The Blade Itself (20 page)

“There’s always something dark about a man with money,” said Severard. “Who are these two?”

Glokta frowned, peering forward. Two small, vague figures could be seen under the arms of the Maker, one on each side. “Who knows?” asked Glokta, “maybe they’re his Practicals.”

Severard laughed. A vague exhalation of air even came from behind Frost’s mask, though his eyes showed no sign of amusement.
My, my, he must be thoroughly tickled.

Glokta shuffled toward the table in the centre of the room. Two chairs faced each other across the smooth, polished surface. One was a spare, hard affair of the sort you found in the cellars of the House of Questions, but the other was altogether more impressive, throne-like almost, with sweeping arms and a high back, upholstered in brown leather.

Glokta placed his cane against the table and lowered himself carefully, back aching. “Oh, this is an excellent chair,” he breathed, sinking slowly back into the soft leather, stretching out his leg, throbbing from the long walk here. There was a slight resistance. He looked beneath the table. There was a matching footstool there.

Glokta tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh this is fine! You shouldn’t have!” He settled his leg down on the stool with a comfortable sigh.

“It was the least we could do,” said Severard, folding his arms and leaning against the wall next to the bleeding body of Juvens. “We did well from your friend Rews, very well. You’ve always seen us right, and we don’t forget that.”

“Unhhh,” said Frost, nodding his head.

“You spoil me.” Glokta stroked the polished wood on the arm of the chair.
My boys. Where would I be without you? Back home in bed with mother fussing over me, I suppose, wondering how she’ll ever find a nice girl to marry me now.
He glanced over the instruments on the table. His case was there, of course, and a few other things, well-used, but still highly serviceable. A pair of long-handled tongs particularly caught his eye. He glanced up at Severard. “Teeth?”

“Seemed a good place to start.”

“Fair enough.” Glokta licked at his own empty gums then cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Teeth, it is.”

As soon as the gag was off the assassin started screaming at them in Styrian, spitting and cursing, struggling pointlessly at his chains. Glokta didn’t understand a word of it.
But I think I catch the meaning, more or less. Something very offensive indeed, I imagine. Something about our mothers, and so on. But I am not easily offended.
He was a rough looking sort, face pockmarked with acne scars, nose broken more than once and bent out of shape.
How disappointing. I was hoping the Mercers might have gone up-market on this occasion at least, but that’s merchants for you. Always looking for the bargain.

Practical Frost ended the torrent of unintelligible abuse by punching the man heavily in the stomach.
That’ll take his breath away for a moment. Long enough to get the first word in.

“Now then,” said Glokta, “we’ll have none of that nonsense here. We know you’re a professional, sent to blend in and do a job. You wouldn’t blend in too well if you couldn’t even speak the language, now would you?”

The prisoner had got his breath back. “Pox on all of you, you bastards!” he gasped.

“Excellent! The common tongue will do nicely for our little chats. I have a feeling we may end up having several. Is there anything you would like to know about us before we begin? Or shall we get straight to it?”

The prisoner stared up suspiciously at the painted figure of the Master Maker, looming over Glokta’s head. “Where am I?”

“We’re just off the Middleway, down near the water.” Glokta winced as the muscles in his leg suddenly convulsed. He stretched it out cautiously, waiting until he heard the knee click before he carried on. “You know, the Middleway is one of the very arteries of the city, it runs straight through its heart, from the Agriont to the sea. It passes through many different districts, has all manner of notable buildings. Some of the most fashionable addresses in the whole city are just up the lane. To me though, it’s nothing but a road between two dentists.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed, then darted over the instruments on the table.
But no more cursing. It seems the mention of dentistry has got his attention.

“Up at the other end of the avenue,” and Glokta pointed roughly northwards, “in one of the most expensive parts of town, opposite the public gardens, in a beautiful white house in the very shadow of the Agriont, is the establishment of Master Farrad. You might have heard of him?”

“Get fucked!”

Glokta raised his eyebrows.
If only.
“They say that Master Farrad is the finest dentist in the world. I believe he came from Gurkhul originally, but he escaped the tyranny of the Emperor to join us in the Union and make a better life for himself, saving our wealthiest citizens from the terrors of bad teeth. When I came back from my own little visit to the South, my family sent me to him, to see if there was anything he could do for me.” Glokta smiled wide, showing the assassin the nature of the problem. “Of course there wasn’t. The Emperor’s torturers saw to that. But he’s a damn fine dentist, everyone says so.”

