The Collected Joe Abercrombie (87 page)

Vitari nodded towards the one survivor. ‘What about her?’

‘Give her a bath. Clothes. Food. Let her go.’

‘Hardly worth giving her a bath if she’s going back to the Lower City.’

She has a point there.
‘Alright! She was Davoust’s servant, she can be mine. Put her back to work!’ he shouted over his shoulder, already hobbling for the door. He had to get out. He could hardly breathe in there.

‘I am sorry to disappoint you all, but the walls are far from impregnable, not in their present poor condition . . .’ The speaker trailed off as Glokta shuffled through the door into the meeting chamber of Dagoska’s ruling council.

It was as unlike the cell below as it was possible for a room to be.
It is, in fact, the most beautiful room I ever saw.
Every inch of wall and ceiling was carved in the most minute detail: geometric patterns of frightening intricacy wound round scenes from Kantic legends in life-size, all painted in glittering gold and silver, vivid red and blue. The floor was a mosaic of wondrous complexity, the long table was inlaid with swirls of dark wood and chips of bright ivory, polished to a high sheen. The tall windows offered a spectacular view over the dusty brown expanse of the city, and the sparkling bay beyond.

The woman who rose to greet Glokta as he entered did not seem out of place in the magnificent surroundings.
Not in the slightest.

‘I am Carlot dan Eider,’ she said, smiling easily and holding her hands out to him as though to an old friend, ‘Magister of the Guild of Spicers.’

Glokta was impressed, he had to admit.
If only by her stomach. Not even the slightest sign of horror. She greets me as though I were not a disfigured, twitching, twisted ruin. She greets me as though I looked as fine as she does.
She wore a long gown in the style of the South: blue silk, trimmed with silver, it shimmered around her in the cool breeze through the high windows. Jewels of daunting value flashed on her fingers, on her wrists, round her throat. Glokta detected a strange scent as she came closer.
Sweet. Like the spice that has made her so very rich, perhaps.
The effect was far from wasted on him.
I am still a man, after all. Just less so than I used to be.

‘I must apologise for my attire, but Kantic garments are so much more comfortable in the heat. I have become quite accustomed to them during my years here.’

Her apologising for her appearance is like a genius apologising for his stupidity.
‘Don’t mention it.’ Glokta bowed as low as he could, given the uselessness of his leg and the sharp pain in his back. ‘Superior Glokta, at your service.’

‘We are most glad to have you with us. We have all been greatly concerned since the disappearance of your predecessor, Superior Davoust.’
Some of you, I expect, have been less concerned than others.

‘I hope to shed some light on the matter.’

‘We all hope that you will.’ She took Glokta’s elbow with an effortless confidence. ‘Please allow me to make the introductions. ’

Glokta refused to be moved. ‘Thank you, Magister, but I believe I can make my own.’ He shuffled across to the table under his own power, such as it was. ‘You must be General Vissbruck, charged with the city’s defence.’ The General was in his middle forties, running slightly to baldness, sweating abundantly in an elaborate uniform, buttoned all the way to the neck in spite of the heat.
I remember you. You were in Gurkhul, in the war. A Major in the King’s Own, and well known for being an ass. It seems you have done well, at least, as asses generally do.

‘A pleasure,’ said Vissbruck, scarcely even glancing up from his documents.

‘It always is, to renew an old acquaintance.’

‘We’ve met?’

‘We fought together in Gurkhul.’

‘We did?’ A spasm of shock ran over Vissbruck’s sweaty face. ‘You’re . . .
that
Glokta?’

‘I am indeed, as you say,
that
Glokta.’

The General blinked. ‘Er, well, er . . . how have you been?’

‘In very great pain, thank you for asking, but I see that you have prospered, and that is a tremendous consolation.’ Vissbruck blinked, but Glokta did not give him time to reply. ‘And this must be Lord Governor Vurms. A positive honour, your Grace.’

