Grim shrugged. “A baker?”
There weren’t much time to think on it. They were all getting shoved together into a big space full of men pushing, and grumbling, and making mess. All kind of soldiers and some old men and women round the edge, starting to get tired of cheering. A well-clipped lad in a black uniform was standing on top of a cart in the midst of this madness and screeching like a lost goat.
“Eighth regiment, towards the Four Corners! Ninth towards the Agriont! If you’re with the tenth you came through the wrong damn gate!”
“Thought we were to the docks, Major!”
“Poulder’s division are dealing with the docks! We’re for the north part of the city! Eighth regiment towards the Four Corners!”
“I’m with the Fourth!”
“Fourth? Where’s your horse?”
“Dead!”
“What about us?” roared Logen. “Northmen!”
The lad stared at them, wide-eyed, then he threw up his hands. “Just get in there! If you see any Gurkish, kill them!” He turned back towards the gate, jerking his thumb over his shoulder into the city. “Ninth regiment towards the Agriont!”
Logen scowled. “We’ll get no sense here.” He pointed down a wide street, full of walking soldiers. Some great tall tower poked up above the buildings. Huge thing, must’ve been built on a hill. “We get split up we’ll just aim at that.” He struck off down that street and Dogman came after, Grim behind with Shivers and his boys, Red Hat and his crew further back. Wasn’t long before the crowds thinned out and they were marching down empty streets, quiet except for some birds calling, happy as ever, not caring a thing for there having been a battle just now, and caring even less that there was another one coming.
Dogman wasn’t giving it a lot of thought either, for all he had his bow loose in one hand. He was too busy staring at the houses down either side of the road. Houses the like of which he’d never seen in his life. Made of little square, red stones, and black wood filled in with white render. Each one of ’em was big enough for a chieftain to be happy with, most with glass windows in as well.
“Bloody palaces, eh?”
Logen snorted. “You think this is something? You should see this Agriont we’re aiming at. The buildings they got there. You never dreamed o’ the like. Carleon’s a pigsty beside this place.”
Dogman had always found Carleon a good bit too built-up. This was downright ridiculous. He dropped back a way, found he was walking next to Shivers. He lore the loaf and held one half out.
“Thanks.” Shivers took a bite out of the end, then another. “Not bad.”
“Ain’t nothing quite like it, is there? That taste o’ new bread? Tastes like… peace, I guess.”
“If you say so.” They chewed together for a while, saying nothing.
Dogman looked sideways. “I think you need to put this feud o’ yours behind you.”
“What feud’s that?”
“How many you got? The one with our new king up there. Ninefingers.”
“Can’t say I haven’t tried.” Shivers frowned up the road at Logen’s back. “But whenever I turn around, there it is beside me.”
“Shivers, you’re a good man. I like you. We all do. You got bones, lad, and brains too, and men’ll follow you. You could go a long way if you don’t get yourself killed, and there’s the problem. I don’t want to see you start up something you can’t put a good end to.”
“You needn’t worry then. Anything I start I’ll make sure I finish.”
Dogman shook his head. “No, no, that ain’t my point, lad, not at all. Maybe you come out on top, maybe you don’t. My point is neither one’s a victory. Blood makes blood, and nothing else. My point is it ain’t too late for you. It ain’t too late for you to be better’n that.”
Shivers frowned at him. Then he tossed the heel of bread away, turned his big shoulder and headed off without another word. Dogman sighed. Some things can’t be put right just with talk. Some things can’t be put right at all.
They came out from the maze of buildings and onto a river. It must’ve been as wide as the Whiteflow, only the banks on each side were made of stone. The biggest bridge the Dogman had ever seen spanned it, railings made of curly iron, wide enough to drive two carts across side by side. Another wall stood at the far end, even bigger than the one they came through first. Dogman took a few gawping steps forward, and he looked up and down the gleaming water, and he saw that there were more bridges. A lot more, and some even bigger, standing out from a great forest of walls, and towers, and soaring high buildings.
A lot of the others were staring too, eyes wide open like they’d stepped out onto the moon. Even Grim had a twist to his face that might’ve been surprise.
“Bloody hell,” said Shivers. “You ever see the like o’ this?”
Dogman’s neck was aching from staring round at it all. “They’ve got so much here. Why do they even want bloody Angland? Place is a shit-hole.”
Logen shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Some men always want more, I guess.”
“Some men always want more, eh, Brother Longfoot?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “I spared your other foot. I spared your life. Now you want freedom, too?”
“Superior,” he wheedled. “If I may, you did undertake to release me… I have upheld my side of the bargain. That door should open onto a square not far from the House of Questions—”
“We shall see.”
One last splintering blow of the axe and the door shuddered back on its rusty hinges, daylight spilling into the narrow cellar. The mercenary with the tattooed neck stood aside and Glokta limped up and peered out. Ah, fresh air. A gift we so often take for granted. A short set of steps led up to a cobbled yard, hemmed in by the grubby backs of grey buildings. Glokta knew it. Just round the corner from the House of Questions, as promised.
“Superior?” murmured Longfoot.
Glokta curled his lip. But where’s the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. “Very well. Let him go.” The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoot’s wrists. “It would be best if I didn’t ever see you again.”
The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. “Don’t worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing.” He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.
“Tell me you brought the things,” said Glokta.
“I’m untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent.” Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. “Time, my friends. Let’s black up.”
As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majesty’s Inquisition. Not that there’s too much of a leap from one to the other.
Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. “Always wise to wear a choice of colours,” he explained. “In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch.” The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. “Can I keep it?”
“No.”
“You’re a hard man, Superior.” He grinned as he tossed the cap away into the shadows. “And I love you for it.” He pulled his own mask on, then frowned at Ardee, standing, confused and exhausted in a corner of the store-room. “What about her?”
“Her? A prisoner, Practical Cosca! A spy in league with the Gurkish. His Eminence expressed his desire to question her personally.” Ardee blinked at him. “It’s easy. Just look scared.”