A peculiar mixture of feigned desire and genuine disgust. Fake longing and genuine loathing. And rendered still more distasteful by the edge of mounting terror. It makes me wonder why I was merciful in the first place.
Glokta snorted. “Must this be embarrassing as well as painful?”
The effort at seduction leaked quickly away. But I note that the fear is going nowhere. It was joined now by a rising note of desperation. “I know that I made a mistake… I was trying to help… please, I meant you no real harm… I caused you no harm, you know it!” He reached out slowly towards the case, watched her horrified eyes follow his white-gloved hand, her voice rising to a squeal of panic. “Only tell me what I can do! Please! I can help you! I can be useful! Tell me what I can do!”
Glokta’s hand paused on its remorseless journey across the table. He tapped one finger against the wood. The finger on which the Arch Lector’s ring glittered in the lamplight. “Perhaps there is a way.”
“Anything,” she gurgled, teary eyes gleaming. “Anything, only name it!”
“You have contacts in Talins?”
She swallowed. “In Talins? Of… of course.”
“Good. I, and some colleagues of mine on the Closed Council, are concerned about the role that Grand Duke Orso means to play in Union politics. Our feeling—our very strong feeling—is that he should stick to bullying Styrians, and keep his nose out of our business.” He gave a significant pause.
“How do I—”
“You will go to Talins. You will be my eyes in the city. A traitor, fleeing for her life, friendless and alone, seeking only a place for a new beginning. A beautiful yet wretched traitor, in desperate need of a strong arm to protect her. You get the idea.”
“I suppose… I suppose that I could do that.”
Glokta snorted. “You had better.”
“I will need money—”
“Your assets have been seized by the Inquisition.”
“Everything?”
“You may have noticed that there is a great deal of rebuilding to do. The king needs every mark he can lay his hands on, and confessed traitors can hardly expect to keep their chattels in such times as these. I have arranged passage for you. When you arrive, make contact with the banking house of Valint and Balk. They will arrange a loan to get you started.”
“Valint and Balk?” Eider looked even more scared than before, if that was possible. “I would rather be in debt to anyone but them.”
“I know the feeling. But it’s that or nothing.”
“How will I—”
“A woman of your resourcefulness? I am sure that you will find a way.” He winced as he pushed himself up from his chair. “I want to be snowed in by your letters. What happens in the city. What Orso is about. Who he makes war with, who he makes peace with. Who are his allies and his enemies. You leave on the next tide.” He turned back, briefly, at the door. “I’ll be watching.”
She nodded dumbly, wiping away the tears of relief with the back of one trembling hand. First it is done to us, then we do it to others, then we order it done. Such is the way of things.
“Are you always drunk by this time in the morning?”
“Your Eminence, you wound me.” Nicomo Cosca grinned. “Usually I have been drunk for hours by now.”
Huh. We each find our ways of getting through the day. “I should thank you for all your help.”
The Styrian gave a flamboyant wave of one hand. A hand, Glokta noticed, flashing with a fistful of heavy rings. “To hell with your thanks, I have your money.”
“And I think every penny well spent. I hope that you will remain in the city, and enjoy Union hospitality for a while longer.”
“Do you know? I believe I will.” The mercenary scratched thoughtfully at the rash on his neck leaving red fingernail marks through the flaky skin. “At least until the gold runs out.”
“How quickly can you possibly spend what I have paid you?”
“Oh, you would be amazed. I have wasted ten fortunes in my time and more besides. I look forward to wasting another.” Cosca slapped his hands down on his thighs, pushed himself up, strolled, somewhat unsteadily, to the door, and turned with a flourish. “Make sure you call on me when you next have a desperate last stand organised.”
“My first letter will bear your name.”
“Then I bid you… farewell!” Cosca swept off his enormous hat and bowed low. Then, with a knowing grin, he stepped through the doorway, and was gone.
Glokta had moved the Arch Lector’s office to a large hall on the ground floor of the House of Questions. Closer to the real business of the Inquisition—the prisoners. Closer to the questions, and the answers. Closer to the truth. And, of course, the real clincher… no stairs.
There were well-tended gardens outside the large windows. The faint sound of a fountain splashing beyond the glass. But inside the room there was none of the ugly paraphernalia of power. The walls were plastered and painted simple white. The furniture was hard and functional. The whetstone of discomfort has kept me sharp this long. No reason to let the edge grow dull, simply because I have run out of enemies. New enemies will present themselves, before too long.
There were some heavy bookcases of dark wood. Several leather-covered desks, already stacked high with documents requiring his attention. Aside from the great round table with its map of the Union and its pair of bloody nail-marks, there was only one item of Sult’s furniture that Glokta had brought downstairs with him. The dark painting of bald old Zoller glowered down from above the simple fireplace. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain Magus I once knew. It is fitting after all, that we maintain the proper perspective. Every man answers to somebody.
There was a knocking at the door, and the head of Glokta’s secretary appeared at the gap. “The Lord Marshals have arrived, Arch Lector.”
“Show them in.”
Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were, all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. Collem West was scarcely recognisable. His hair had fallen out in ugly patches. His face was shrunken, had a yellow tinge about it. His uniform hung slack from his bony shoulders, stained around the collar. He shuffled into the room, bent over in an old man’s stoop, leaning heavily on a stick. He looked like nothing so much as a walking corpse.
Glokta had expected something of the kind, of course, from what Ardee had told him. But the sick shock of disappointment and horror he felt at the sight still caught him by surprise. Like returning to the happy haunt of one’s youth, and finding it all in ruins. Deaths. They happen every day. How many lives have I wrecked with my own hands? What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was. He found himself lurching up from his chair, starting painfully forwards as if to lend some help.
“Your Eminence.” West’s voice was fragile and jagged as broken glass. He made a weak effort at a smile. “Or I suppose… I should call you brother.”
“West… Collem… it is good to see you.” Good, and awful both at once.
A cluster of officers followed West into the room. The wonderfully competent Lieutenant Jalenhorm I remember, of course, but a Major now. And Brint too, made a Captain by his friends swift advancement. Marshal Kroy we know and love from the Closed Council. Congratulations, all, on your advancement. Another man brought up the rear of the party. A lean man with a face horribly burned. But we, of all people, should hardly hold a repulsive disfigurement against him. Each one of them frowned nervously towards West, as though ready to pounce forward if he should slump to the floor. Instead he shuffled to the round table and sagged trembling into the nearest chair.