels squealed as they turned, everything blinding bright and blurry, sound and light digging into his aching skull.
He tried to swallow, but could not. He tried to raise his head. Pain stabbed through his neck and his stomach heaved.
“Help!” he squealed, but nothing came out beyond a bubbling croak. What had happened? Painful sky above, painful boards underneath. He was lying in a cart, head on a scratchy sack, bouncing and jolting.
There had been a fight, he remembered that. A fight among the stones. Someone had called out. A crunch and blinding light, then nothing but pain. Even trying to think was painful. He lifted his arm to feel his face, but found that he couldn’t. He tried to shift his legs, to push himself up, but he couldn’t do that either. He worked his mouth, grunting, moaning.
His tongue was unfamiliar, three times its usual size, like a bloody lump of ham that had been shoved between his jaws, filling his mouth so he could hardly breathe. The right side of his face was a mask of agony. With every lurch of the cart his jaws rattled together, sending white-hot stabs of pain from his teeth into his eyes, his neck, the very roots of his hair. There were bandages over his mouth, he had to breathe through the left side, but even the air moving in his throat was painful.
Panic started to claw at him. Every part of his body was screaming. One arm was bound tight across his chest but he clutched weakly at the side of the cart with the other, trying to do something, anything, his eyes bulging, heart hammering, breath snorting in his nose.
“Gugh!” he growled, “gurrr!” And the more he tried to speak, the more the pain grew, and grew, until it seemed his face would split, until it seemed his skull would fly apart—
“Easy.” A scarred face swam into view above. Ninefingers. Jezal grabbed at him, wildly, and the Northman caught his hand in his own big paw and squeezed it tight. “Easy, now, and listen to me. It hurts, yes. Seems like more than you can take, but it isn’t. You think you’re going to die, but you won’t. Listen to me, because I’ve been there, and I know. Each minute. Each hour. Each day, it gets better.”
He felt Ninefingers’ other hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently back down into the cart. “All you got to do is lie there, and it gets better. You understand? You got the light duty, you lucky bastard.”
Jezal let his limbs go heavy. All he had to do was lie there. He squeezed the big hand and the hand squeezed back. The pain seemed less. Awful still, but within his control. His breath slowed. His eyes closed.
The wind cut over the cold plain, plucking at the short grass, tugging at Jezal’s tattered coat, at his greasy hair, at his dirty bandages, but he ignored it. What could he do about the wind? What could he do about anything?