Marshal Varuz frowned up at him. “You are very lucky. The Major has put up an exceptionally determined defence.” A smile broke West’s features. “You must somehow have earned his respect, even if you have yet to win mine.”
Jezal bent over with his hands on his knees, blowing hard and dripping sweat onto the floor. Varuz took the long case from the table, walked over to Jezal and flipped it open. “Show us your forms.”
Jezal took the short steel in his left hand and the long in his right. They felt light as feathers after the heavy iron. Marshal Varuz backed away a step. “Begin.”
He snapped into the first form, right arm extended, left close to the body. The blades swished and weaved through the air, glittering in the afternoon sun as Jezal moved from one familiar stance to the next with a practised smoothness. At length he was finished, and he let the steels drop to his sides.
Varuz nodded. “The Captain has fast hands, has he not?”
“Truly excellent,” said Major West, smiling broadly. “A damn sight better than ever I was.”
The Lord Marshal was less impressed. “Your knees are too far bent in the third form, and you must strive for more extension on the left arm in the fourth, but otherwise,” he paused, “passable.” Jezal breathed a sigh of relief. That was high praise indeed.
“Hah!” shouted the old man, striking him in the ribs with the end of the case. Jezal sank to the floor, hardly able to breathe. “Your reflexes need work, though, Captain. You should always be ready. Always. If you have steels in your hands, you damn well keep them up.”
“Yes, sir,” croaked Jezal.
“And your stamina is a disgrace, you are blowing like a carp. I have it on good authority that Bremer dan Gorst runs ten miles a day, and barely shows a sweat.” Marshal Varuz leaned down over him. “From now on you will do the same. Oh yes. A circuit of the wall of the Agriont every morning at six, followed by an hour of sparring with Major West, who has been kind enough to agree to act as your partner. I am confident that he will point up all the little weaknesses in your technique.”
Jezal winced and rubbed his aching ribs. “As for the carousing, I want an end to it. I am all for revelry in its proper place, but there will be time for celebration after the Contest, providing you have worked hard enough to win. Until then, clean living is what we need. Do you understand me, Captain Luthar?” He leaned down further, pronouncing every word with great care. “Clean. Living. Captain.”
“Yes, Marshal Varuz,” mumbled Jezal.
Six hours later he was drunker than shit. Laughing like a lunatic he plunged out into the street, head spinning. The cold air slapped him hard in the face, the mean little buildings weaved and swayed, the ill-lit road tipped like a sinking ship. Jezal wrestled manfully with the urge to vomit, took a swaggering step out into the street, turned to face the door. Smeary bright light and loud sounds of laughter and shouting washed out at him. A ragged shape flew from the tavern and struck him in the chest. Jezal grappled with it desperately, then fell. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash.
The world was dark for a moment, then he found himself squashed into the dirt with Kaspa on top of him. “Damn it!” he gurgled, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. He shoved the giggling Lieutenant away with his elbow, rolled over and lurched up, stumbling about as the street see-sawed around him. Kaspa lay on his back in the dirt, choking with laughter, reeking of cheap booze and sour smoke. Jezal made a lame attempt to brush the dirt from his uniform. There was a big wet patch on his chest that smelled of beer. “Damn it!” he mumbled again. “When had that happened?”
He became aware of some shouting on the other side of the road. Two men grappling in a doorway. Jezal squinted hard, strained against the gloom. A big man had hold of some well-dressed fellow, and seemed to be tying his hands behind his back. Now he was forcing some kind of bag over his head. Jezal blinked in disbelief. It was far from a reputable area, but this seemed somewhat strong.
The door of the tavern banged open and West and Jalenhorm came out, deep in drunken conversation, something about someone’s sister. Bright light cut across the street and illuminated the two struggling men starkly. The big one was dressed all in black, with a mask over the lower part of his face. He had white hair, white eyebrows, skin white as milk. Jezal stared at the white devil across the road, and he glared back with narrowed pink eyes.
“Help!” It was the fellow with the bag on his head, his voice shrill with fear. “Help, I am—” The white man dealt him a savage blow in the midriff and he folded up with a sigh.
“You there!” shouted West.
Jalenhorm was already rushing across the street.
“What?” said Kaspa, propped up on his elbows in the road.
Jezal’s mind was full of mud, but his feet seemed to be following Jalenhorm, so he stumbled along with them, feeling very sick. West came behind him. The white ghost started up and turned to stand between them and his prisoner. Another man moved briskly out of the shadows, tall and thin, dressed all in black and masked, but with long greasy hair. He held up a gloved hand.
“Gentlemen,” his whining commoner’s voice was muffled by his mask, “gentlemen please, we’re on the Bang’s business!”
“The King conducts his business in the day-time,” growled Jalenhorm.
The new arrival’s mask twitched slightly as he smiled. “That’s why he needs us for the night-time stuff, eh, friend?”
“Who is this man?” West was pointing at the fellow with the bag on his head.
The prisoner was struggling up again. “I am Sepp dan—oof!” The white monster silenced him with a heavy fist in the face, knocking him limp into the road.
Jalenhorm put a hand on the hilt of his sword, jaw clenching, and the white ghost loomed forward with a terrible speed. Close up he was even more massive, alien, and terrifying. Jalenhorm took an involuntary step back, stumbled on the rutted surface of the road and pitched onto his back with a crash. Jezal’s head was thumping.
“Back!” bellowed West. His sword whipped out of its scabbard with a faint ringing.
“Thaaaaah!” hissed the monster, fists clenched like two big white rocks.
“Aargh,” gurgled the man with the bag on his head.
Jezal’s heart was in his mouth. He looked at the thin man. The thin man’s eyes smiled back. How could anyone smile at a time like this? Jezal was surprised to see that he had a long, ugly knife in his hand. Where did that come from? He fumbled drunkenly for his sword.
“Major West!” came a voice from the shadows down the street, Jezal paused, uncertain, steel halfway out. Jalenhorm scrambled to his feet, the back of his uniform crusted with mud, pulled out his own sword. The pale monster stared at them unblinking, not retreating a finger’s breadth.
“Major West!” came the voice again, accompanied now by a clicking, scraping sound. West’s face had turned pale. A figure emerged from the shadows, limping badly, cane tapping on the dirt. His broad-brimmed hat obscured the upper part of his face, but his mouth was twisted into a strange smile. Jezal noticed with a sudden wave of nausea that his four front teeth were missing. He shuffled towards them, ignoring all the naked steel, and offered his free hand to West.
The Major slowly sheathed his sword, took the hand and shook it limply. “Colonel Glokta?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Your humble servant, though I’m no longer an army man. I’m with the King’s Inquisition now.” He reached up slowly and removed his hat. His face was deathly pale, deeply lined, close-cropped hair scattered with grey. His eyes stared out feverish bright from deep, dark rings, the left one noticeably narrower than the right, pink-rimmed and glistening wet. “And these are my assistants, Practicals Severard,” the lanky one gave a mockery of a bow, “and Frost.”
The white monster jerked the prisoner to his feet with one hand. “Hold on,” said Jalenhorm, stepping forward, but the Inquisitor put a gentle hand on his arm.