“So what?”

Glokta let his smile fade. “Down at the other end of the Middleway, down near the sea, in amongst the filth and the scum and the slime of the docks, am I. The rents may be cheap hereabouts, but I feel confident that, once we have spent some time together, you will not think me any less talented than the esteemed Master Farrad. It is simply that my talents lie in a different direction. The good Master eases the pain of his patients, while I am a dentist…” and Glokta leaned slowly forward “…of a different sort.”

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.”

“Burned ’em,” muttered Grim. That was a full day’s talk out of him already.

“Burned a whole fucking pile of ’em,” hissed Dow, grinning like he never heard such a joke as corpses on fire. “They don’t scare me, big lad, no more’n you do, but I don’t plan to sit here waiting for ’em neither, just so Threetrees has time to haul his flabby old arse out of bed. I’m going south!” And he tore off another mouthful of meat.

“Who’s got the flabby arse now?”

Dogman cracked a grin as he saw Threetrees striding over towards the fire, and he started up and grabbed the old boy by the hand. He had Forley the Weakest with him and all, and Dogman clapped the little man on the back as he came past. Nearly knocked him over, he was that pleased to see they were all alive and made it through another month. Didn’t hurt to have some leadership round the fire, neither. Everyone looked happy for once, smiling and pressing hands and all the rest. Everyone but Dow, o’ course. He just sat there, staring at the fire, sucking on his bone, face sour as old milk.

“Right good to see you again, lads, and all in one piece.” Threetrees hefted his big round shield off his shoulder and leant it up against a broken old bit of wall. “How’ve you been?”

“Fucking cold,” said Dow, not even looking up. “We’re going south.”

Dogman sighed. Back together for ten heartbeats and the bickering was already started. It was going to be a tough crowd now, without Logen to keep things settled. A tough crowd, and apt to get bloody. Threetrees wasn’t rushing into anything, though. He took a moment to think on it, like always. He loved to take his moment, that one. That was what made him so dangerous. “Going south, eh?” said Threetrees, after he’d chewed it over for a minute. “And just when did all this get decided?”

“Nothing’s decided,” said the Dogman, showing his palms one more time. He reckoned he might be doing that a lot from now on.

Tul Duru frowned down at Dow’s back. “Nothing at all,” he rumbled, mightily annoyed at having his mind made up for him.

“Nothing is right,” said Threetrees, slow and steady as the grass growing. “I don’t recall this being no voting band.”

Dow took no time at all to think about that. He never took time, that one. That was what made
him
so dangerous. He leaped up, flinging the bone onto the ground, squaring up to Threetrees with a fighting look. “I… say… south!” he snarled, eyes bulging like bubbles on a stew.

Threetrees didn’t back down a step. That wouldn’t have been his way at all. He took his moment to think on it, course, then he took a step forward of his own, so his nose and Dow’s were almost touching. “If you wanted a say, you should have beaten Ninefingers,” he growled, “instead of losing like the rest of us.”

Black Dow’s face turned dark as tar at that. He didn’t like being reminded of losing. “The Bloody-Nine’s gone back to the mud!” he snarled. “Dogman seen it, didn’t you?”

Dogman had to nod. “Aye,” he muttered.

“So that’s the end of that! There’s no reason for us to be pissing around here, North of the mountains, with Flatheads crawling up our arses! I say south!”

“Ninefingers may be dead,” said Threetrees in Dow’s face, “but your debt ain’t. Why he saw fit to spare a man as worthless as you I’ll never know, but he named me as second,” and he tapped his big chest, “and that means I’m the one with the say! Me and no other!”

Dogman took a careful step back. The two of ’em were shaping up for blows alright, and he’d no wish to get a bloody nose in all the confusion. It would hardly have been the first time. Forley took a stab at keeping the peace. “Come on boys,” he said, all nice and soft, “there’s no need for this.” He might not have been much at killing, Forley, but he was a damn good boy for stopping those that were from killing each other. Dogman wished him luck with it. “Come on, why don’t you—”

“Shut your fucking hole, you!” growled Dow, one dirty finger stabbing savage in Forley’s face. “What’s your fucking say worth, Weakest?”

