The Collected Joe Abercrombie (121 page)

Her eyes narrowed.
The merchant Queen judges the bargain.
‘Then what’s the price?’

‘The price is you’re dead. You’re forgotten. Put Dagoska from your mind, it’s finished. Find some other people to save. The price is you leave the Union and never come back. Not. Ever.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Why?’

Ah, my favourite question. Why do I do this?
He shrugged. ‘What does it matter? A woman lost in the desert—’

‘Should take such water as she is offered, no matter who it comes from. Don’t worry. I won’t be saying no.’ She reached out suddenly and Glokta half-jerked away, but her fingertips only touched him gently on his cheek. They rested there for a moment, while his skin tingled, and his eye twitched, and his neck ached. ‘Perhaps,’ she whispered, ‘if things had been different . . .’

‘If I weren’t a cripple and you weren’t a traitor? Things are as they are.’

She let her hand drop, half smiling. ‘Of course they are. I would say I’ll see you again—’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

She nodded slowly. ‘Then goodbye.’ She pulled the hood over her head, throwing her face back into shadow, then brushed past Glokta and walked quickly towards the end of the wharf. He stood, weight on his cane, and watched her go, scratching his cheek slowly where her fingers had rested.
So. To get women to touch you, you need only spare their lives. I should try it more often.

He turned away, limped a few painful steps onto the dusty quay, peering up into the dark buildings.
I wonder if Practical Vitari is in there somewhere, watching? I wonder if this little episode will find its way into her next report to the Arch Lector?
He felt a sweaty shiver up his aching back.
I won’t be putting it in mine, that’s sure, but what does it really matter?
He could smell it, as the wind shifted, the smell that seemed to find its way into every corner of the city now. The sharp smell of burning. Of smoke. Of ash.
Of death. Without a miracle, none of us will leave this place alive.
He looked back. Carlot dan Eider was already crossing the gangway.
Well. Perhaps just one of us will.

‘Things are going well,’ sang Cosca in his rich Styrian accent, grinning out over the parapet at the carnage beyond the walls. ‘A good day’s work, yesterday, considering.’

A good day’s work.
Below them, on the other side of the ditch, the bare earth was scarred and burned, bristling with spent flatbow bolts like stubble on a brown chin. Everywhere, siege equipment lay wrecked and ruined. Broken ladders, fallen barrows spilling rocks, burned and shattered wicker screens, trampled into the hard dirt. The shell of one of the great siege towers was still half standing, a framework of blackened timbers sticking twisted from a heap of ash, scorched and tattered leather flapping in the salt wind.

‘We taught those Gurkish fuckers a lesson they won’t soon forget, eh, Superior?’

‘What lesson?’ muttered Severard.
What lesson indeed? The dead learn nothing.
The corpses were dotted about before the Gurkish front line, two hundred strides or so from the land walls. They were scattered across the no-man’s-land between, surrounded by a flotsam of broken weapons and armour. They had dropped so heavily just before the ditch that you could almost have walked from the sea on one side of the peninsula to the sea on the other without once stepping on the earth. In a few places they were crowded together into huddled groups.
Where the wounded crawled to take cover behind the dead, then bled to death themselves.

Glokta had never seen slaughter like it. Not even after the siege of Ulrioch, when the breach had been choked with Union dead, when Gurkish prisoners had been murdered by the score, when the temple had been burned with hundreds of citizens inside. Corpses sagged and lolled and sprawled, some charred with fire, some bent in attitudes of final prayer, some spread out heedless, heads smashed by rocks flung from above. Some had clothes ripped and rooted through.
Where they tore at their own shirts to check their wounds, hoping they were not fatal. All of them disappointed.

Flies buzzed in legions around the bodies. Birds of a hundred species hopped and flapped and pecked at the unexpected feast. Even here, high up in the blasting wind, it was starting to reek.
The stuff of nightmares. Of my nightmares for the next few months, I shouldn’t wonder. If I last that long.

