The Collected Joe Abercrombie (86 page)

‘They built some impressive defences, for primitives.’

A high wall cut through the city before them, casting a long shadow over the squalid buildings of the slum. There was a wide pit in front, freshly dug and lined with sharpened stakes. A narrow bridge led across to a tall gate, set between looming towers. The heavy doors were open, but a dozen men stood before them: sweating Union soldiers in steel caps and studded leather coats, harsh sun glinting on their swords and spears.

‘A well-guarded gate,’ mused Vitari. ‘Considering that it’s inside the city.’

Harker frowned. ‘Since the rebellion, natives have only been allowed within the Upper City if they have a permit.’

‘And who holds a permit?’ asked Glokta.

‘Some skilled craftsmen and so forth, still employed by the Guild of Spicers, but mostly servants who work in the Upper City and the Citadel. Many of the Union citizens who live here have native servants, some have several.’

‘Surely the natives are citizens of the Union also?’

Harker curled his lip. ‘If you say so, Superior, but they can’t be trusted, and that’s a fact. They don’t think like us.’

‘Really?’
If they think at all it will be an improvement on this savage.

‘They’re all scum, these browns. Gurkish, Dagoskan, all the same. Killers and thieves, the lot of them. Best thing to do is to push them down and keep them down.’ Harker scowled out at the baking slum. ‘If a thing smells like shit, and is the colour of shit, the chances are it is shit.’ He turned and stalked off across the bridge.

‘What a charming and enlightened man,’ murmured Vitari.
You read my mind.

It was a different world beyond the gates. Stately domes, elegant towers, mosaics of coloured glass and pillars of white marble shone in the blazing sun. The streets were wide and clean, the residences well maintained. There were even a few thirsty-looking palms in the neat squares. The people here were sleek, well dressed, and white-skinned.
Aside from a great deal of sunburn.
A few dark faces moved among them, keeping well out of the way, eyes on the ground.
Those lucky enough to be allowed to serve? They must be glad that we in the Union would not tolerate such a thing as slavery.

Over everything Glokta could hear a rattling din, like a battle in the distance. It grew louder as he dragged his aching leg through the Upper City, and reached a furious pitch as they emerged into a wide square, packed from one edge to the other with a bewildering throng. There were people of Midderland, and Gurkhul, and Styria, narrow-eyed natives of Suljuk, yellow-haired citizens of the Old Empire, bearded Northmen even, far from home.

‘Merchants,’ grunted Harker.
All the merchants in the world, it looks like.
They crowded round stalls laden with produce, great scales for the weighing of materials, blackboards with chalked-in goods and prices. They bellowed, borrowed and bartered in a multitude of different languages, threw up their hands in strange gestures, shoved and tugged and pointed at one another. They sniffed at boxes of spice and sticks of incense, fingered at bolts of cloth and planks of rare wood, squeezed at fruits, bit at coins, peered through eye-glasses at flashing gemstones. Here and there a native porter stumbled through the crowds, stooped double under a massive load.

‘The Spicers take a cut of everything,’ muttered Harker, shoving impatiently through the chattering press.

‘That must be a great deal,’ said Vitari under her breath.
A very great deal, I should imagine. Enough to defy the Gurkish. Enough to keep a whole city prisoner. People will kill for much, much less.

Glokta grimaced and snarled his way across the square, jolted and barged and painfully shoved at every limping step. It was only when they finally emerged from the crowds at the far side that he realised they were standing in the very shadow of a vast and graceful building, rising arch upon arch, dome upon dome, high over the crowds. Delicate spires at each corner soared into the air, slender and frail.

‘Magnificent,’ muttered Glokta, stretching out his aching back and squinting up, the pure white stone almost painful to look at in the afternoon glare. ‘Seeing this, one could almost believe in God.’
If one didn’t know better.

‘Huh,’ sneered Harker. ‘The natives used to pray here in their thousands, poisoning the air with their damn chanting and superstition, until the rebellion was put down, of course.’

‘And now?’

‘Superior Davoust declared it off limits to them. Like everything else in the Upper City. Now the Spicers use it as an extension to the marketplace, buying and selling and so on.’

‘Huh.’
How very appropriate. A temple to the making of money. Our own little religion.

‘I believe some bank uses part of it for their offices, as well.’

‘A bank? Which one?’

‘The Spicers run that side of things,’ snapped Harker impatiently. ‘Valint and something, is it?’

‘Balk. Valint and Balk.’
So some old acquaintances are here before me, eh? I should have known. Those bastards are everywhere. Everywhere there’s money.
He peered round at the swarming marketplace.
And there’s a lot of money here.

The way grew steeper as they began to climb the great rock, the streets built onto shelves cut out from the dry hillside. Glokta laboured on through the heat, stooped over his cane, biting his lip against the pain in his leg, thirsty as a dog and with sweat leaking out through every pore. Harker made no effort to slow as Glokta toiled along behind him.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to ask him to.

‘Above us is the Citadel.’ The Inquisitor waved his hand at the mass of sheer-walled buildings, domes and towers clinging to the very top of the brown rock, high above the city. ‘It was once the seat of the native King, but now it serves as Dagoska’s administrative centre, and accommodates some of the most important citizens. The Spicers’ guildhall is inside, and the city’s House of Questions.’

‘Quite a view,’ murmured Vitari.

Glokta turned and shaded his eyes with his hand. Dagoska was spread out before them, almost an island. The Upper City sloped away, neat grids of neat houses with long, straight roads in between, speckled with yellow palms and wide squares. On the far side of its long, curving wall lay the dusty brown jumble of the slums. Looming over them in the distance, shimmering in the haze, Glokta could see the mighty land walls, blocking the one narrow neck of rock that joined the city to the mainland, the blue sea on one side and the blue harbour on the other.
The strongest defences in the world, so they say. I wonder if we shall be putting that proud boast to the test before too long?