“Leave him be!” rumbled Tul, holding his great fist up under Dow’s chin, “or I’ll give you something to shout about!”

The Dogman could hardly look. Dow and Threetrees were always picking at each other. They got fired up quick and damped down quick. The Thunderhead was a different animal. Once that big ox got properly riled there was no calming him. Not without ten strong men and a lot of rope. Dogman tried to think what Logen would have done. He’d have known how to stop ’em fighting, if he hadn’t been dead.

“Shit!” shouted Dogman, jumping up from the fire all of a sudden. “There’s fucking Shanka crawling all over us! And if we get through with them there’s always Bethod to think on! We’ve a world full of scores to settle without making more ourselves! Logen’s gone and Threetrees is second, and that’s the only say I’ll hear!” He did some jabbing with his own finger, at no one in particular, then he waited, hoping like hell that it had done the trick.

“Aye,” grunted Grim.

Forley started nodding like a woodpecker. “Dogman’s right! We need to fight each other like we need the cock-rot! Threetrees is second. He’s the chief now.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Dow fixed the Dogman with that cold, empty, killing look, like the cat with the mouse between its paws. Dogman swallowed. A lot of men, most men even, wouldn’t have dared meet no look like that from Black Dow. He got the name from having the blackest reputation in the North, with coming sudden in the black of night, and leaving the villages behind him black from fire. That was the rumour. That was the fact.

It took all the bones Dogman had not to stare at his boots. He was just ready to do it when Dow looked away, eyed the others, one at a time. Most men wouldn’t have met that look, but these here weren’t most men. You could never have hoped to meet a bloodier crowd, not anywhere under the sun. Not a one of them backed down, or even seemed to consider it. Apart from Forley the Weakest, of course, he was staring at the grass before his turn even came.

Once Dow saw they were all against him he cracked a happy smile, just as if there never was a problem. “Fair enough,” he said to Threetrees, the anger all seeming to drain away in an instant. “What’s it to be then, chief?”

Threetrees looked over at the woods. He sniffed and sucked at his teeth. He scratched at his beard, taking his moment to think on it. He looked each one of them over, considering. “We go south,” he said.

He smelled ’em before he saw ’em, but that was always the way with him. He had a good nose, did the Dogman, that’s how he got the name after all. Being honest though, anyone could have smelled ’em. They fucking stank.

There were twelve down in the clearing. Sitting, eating, grunting to each other in their nasty, dirty tongue, big yellow teeth sticking out everywhere, dressed in lumps of smelly fur and reeking hide and odd bits of rusty armour. Shanka.

“Fucking Flatheads,” Dogman muttered to himself. He heard a soft hiss behind, turned round to see Grim peering up from behind a bush. He held out his open hand to say stop, tapped the top of his skull to say Flatheads, held up his fist, then two fingers to say twelve, and pointed back down the track towards the others. Grim nodded and faded away into the woods.

The Dogman took one last look at the Shanka, just to make sure they were all still unwary. They were, so he slipped back down the tree and off.

“They’re camped round the road, twelve that I saw, maybe more.”

“They looking for us?” asked Threetrees.

“Maybe, but they ain’t looking too hard.”

“Could we get around them?” asked Forley, always looking to miss out on a fight.

Dow spat onto the ground, always looking to get into one. “Twelve is nothing! We can do them alright!”

The Dogman looked over at Threetrees, thinking it out, taking his moment. Twelve wasn’t nothing, and they all knew it, but it might be better to deal with them than leave them free and easy behind.

“What’s it to be, chief?” asked Tul.

Threetrees set his jaw. “Weapons.”

A fighting man’s a fool that don’t keep his weapons clean and ready. Dogman had been over his no more’n an hour before. Still, you won’t be killed for checking ’em, while you might be for not doing it.

There was the hissing of steel on leather, the clicking of wood and the clanking of metal. Dogman watched Grim twang at his bowstring, check over the feathers on his shafts. He watched Tul Duru run his thumb down the edge of his big heavy sword, almost as tall as Forley was, clucking like a chicken at a spot of rust. He watched Black Dow rubbing a rag on the head of his axe, looking at the blade with eyes soft as a lover’s. He watched Threetrees tugging at the buckles on his shield straps, swishing his blade through the air, bright metal glinting.