The old man was a caricature of decrepitude, shrunken into his great robes of state like a withered plum in its furry skin. His hands seemed to shiver even in the heat, his head was shiny bald aside from a few white wisps. He squinted up at Glokta through weak and rheumy eyes.

‘What did he say?’ The Lord Governor stared about him in confusion. ‘Who is this man?’

General Vissbruck leaned across, so close his lips almost brushed the old man’s ear. ‘Superior Glokta, your Grace! The replacement for Davoust!’

‘Glokta? Glokta? Where the hell is Davoust anyway?’ No one bothered to reply.

‘I am Korsten dan Vurms.’ The Lord Governor’s son spoke his own name as though it was a magic spell, offered his hand to Glokta as though it was a priceless gift. He was blond-haired and handsome, spread out carelessly in his chair, a well-tanned glow of health about him, as lithe and athletic as his father was ancient and wizened.
I despise him already.

‘I understand that you were once quite the swordsman.’ Vurms looked Glokta up and down with a mocking smile. ‘I fence myself, and there’s really no one here to challenge me. Perhaps we might have a bout?’
I’d love to, you little bastard. If I still had my leg I’d give you a bout of the shits before I was done.

‘I did fence but, alas, I had to give it up. Ill health.’ Glokta leered back a toothless smile of his own. ‘I daresay I could still give you a few pointers, though, if you’re keen to improve.’ Vurms frowned at that, but Glokta had already moved on. ‘You must be Haddish Kahdia.’

The Haddish was a tall, slender man with a long neck and tired eyes. He wore a simple white robe, a plain white turban wound about his head.
He looks no more prosperous than any of the other natives down in the Lower City, and yet there is a certain dignity about him.

‘I am Kahdia, and I have been chosen by the people of Dagoska to speak for them. But I no longer call myself Haddish. A priest without a temple is no priest at all.’

‘Must we still hear about the temple?’ whined Vurms.

‘I am afraid you must, while I sit on this council.’ He looked back at Glokta. ‘So there is a new Inquisitor in the city? A new devil. A new bringer of death. Your comings and goings are of no interest to me, torturer.’

Glokta smiled.
Confessing his hatred for the Inquisition without even seeing my instruments. But then his people can hardly be expected to have much love for the Union, they’re little better than slaves in their own city. Could he be our traitor?

Or him?
General Vissbruck seemed every inch a loyal military man, a man whose sense of duty was too strong, and whose imagination was too weak, for intrigue.
But few men become Generals without looking to their own profit, without oiling the wheels, without keeping some secrets.

Or him?
Korsten dan Vurms was sneering at Glokta as though at a badly-cleaned latrine he had to use.
I’ve seen his like a thousand times, the arrogant whelp. The Lord Governor’s own son, perhaps, but it’s plain enough he has no loyalty to anyone beyond himself.

Or her?
Magister Eider was all comely smiles and politeness, but her eyes were hard as diamonds.
Judging me like a merchant judges an ignorant customer. There’s more to her than fine manners and a weakness for foreign tailoring. Far more.

Or him?
Even the old Lord Governor seemed suspect now.
Are his eyes and ears as bad as he claims? Or is there a hint of play-acting in his squinting, his demands to know what’s going on? Does he already know more than anyone?

Glokta turned and limped towards the window, leaned against the beautifully carved pillar beside it and peered out at the astonishing view, the evening sun still warm on his face. He could already feel the council members shifting restlessly, keen to be rid of him.
I wonder how long before they order the cripple out of their beautiful room? I do not trust a one of them. Not a one. He smirked to himself. Precisely as it should be.

It was Korsten dan Vurms who lost patience first. ‘Superior Glokta,’ he snapped. ‘We appreciate your thoroughness in presenting yourself here, but I am sure you have urgent business to attend to. We certainly do.’

‘Of course.’ Glokta hobbled back to the table with exaggerated slowness as if he were leaving the room. Then he slid out a chair and lowered himself into it, wincing at the pain in his leg. ‘I will try to keep my comments to a minimum, at least to begin with.’

‘What?’ said Vissbruck.

