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? Glokta 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?”