There were some private booths at one end of the stinking common room, vaulted archways full of miserable shadows and even more miserable drunks. And who might one expect to find in such surroundings? Glokta shuffled to a stop beside the last of them.
Well, well, well. I never thought Id see you alive again.
Nicomo Cosca looked even worse than when Glokta first met him, if that was possible. He was spread out against the slimy wall, his hands dangling, his head hanging over to one side, his eyes scarcely open as he watched Glokta work his painful way into a chair opposite. His skin was soapy pale in the flickering light from the single mean candle flame, dark pouches under his eyes, dark shadows shifting over his pinched and pointed face. The rash on his neck had grown angrier, and spread up the side of his jaw like ivy up a ruin. With just a little more effort he might look nearly as ill as me.
Superior Glokta, he wheezed, in a voice as rough as tree-bark, I am delighted that you received my message. What an honour to renew our acquaintance, against all the odds. Your masters did not reward your efforts in the South with a cut throat, eh?
I was as surprised as you are, but no. Though there is still ample time. How was Dagoska after I left?
The Styrian puffed out his hollow cheeks. Dagoska was a real mess, since you are asking. A lot of men dead. A lot of men made slaves. Thats what happens when the Gurkish come to dinner, eh? Good men with bad endings, and the bad men did little better. Bad endings for everyone. Your friend General Vissbruck got one of them.
I understand he cut his own throat. To rapturous approval from the public. How did you get away?
The corner of Coscas mouth curled up, as though he would have liked to smile but had not the energy. I disguised myself as a servant girl, and I fucked my way out.
Ingenious. But far more likely you were the one who opened the gates to the Gurkish, in return for your freedom. I wonder if I would have done the same, in that position? Probably. And lucky for us both.
They say that luck is a woman. Shes drawn to those that least deserve her.
Perhaps so. Though I appear to be both undeserving and unlucky. It is certainly fortunate that you should appear in Adua at this moment. Things are unsettled.
Glokta heard a squeaking, rustling sound and a large rat dashed out from under his chair and paused for a moment in full view. Cosca delved a clumsy hand into his stained jacket and whipped it out. A throwing knife flew out with it, flashed through the air. It shuddered into the boards a good stride or two wide of the mark. The rat sat there for a moment longer, as though to communicate its contempt, then scurried away between the table and chair legs, the scuffed boots of the patrons.
Cosca sucked at his stained teeth as he slithered from the booth to retrieve his blade. I used to be dazzling with a throwing knife, you know.
Beautiful women used to hang from my every word. Glokta sucked at his own empty gums. Times change.
So I hear. All kinds of changes. New rulers mean new worries. Worries mean business, for people in my trade.
It might be that I will have a use for your particular talents, before too long.
I cannot say that I would turn you down. Cosca tipped his bottle up and stuck his tongue into the neck, licking out the last trickle. My purse is empty as a dry well. So empty, in fact, that I dont even have a purse.
There, at least, I am able to assist. Glokta checked that they were not observed, then tossed something across the rough table top and watched it bounce with a click and a spin to a halt in front of Cosca. The mercenary picked it up between finger and thumb, held it to the candle flame and stared at it through one bloodshot eye. This seems to be a diamond.
Consider yourself on retainer. I daresay you could find some like-minded men to assist you. Some reliable men, who tell no tales and ask no questions. Some good men, to help out.
Some bad men, do you mean?
Glokta grinned, displaying the gaps in his teeth. Well. I suppose that all depends on whether youre the employer, or youre the job.
I suppose it does at that. Cosca let his empty bottle drop to the ill-formed floorboards. And what is the job, Superior?
For now, just to wait, and stay out of sight. He leaned from the booth with a wince and snapped his fingers at a surly serving girl. Another bottle of what my friend is drinking!
And later?
Im sure I can find something for you to do. He shuffled painfully forward in his chair to whisper. Between you and me, I heard a rumour that the Gurkish are coming.
Cosca winced. Them again? Must we? Those bastards dont play by the rules. God, and righteousness, and belief. He shuddered. Makes me nervous.
Well, whoever it is banging on the door, Im sure I can organise a heroic last stand, against the odds, without hope of relief. I am not lacking for enemies, after all.
The mercenarys eyes glinted as the girl thumped a full bottle down on the warped table before him. Ah, lost causes. My favourite.
The Habit of Command
West sat in the Lord Marshals tent and stared hopelessly into space. For the past year he had scarcely had an idle moment. Now, suddenly, there was nothing for him to do but wait. He kept expecting to see Burr push through the flap and walk to the maps, his fists clenched behind him. He kept expecting to feel his reassuring presence around the camp, to hear his booming voice call the wayward officers to order. But of course he would not. Not now and not ever again.
On the left sat General Kroys staff, solemn and sinister in their black uniforms, as rigidly pressed as ever. On the right lounged Poulders men, top buttons carelessly undone in an open affront to their opposite numbers, as puffed-up as peacocks displaying their tail feathers. The two great Generals themselves eyed each other with all the suspicion of rival armies across a battlefield, awaiting the edict that would raise one of them to the Closed Council and the heights of power, and dash the others hopes for ever. The edict that would name the new King of the Union, and his new Lord Marshal.
It was to be Poulder or Kroy, of course, and both anticipated their final, glorious victory over the other. In the meantime the army, and West in particular, sat paralysed. Powerless. Far to the north the Dogman and his companions, who had saved Wests life in the wilderness more times than he could remember, were no doubt fighting for survival, watching desperately for help that would never come.
For West, the entire business was very much like being at his own funeral, and one attended chiefly by sneering, grinning, posturing enemies. It was to be Poulder or Kroy, and whichever one it was, he was doomed. Poulder hated him with a flaming passion, Kroy with an icy scorn. The only fall swifter and more complete than his own would be that of Poulder, or of Kroy, whichever of them was finally overlooked by the Closed Council.
There was a dim commotion outside, and heads turned keenly to look. There was a scuffle of feet up to the tent, and several officers rose anxiously from their chairs. The flap was torn aside and the Knight Herald finally burst jingling through it. He was immensely tall, the wings on his helmet almost poking a hole in the tents ceiling as he straightened up. He had a leather case over one armoured shoulder, stamped with the golden sun of the Union. West stared at it, holding his breath.