Glokta felt his eye twitching, and he blew out a deep breath, stretched his neck from side to side.
Well. We must fight on. It is a little late now for second thoughts.
He peered gingerly over the parapet to take a look down at the ditch, his free hand grasping tight at the pitted stone to keep his balance.

Not good.
‘They have nearly filled the channel down below us, and over near the gates.’

‘True,’ said Cosca cheerfully. ‘They drag up their boxes of rocks and try to tip them in. We can only kill them so fast.’

‘That channel is our best defence.’

‘True again. It was a good idea. But nothing lasts forever.’

‘Without it there is nothing to stop the Gurkish mounting ladders, rolling up rams, mining under our walls even. It might be necessary to organise a sortie of some kind, dig it back out.’

Cosca rolled his dark eyes sideways. ‘Lowered from the wall by ropes, slaving in the darkness, not two hundred strides from the Gurkish positions? Was that what you had in mind?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Then I wish you luck with it.’

Glokta snorted. ‘I would go, of course.’ He tapped his leg with his cane. ‘But I’m afraid my days of heroics are far behind me.’

‘Lucky for you.’

‘Hardly. We should build a barricade behind the gates. That is our weakest point. A half circle, I would guess, some hundred strides across, would make an effective killing ground. If they manage to break through we might still contain them there, long enough to push them back.’
Might . . .

‘Ah, pushing them back.’ Cosca scratched at the rash on his neck. ‘I’m sure the volunteers will be falling over each other for that duty when the time comes. Still, I’ll see it done.’

‘You have to admire them.’ General Vissbruck strode up to the parapet, his hands clasped tightly behind his impeccably pressed uniform.
I’m surprised he finds the time for presentation, with things as they are. Still, we all cling to what we can.
He shook his head as he peered down at the corpses. ‘Some courage, to come at us like this, over and over, against defences so strong and so well manned. I’ve rarely seen men so willing to give their lives.’

‘They have that most strange and dangerous of qualities,’ said Cosca. ‘They think they’re in the right.’

Vissbruck stared sternly out from under his brows. ‘It is we who are in the right.’

‘If you like.’ The mercenary grinned sideways at Glokta. ‘But I think the rest of us long ago gave up on the idea that there’s any such thing. The plucky Gurkish come on with their barrows . . . and it’s my job to shoot them full of arrows!’ He barked out a sharp laugh.

‘I don’t think that’s amusing,’ snapped Vissbruck. ‘A fallen opponent should be treated with respect.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it could be any one of us rotting in the sun, and probably soon will be.’

Cosca only laughed the louder, and clapped Vissbruck on the arm. ‘Now you’re getting it! If I’ve learned one thing from twenty years of warfare, it’s that you have to look at the funny side!’

Glokta watched the Styrian chuckling at the battlefield.
Trying to decide when would be the best time to change sides? Trying to work out how good a fight to give the Gurkish before they pay better than I do? There’s more than rhymes in that scabby head, but for the moment we cannot do without him.
He glanced at General Vissbruck, who had moved further down the walkway to sulk on his own.
Our plump friend has neither the brains nor the bravery to hold this city for longer than a week.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned back to Cosca. ‘What?’ he snapped.

‘Uh,’ muttered the mercenary, pointing up into the blue sky. Glokta followed his finger. There was a black spot up there, not far above them, but moving upwards.
What is that? A bird?
It had peaked now, and was coming down. Realisation dawned suddenly.
A stone. A stone from a catapult.

It grew larger as it fell, tumbling over and over, seeming to move with ridiculous slowness, as if sinking through water, its total silence adding to the sense of unreality. Glokta watched it, open-mouthed. They all did. An air of terrible expectancy settled on the walls. It was impossible to tell exactly where the stone was going to fall. Men began to scatter this way and that along the walkway, clattering, scuffling, gasping and squealing, tossing away weapons.

‘Fuck,’ whispered Severard, throwing himself face down on the stones.

