The assassin laughed in his face. “Do you think you can scare me with a bag on the head and a nasty painting?” He looked round at Frost and Severard. “You crowd of freaks?”
“Do I think we scare you? The three of us?” Glokta allowed himself a chuckle at that. “Here you sit, alone, unarmed and thoroughly restrained. Who knows where you are but us, or cares to know? You have no hope of deliverance, or of escape. We’re all professionals here. I think you can guess what’s coming, more or less.” Glokta grinned a sickly grin. “Of course we scare you, don’t play the fool. You hide it well, I’ll admit, but that can’t last. The time will come, soon enough, when you’ll be begging to go back in the bag.”
“You’ll get nothing from me,” growled the assassin, staring him straight in the eye. “Nothing.” Tough. A tough man. But it’s easy to act tough before the work begins. I should know.
Glokta rubbed his leg gently. The blood was flowing nicely now, the pain almost gone. “We’ll keep it simple to begin with. Names, that’s all I want, for now. Just names. Why don’t we start with yours? At least you can’t tell us you don’t know the answer.”
They waited. Severard and Frost stared down at the prisoner, the green eyes smiling, the pink ones not. Silence.
Glokta sighed. “Right then.” Frost planted his fists on either side of the assassins jaw, started to squeeze until his teeth were forced apart. Severard shoved the ends of the tongs in between and forced his jaws open, much too wide for comfort. The assassin’s eyes bulged. Hurts, doesn’t it? But that’s nothing, believe me.
“Watch his tongue,” said Glokta, “we want him talking.”
“Don’t worry,” muttered Severard, peering into the assassin’s mouth. He ducked back suddenly. “Ugh! His breath smells like shit!”
A shame, but I am hardly surprised. Clean living is rarely a priority for hired killers. Glokta got slowly to his feet, limped round the table. “Now then,” he murmured, one hand hovering over his instruments, “where to begin?” He picked up a mounted needle and craned forward, his other hand gripped tight around the top of his cane, probing carefully at the killer’s teeth. Not a pretty set, to be sure. I do believe I’d rather have my teeth than his.
“Dear me, these are in a terrible state. Rotten through and through. That’s why your breath stinks so badly. There’s no excuse for it, a man of your age.”
“Haah!” yelped the prisoner as Glokta touched a nerve. He tried to speak, but with the tongs in place he made less sense than Practical Frost.
“Quiet now, you’ve had your chance to talk. Perhaps you’ll get another later, I haven’t decided.” Glokta put the needle back down on the table, shaking his head sadly. “Your teeth are a fucking disgrace. Revolting. I do declare, they’re just about falling out on their own. Do you know,” he said, as he took the little hammer and chisel from the table, “I do believe you’d be better off without them.”
Flatheads
Grey morning time, out in the cold, wet woods, and the Dogman was just sat there, thinking about how things used to be better. Sat there, minding the spit, turning it round every once in a while and trying not to get too nervous with the waiting. Tul Duru wasn’t helping any with that. He was striding up and down the grass, round the old stones and back, wearing his great boots out, about as patient as a wolf on heat. Dogman watched him stomping—clomp, clomp, clomp. He’d learned a long time ago that great fighters are only good for one thing. Fighting. At pretty much everything else, and at waiting in particular, they’re fucking useless.
“Why don’t you sit yourself down, Tul?” muttered Dogman. “There’s stones aplenty for the purpose. Warmer here by the fire and all. Rest those flapping feet o’ yours, you’re getting me twitchy.”
“Sit me down?” rumbled the giant, coming up and looming over the Dogman like a great bloody house. “How can I sit, or you either?” He frowned across the ruins and into the trees from under his great, heavy brows. “You sure this is the place?”
“This is the place.” Dogman stared round at the broken stones, hoping like hell that it was. He couldn’t deny there was no sign of ’em yet. “They’ll be here, don’t you worry.” So long as they ain’t all got themselves killed, he thought, but he had the sense not to say it. He’d spent enough time marching with Tul Duru Thunderhead to know—you don’t get that man stirred up. Unless you want a broken head, o’ course.
“They better be here soon is all.” Tul’s bloody great hands curled up into fists fit to break rocks with. “I got no taste for just sitting here, arse in the wind!”
“Nor do I, neither,” said the Dogman, showing his palms and doing his best to keep everything gentle, “but don’t you fret on it, big lad. They’ll be along soon enough, just the way we planned. This is the place.” He eyed the hog crackling away, dripping some nice gravy in the fire. His mouth was watering good now, his nose was full of the smell of meat… and something else beside. Just a whiff. He looked up, sniffing.
“You smell something?” asked Tul, peering into the woods.
“Something, maybe.” The Dogman leaned down and took a hold on his bow.
“What is it? Shanka?”
“Not sure, could be.” He sniffed the air again. Smelled like a man, and a mighty sour-smelling one at that.
“I could have killed the fucking pair o’ you!”
Dogman span about, half falling over and near fumbling his bow while he did it. Black Dow wasn’t ten strides behind him, down wind, creeping over to the fire with a nasty grin. Grim was at his shoulder, face blank as a wall, as always.
“You bastards!” bellowed Tul. “You near made me shit with your sneaking around!”
“Good,” sneered Dow. “You could lose some fucking lard.”
Dogman took a long breath and tossed his bow back down. Some relief to know they were in the right spot after all, but he could’ve done without the scare. He’d been jumpy since he saw Logen go over the edge of that cliff. Roll right on over and not a thing anyone could do about it. Could happen to anyone any time, death, and that was a fact.
Grim clambered over the broken stones and sat himself down on one next to the Dogman, gave him the barest of nods. “Meat?” barked Dow, shoving past Tul and flopping down beside the fire, ripping a leg off the carcass and tearing into it with his teeth.
And that was it. That was all the greeting, after a month or more apart. “A man with friends is rich indeed,” muttered the Dogman out the corner of his mouth.
“Whatsay?” spat Dow, cold eyes sliding round, his mouth full of pig, his dirty, stubbly chin all shiny with grease.
Dogman showed his palms again. “Nothing to take offence at.” He’d spent enough time marching with Black Dow to know—you might as well cut your own neck as make that evil bastard angry. “Any trouble while we was split up?” he asked, looking to change the subject.
Grim nodded. “Some.”
“Fucking Flatheads!” snarled Dow, spraying bits of meat in Dogman’s face. “They’re bloody everywhere!” He pointed the hog’s leg across the fire like it was a blade. “I’ve taken enough of this shit! I’m going back south. It’s too bloody cold by half, and fucking Flatheads everywhere! Bastards! I’m going south!”
“You scared?” asked Tul.
Dow turned to look up at him with a big yellow grin, and the Dogman winced. It was a damn fool of a question, that. He’d never been scared in his life, Black Dow. Didn’t know what it was to be scared. “Feared of a few Shanka? Me?” He gave a nasty laugh. “We done some work on them, while you two been snoring. Gave some of ’em warm beds to sleep in. Too warm by half.”