The Collected Joe Abercrombie (8 page)

‘This man is a prisoner of His Majesty’s Inquisition, Lieutenant Jalenhorm.’ The big man paused, surprised to be called by name. ‘I realise your motives are of the best, but he is a criminal, a traitor. I have a warrant for him, signed by Arch Lector Sult himself. He is most unworthy of your assistance, believe me.’

Jalenhorm frowned and stared balefully at Practical Frost. The pale devil looked terrified. About as terrified as a stone. He hauled the prisoner over his shoulder without apparent effort and turned up the street. The one called Severard smiled with his eyes, sheathed his knife, bowed again and followed his companion, whistling tunelessly as he sauntered off.

The Inquisitor’s left eyelid began to flutter and tears rolled down his pale cheek. He wiped it carefully on the back of his hand. ‘Please forgive me. Honestly. It’s coming to something when a man can’t control his own eyes, eh? Damn weeping jelly. Sometimes I think I should just have it out, and make do with a patch.’ Jezal’s stomach roiled. ‘How long has it been, West? Seven years? Eight?’

A muscle was working on the side of the Major’s head. ‘Nine.’

‘Imagine that. Nine years. Can you believe it? It seems like only yesterday. It was on the ridge, wasn’t it, where we parted?’

‘On the ridge, yes.’

‘Don’t worry, West, I don’t blame you in the least.’ Glokta slapped the Major warmly on the arm. ‘Not for that, anyway. You tried to talk me out of it, I remember. I had time enough to think about it in Gurkhul, after all. Lots of time to think. You were always a good friend to me. And now young Collem West, a Major in the King’s Own, imagine that.’ Jezal had not the slightest idea what they were talking about. He wanted only to be sick, then go to bed.

Inquisitor Glokta turned toward him with a smile, displaying once again the hideous gap in his teeth. ‘And this must be Captain Luthar, for whom everyone has such high hopes in the coming Contest. Marshal Varuz is a hard master, is he not?’ He waved his cane weakly at Jezal. ‘Jab, jab, eh, Captain? Jab, jab.’

Jezal felt his bile rising. He coughed and looked down at his feet, willing the world to remain motionless. The Inquisitor looked around expectantly at each of them in turn. West looked pale. Jalenhorm mud-stained and sulky. Kaspa was still sitting in the road. None of them had anything to say.

Glokta cleared his throat. ‘Well, duty calls,’ he bowed stiffly, ‘but I hope to see you all again. Very soon.’ Jezal found himself hoping he never saw the man again.

‘Perhaps we might fence again sometime?’ muttered Major West.

Glokta gave a good natured laugh. ‘Oh, I would enjoy that, West, but I find that I’m ever so slightly crippled these days. If you’re after a fight, I’m sure that Practical Frost could oblige you,’ he looked over at Jalenhorm, ‘but I must warn you, he doesn’t fight like a gentleman. I wish you all a pleasant evening.’ He placed his hat back on his head then turned slowly and shuffled off down the dingy street.

The three officers watched him limp away in an interminable, awkward silence. Kaspa finally stumbled over. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ said West through gritted teeth. ‘Best we forget it ever happened.’

Teeth and Fingers

T
ime is short. We must work quickly
. Glokta nodded to Severard, and he smiled and pulled the bag off Sepp dan Teufel’s head.

The Master of the Mints was a strong, noble-looking man. His face was already starting to bruise. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he roared, all bluster and bravado. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Glokta snorted. ‘Of course we know who you are. Do you think we are in the habit of snatching people from the streets at random?’

‘I am the Master of the Royal Mints!’ yelled the prisoner, struggling at his bonds. Practical Frost looked on impassively, arms folded. The irons were already glowing orange in the brazier. ‘How dare you ...’

‘We cannot have these constant interruptions!’ shouted Glokta. Frost kicked Teufel savagely in the shin and he yelped with pain. ‘How can our prisoner sign his paper of confession if his hands are tied? Please release him.’

