Glokta looked back to Morrow. How quickly things can change, eh, Harlen? One minute everyone wants to know you. The next? He tapped sadly at his useless foot with the filthy toe of his cane. Youre fucked. Its a tough lesson. I should know.
Marovias secretary backed away, tongue darting over his lips, one hand held out in front of him. Now hold on
Why? Glokta pushed out his bottom lip. Do you really think we can grow to love each other again after all this?
Perhaps we can come to some
Im not upset that you tried to kill me. But to make such a pathetic effort at it? Were professionals, Morrow. Its an insult, that you thought this might work.
Im hurt, muttered Severard.
Wounded, sang Vitari, chain jingling in the darkness.
Deethly othended, grunted Frost, herding Morrow back towards the pen.
You should have stuck to licking Hoffs big drunk arse. Or maybe you should have stayed on the farm, with your pigs. Tough work, perhaps, in the early morning, and so on. But its a living.
Just wait! Just wuurgh
Severard grabbed Morrows shoulder from behind, stabbed him through the side of his neck and chopped his throat out as calmly as if he was gutting a fish.
Blood showered over Gloktas boots and he stumbled back, wincing as pain shot up his ruined leg. Shit! he hissed through his gums, nearly stumbling and falling on his arse in the filth, only managing to stay upright by clinging desperately to the fence beside him. Couldnt you just have strangled him?
Severard shrugged. Same result, isnt it? Morrow slid to his knees, eye-glasses skewed across his face, one hand clutching at his cut neck while blood bubbled out into his shirt collar.
Glokta watched the clerk tip onto his back, one leg kicking at the floor, his scraping heel leaving long streaks in the stinking muck. Alas for the pigs on the farm. They will never now see young master Morrow coming back over the hill, returned from his brave life in the glittering city, his breath smoking in the cold, cold morning
The secretarys convulsions grew gentler, and gentler, and he lay still. Glokta clung to the rail for a moment, watching the corpse. When was it exactly that I became this? By small degrees, I suppose. One act presses hard upon another, on a path we have no choice but to follow, and each time there are reasons. We do what we must, we do what we are told, we do what is easiest. What else can we do but solve one sordid problem at a time? Then one day we look up and find that we are this.
He looked at the blood gleaming on his boot, wrinkled his nose and wiped it off on Morrows trouser leg. Ah, well. I would love to spend more time on philosophy, but I have officials to bribe, and noblemen to blackmail, and votes to rig, and secretaries to murder, and lovers to threaten. So many knives to juggle. And as one clatters to the filthy floor, another must go up, blade spinning razor sharp above our heads. It never gets any easier.
Our magical friends are back in town.
Severard lifted his mask and scratched behind it. The Magi?
The First of the bastards, no less, and his bold company of heroes. Him, and his slinking apprentice, and that woman. The Navigator too. Keep an eye on them, and see if theres a piglet we can separate from the herd. Its high time we knew what they were about. Do you still have your charming house, by the water?
Of course.
Good. Perhaps for once we can get ahead of the game, and when his Eminence demands answers we can have them to hand. And I can finally earn a pat on the head from my master.
What shall we do with these? asked Vitari, jerking her spiky head towards the corpses.
Glokta sighed. The hogs will eat anything, apparently.
The city was growing dark as Glokta dragged his ruined leg through the emptying streets and up towards the Agriont. The shopkeepers were closing their doors, the householders were lighting their lamps, candlelight spilling out into the dusky alleyways through chinks around the shutters. Happy families settling down to happy dinners, no doubt. Loving fathers with their lovely wives, their adorable children, their full and meaningful lives. My heartfelt congratulations.
He pressed his remaining teeth into his sore gums with the effort of maintaining his pace, sweat starting to dampen his shirt, his leg burning more and more with every lurching step. But Im not stopping for this useless lump of dead meat. The pain crept up from ankle to knee, from knee to hip, from hip all the way up his twisted spine and into his skull. All this effort just to kill a mid-level administrator, who worked no more than a few buildings away from the House of Questions in any case. Its a damn waste of my time, is what it is, its a damn
Superior Glokta?
A man had stepped up, respectfully, his face in shadow. Glokta squinted at him. Do I
It was well done, there was no denying it. He was not even aware of the other man until the bag was over his head and one of his arms was twisted behind his back, pushing him helplessly forward. He stumbled, fumbled his cane and heard it clatter to the cobbles.
Aargh! A searing spasm shot through his back as he tried unsuccessfully to drag his arm free, and he was forced to hang limp, gasping with pain inside the bag. In a moment they had his wrists tied and he felt a powerful hand shoved under each of his armpits. He was marched away with great speed, one man on each side, his feet barely scraping on the cobbles as they went. The fastest Ive walked in a good long while, anyway. Their grip was not rough, but it was irresistible. Professionals. An altogether better class of thug than Morrow stretched to. Whoever ordered this is no fool. So who did order it?
Sult himself, or one of Sults enemies? One of his rivals in the race for the throne? High Justice Marovia? Lord Brock? Anyone on the entire Open Council? Or could it be the Gurkish? They have never been my closest friends. The banking house of Valint and Balk, perhaps, chosen finally to call in their debt? Might I have seriously misjudged young Captain Luthar, even? Or could it simply be Superior Goyle, no longer keen to share his job with the cripple? It was quite the list, now that he was forced to consider it.
He heard the footfalls slapping around him. Narrow alleys. He had no idea how far they had come. His breath echoed in the bag, rasping, throaty. The heart thumps, the skin prickles with cold sweat. Excited. Scared, even. What might they want with me? People are not snatched from the street in order to be given promotions, or confections, or tender kisses, mores the pity. I know why people are snatched from the street. Few better.
Down a set of steps, the toes of his boots scuffing helplessly against the treads. The sound of a heavy door being heaved shut. Footsteps echoing in a tiled corridor. Another door closing. He felt himself dumped unceremoniously in a chair. And now, no doubt, for better or worse, we shall find out
The bag was snatched suddenly from his head and Glokta blinked as harsh light stabbed at his eyes. A white room, too bright for comfort. A type of room with which I am sadly familiar. And yet it looks so much uglier from this side of the table. Someone was sitting opposite. Or the blurry outline of a someone. He closed one eye and peered through the other as his vision adjusted.
Well, he murmured. What a surprise.
A pleasant one, I hope.
I suppose well see. Carlot dan Eider had changed. And it would seem that exile has not entirely disagreed with her. Her hair had grown back, not all the way, perhaps, but more than far enough to manage a fetching style. The bruises round her throat had faded, there were only the very faintest of marks where her cheek had been covered in scabs. She had swapped traitors sack-cloth for the travelling clothes of a lady of means, and looked extremely well in them. Jewels twinkled on her fingers, and around her neck. She seemed every bit as rich and sleek as when they first met. That, and she was smiling. The smile of the player who holds all the cards. Why is it that I cannot learn? Never do a good turn. Especially not for a woman.