‘Who is this fellow?’ demanded the Lord Governor, craning forwards and squinting with his weak eyes. ‘What is going on here?’

His son was more direct. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded. ‘Are you mad?’ Haddish Kahdia began to chuckle softly to himself. At Glokta, or at the rage of the others, it was impossible to say.

‘Please, gentlemen, please.’ Magister Eider spoke softly, patiently. ‘The Superior has only just arrived, and is perhaps ignorant of how we conduct business in Dagoska. You must understand that your predecessor did not attend these meetings. We have been governing this city successfully for several years, and—’

‘The Closed Council disagrees.’ Glokta held up the King’s writ between two fingers. He let everyone look at it for a moment, making sure they could see the heavy seal of red and gold, then he flicked it across the table.

The others stared over suspiciously as Carlot dan Eider picked up the document, unfolded it and started to read. She frowned, then raised one well-plucked eyebrow. ‘It seems that we are the ignorant ones.’

‘Let me see that!’ Korsten dan Vurms snatched the paper out of her hands and started to read it. ‘It can’t be,’ he muttered. ‘It can’t be!’

‘I’m afraid that it is.’ Glokta treated the assembly to his toothless leer. ‘Arch Lector Sult is most concerned. He has asked me to look into the disappearance of Superior Davoust, and also to examine the city’s defences. To examine them carefully, and to ensure that the Gurkish stay on the other side of them. He has instructed me to use whatever measures I deem necessary.’ He gave a significant pause. ‘Whatever . . . measures.’

‘What is that?’ grumbled the Lord Governor. ‘I demand to know what is going on!’

Vissbruck had the paper now. ‘The King’s writ,’ he breathed, mopping his sweaty forehead on the back of his sleeve, ‘signed by all twelve chairs on the Closed Council. It grants full powers!’ He laid it down gently on the inlaid table-top, as though worried it might suddenly burst into flames. ‘This is—’

‘We all know what it is.’ Magister Eider was watching Glokta thoughtfully, one fingertip stroking her smooth cheek.
Like a merchant who suddenly becomes aware that her supposedly ignorant customer has fleeced her, and not the other way around.
‘It seems Superior Glokta will be taking charge.’

‘I would hardly say taking charge, but I will be attending all further meetings of this council. You should consider that the first of a very great number of changes.’ Glokta gave a comfortable sigh as he settled into his beautiful chair, stretching out his aching leg, resting his aching back. Almost comfortable. He glanced across the frowning faces of the city’s ruling council.
Except, of course, that one of these charming people is most likely a dangerous traitor. A traitor who has already arranged the disappearance of one Superior, and may very well now be considering the removal of a second . . .

Glokta cleared his throat. ‘Now then, General Vissbruck, what were you saying as I arrived? Something about the walls?’

The Wounds of the Past

‘T
he mistakes of old,’ intoned Bayaz with the highest pomposity, ‘should be made only once. Any worthwhile education, therefore, must be founded on a sound understanding of history.’

Jezal gave vent to a ragged sigh. Why on earth the old man had undertaken to enlighten him was past his understanding. The towering self-interest, perhaps, of the mildly senile was to blame. In any case, Jezal was unshakable in his determination not to learn a thing.

‘. . . yes, history,’ the Magus was musing, ‘there is a lot of history in Calcis . . .’

Jezal glanced around him, unimpressed in the extreme. If history was nothing more than age, then Calcis, ancient city-port of the Old Empire, was plainly rich with it. If history went further – to grandeur, to glory, to something which stirred the blood – then it was conspicuously absent.

Doubtless the city had been carefully laid out, with wide, straight streets positioned to give the traveller magnificent views. But what might once have been proud civic vistas, the long centuries had reduced to panoramas of decay. Everywhere there were abandoned houses, empty windows and doorways gazing sadly out into the rutted squares. They passed side-streets choked with weeds, with rubble, with rotting timbers. Half the bridges across the sluggish river had collapsed and never been repaired; half the trees in the broad avenues were dead and withered, throttled by ivy.