Glokta stayed where he was, his eyes locked on that one dark spot in the bright sky.
Is it coming for me? Several tons of rock,
about to splatter my remains across the city? What a ludicrously random way to die.
He felt his mouth twitch up in a faint smile.

There was a deafening crash as a section of parapet was ripped apart nearby, sending out a cloud of dust and flinging chunks of stone into the air. Splinters whizzed around them. A soldier not ten strides away was neatly decapitated by a flying block. His headless body swayed for a moment on its feet before its knees buckled and it toppled backwards off the wall.

The missile crashed down somewhere in the Lower City, smashing through the shacks, bouncing and rolling, flinging shattered timbers up like matchsticks, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Glokta blinked and swallowed. His ears were still ringing, but he could hear someone shouting. A strange voice. A Styrian accent. Cosca.

‘That the best you can do, you fuckers? I’m still here!’

‘The Gurkish are bombarding us!’ Vissbruck was squealing pointlessly, squatting down behind the parapet with his hands clasped over his head, a layer of light dust across the shoulders of his uniform. ‘Solid shot from their catapults!’

‘You don’t say,’ muttered Glokta. There was another mighty crash as a second rock struck the walls further down and burst apart in a shower of fragments, hurling stones the size of skulls into the water below. The very walkway beneath Glokta’s feet seemed to tremble with the force of it.

‘They’re coming again!’ Cosca was roaring at the very top of his voice. ‘Man the walls! To the walls!’

Men began to hurry past: natives, mercenaries, Union soldiers, all side by side, cranking their flatbows, handing out bolts, shouting and calling to one another in a confusion of different languages. Cosca moved among them slapping backs, shaking his fist, snarling and laughing with not the slightest sign of fear.
A most inspiring leader, for a half-mad drunkard.

‘Fuck this!’ hissed Severard in Glokta’s ear. ‘I’m no damn soldier!’

‘Neither am I, any more, but I can still enjoy a show.’ He limped up to the parapet and peered out. This time he saw the catapult’s great arm fly up in the distant haze. The distance was poorly judged this time, and it sailed high overhead. Glokta winced at a twinge in his neck as he followed it with his eyes. It crashed down not far short of the Upper City’s walls with a deep boom, throwing chunks of stone far into the slums.

A great horn sounded behind the Gurkish lines: a throbbing, rumbling blast. Drums followed behind, thumping together like monstrous footsteps. ‘Here they come!’ roared Cosca. ‘Ready with your bows!’ Glokta heard the order echoing across the walls, and a moment later the battlements on the towers bristled with loaded flatbows, the bright points of the bolts glinting in the harsh sun.

The great wicker shields that marked the Gurkish lines began slowly, steadily, to move forwards, edging across the blighted no-man’s-land towards them.
And behind, no doubt, Gurkish soldiers crawl like ants.
Glokta’s hand clutched the stone of the parapet painfully tight as he watched them come on, his heart beating almost as loud as the Gurkish drums.
Fear, or excitement? Is there a difference? When was the last time I felt such a bittersweet thrill? Speaking before the Open Council? Leading a charge of the King’s cavalry? Fighting in the Contest before the roaring crowds?

The screens were coming steadily closer, still in an even row across the peninsula.
Now a hundred strides, now ninety, now eighty
. He looked sideways at Cosca, still grinning like a madman.
When will he give the order? Sixty, fifty . . .

‘Now!’ roared the Styrian. ‘Fire!’ There was a mighty rattling along the walls as the flatbows were loosed in one great volley, peppering the screens, the ground around them, the corpses, and any Gurkish unlucky enough to be have left some part of their body visible. Men knelt behind the parapet and began to reload, fumbling with bolts, cranking handles, sweating and straining. The drum beats had grown faster, more urgent, the screens passed heedless over the scattered bodies.
Not much fun for the men behind, staring down at the corpses beneath their feet, wondering how long before they join them.