‘Superior Glokta?’ Harker cleared his throat. ‘The Lord Governor and his council will be waiting.’

‘They can wait a little longer, then. I am curious to know what progress you have made in investigating the disappearance of Superior Davoust.’
It would be most unfortunate if the new Superior were to suffer the same fate, after all.

Harker frowned. ‘Well . . . some progress. I have no doubt the natives are responsible. They never stop plotting. Despite the measures Davoust took after the rebellion, many of them still refuse to learn their place.’

‘I stand amazed.’

‘It is all too true, believe me. Three Dagoskan servants were present in the Superior’s chambers on the night he disappeared. I have been questioning them.’

‘And what have you discovered?’

‘Nothing yet, unfortunately. They have proved exceedingly stubborn.’

‘Then let us question them together.’

‘Together?’ Harker licked his lips. ‘I wasn’t aware that you would want to question them yourself, Superior.’

‘Now you are.’

One would have thought it would be cooler, deep within the rock.
But it was every bit as hot as outside in the baking streets, without the mercy of the slightest breeze. The corridor was silent, dead, and stuffy as a tomb. Vitari’s torch cast flickering shadows into the corners, and the darkness closed in fast behind them.

Harker paused beside an iron-bound door, mopped fat beads of sweat from his face. ‘I must warn you, Superior, it was necessary to be quite . . . firm with them. A firm hand is the best thing, you know.’

‘Oh, I can be quite firm myself, when the situation demands it. I am not easily shocked.’

‘Good, good.’ The key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and a foul smell washed out into the corridor.
A blocked latrine and a rotten rubbish heap rolled into one.
The cell beyond was tiny, windowless, the ceiling almost too low to stand. The heat was crushing, the stench was appalling. It reminded Glokta of another cell. Further south, in Shaffa. Deep beneath the Emperor’s palace.
A cell in which I gasped away two years, squealing in the blackness, scratching at the walls, crawling in my own filth.
His eye had begun to twitch, and he wiped it carefully with his finger.

One prisoner lay stretched out, his face to the wall, skin black with bruises, both legs broken. Another hung from the ceiling by his wrists, knees brushing the floor, head hanging limp, back whipped raw. Vitari stooped and prodded at one of them with her finger. ‘Dead,’ she said simply. She crossed to the other. ‘And this one. Dead a good while.’

The flickering light fell across a third prisoner. This one was alive.
Just.
She was chained by hands and feet, face hollow with hunger, lips cracked with thirst, clutching filthy, bloodstained rags to her. Her heels scraped at the floor as she tried to push herself further back into the corner, gibbering faintly in Kantic, one hand across her face to ward off the light.
I remember. The only thing worse than the darkness is when the light comes. The questions always come with it.

Glokta frowned, his twitching eyes moving from the two broken corpses to the cowering girl, his head spinning from the effort, and the heat, and the stink. ‘Well this is very cosy. What have they told you?’

Harker had his hand over his nose and mouth as he stepped reluctantly into the cell, Frost looming just over his shoulder. ‘Nothing yet, but I—’

‘You’ll get nothing from these two, now, that’s sure. I hope they signed confessions.’

‘Well . . . not exactly. Superior Davoust was never that interested in confessions from the browns, we just, you know . . .’

‘You couldn’t even keep them alive long enough to confess?’

Harker looked sullen.
Like a child unfairly punished by his schoolmaster.
‘There’s still the girl,’ he snapped.

Glokta looked down at her, licking at the space where his front teeth used to be.
There is no method here. No purpose. Brutality, for it’s own sake. I might almost be sickened, had I eaten anything today.
‘How old is she?’

‘Fourteen, perhaps, Superior, but I fail to see the relevance.’

‘The relevance, Inquisitor Harker, is that conspiracies are rarely led by fourteen-year-old girls.’

‘I thought it best to be thorough.’

‘Thorough? Did you even ask them any questions?’

‘Well, I—’

Glokta’s cane cracked Harker cleanly across the face. The sudden movement caused a stab of agony in Glokta’s side, and he stumbled on his weak leg and had to grab at Frost’s arm for support. The Inquisitor gave a squeal of pain and shock, tumbled against the wall and slid into the filth on the cell floor.

‘You’re not an Inquisitor!’ hissed Glokta, ‘you’re a fucking butcher! Look at the state of this place! And you’ve killed two of our witnesses! What use are they now, fool?’ Glokta leaned forward. ‘Unless that was your intention, eh? Perhaps Davoust was killed by a jealous underling? An underling who wanted to silence the witnesses, eh, Harker? Perhaps I should start my investigations with the Inquisition itself!’

Practical Frost loomed over Harker as he struggled to get up, and he shrank back down against the wall, blood starting to dribble from his nose. ‘No! No, please! It was an accident! I didn’t mean to kill them! I just wanted to know what happened!’

‘An accident? You’re a traitor or an utter incompetent, and I’ve no use for either one!’ He leaned down even lower, ignoring the pain shooting up his back, his lips curling away to show his toothless smile. ‘I understand a firm hand is most effective when dealing with primitives, Inquisitor. You will find there are no firmer hands than mine. Not anywhere. Get this worm out of my sight!’

Frost seized hold of Harker by his coat and hauled him bodily through the filth towards the door. ‘Wait!’ he wailed, clutching at the door frame, ‘please! You can’t do this!’ His cries faded down the corridor.

Vitari had a faint smile around her eyes, as though she had rather enjoyed the scene. ‘What about this mess?’

‘Get it cleaned up.’ Glokta leaned against the wall, his side still pulsing with pain, wiped sweat from his face with a trembling hand. ‘Wash it down. Bury these bodies.’