Teufel stared suspiciously around as the albino untied his wrists. Then he saw the cleaver. The polished blade shone mirror bright in the harsh lamp light.
Truly a thing of beauty. You’d like to have that, wouldn’t you, Teufel? I bet you’d like to cut my head off with it.
Glokta almost hoped that he would, his right hand seemed to be reaching for it, but he used it to shove the paper of confession away instead.

‘Ah,’ said Glokta, ‘the Master of the Mints is a right-handed gentleman.’

‘A right-handed gentleman,’ Severard hissed in the prisoner’s ear.

Teufel was staring across the table through narrowed eyes. ‘I know you! Glokta, isn’t it? The one who was captured in Gurkhul, the one they tortured. Sand dan Glokta, am I right? Well, you’re in over your head this time, I can tell you! Right in over your head! When High Justice Marovia hears about this ...’

Glokta sprang to his feet, his chair screeching on the tiles. His left leg was agony, but he ignored it. ‘Look at this!’ he hissed, then opened his mouth wide, giving the horrified prisoner a good look at his teeth.
Or what’s left of them.
‘You see that? You see? Where they cracked out the teeth above, they left them below, and where they took them out below, they left them above, all the way to the back. See?’ Glokta pulled his cheeks back with his fingers so Teufel could get a better view. ‘They did it with a tiny chisel. A little bit each day. It took months.’ Glokta sat down stiffly, then smiled wide.

‘What excellent work, eh? The irony of it! To leave you half your teeth, but not a one of ‘em any use! I have soup most days.’ The Master of the Mints swallowed hard. Glokta could see a drop of sweat running down his neck. ‘And the teeth were just the beginning. I have to piss sitting down like a woman, you know. I’m thirty-five years old, and I need help getting out of bed.’ He leaned back again and stretched out his leg with a wince. ‘Every day is its own little hell for me. Every day. So tell me, can you seriously believe that anything you might say could scare me?’

Glokta studied his prisoner, taking his time.
No longer half so sure of himself.
‘Confess,’ he whispered. ‘Then we can ship you off to Angland and still get some sleep tonight.’

Teufel’s face had turned almost as pale as Practical Frost’s, but he said nothing.
The Arch Lector will be here soon. Already on his way, most likely. If there is no confession when he arrives . . . we’ll all be off to Angland. At best.
Glokta took hold of his cane and got to his feet. ‘I like to think of myself as an artist, but artistry takes time and we have wasted half the evening searching for you in every brothel in the city. Thankfully, Practical Frost has a keen nose and an excellent sense of direction. He can sniff out a rat in a shithouse.’

‘A rat in a shithouse,’ echoed Severard, eyes glittering bright in the orange glow from the brazier.

‘We are on a tight schedule so let me be blunt. You will confess to me within ten minutes.’

Teufel snorted and folded his arms. ‘Never.’

‘Hold him.’ Frost seized the prisoner from behind and folded him in a vice-like grip, pinning his right arm to his side. Severard grabbed hold of his left wrist and spread his fingers out on the scarred table-top. Glokta curled his fist round the smooth grip of the cleaver, the blade scraping against the wood as he pulled it slowly towards him. He stared down at Teufel’s hand.
What beautiful fingernails he has. How long and glossy. You cannot work down a mine with nails like that.
Glokta raised the cleaver high.

‘Wait!’ screamed the prisoner.

Bang! The heavy blade bit deep into the table top, neatly paring off Teufel’s middle fingernail. He was breathing fast now, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Now we’ll see what kind of a man you really are.

‘I think you can see where this is going,’ said Glokta. ‘You know, they did it to a corporal who was captured with me, one cut a day. He was a tough man, very tough. They made it past his elbow before he died.’ Glokta lifted the cleaver again. ‘Confess.’

‘You couldn’t ...’

Bang! The cleaver took off the very tip of Teufel’s middle finger. Blood bubbled out on to the table top. Severard’s eyes were smiling in the lamp light. Teufel’s jaw dropped.
But the pain will be a while coming.
‘Confess!’ bellowed Glokta.

Bang! The cleaver took off the top of Teufel’s ring finger, and a little disc out of his middle finger which rolled a short way and dropped off onto the floor. Frost’s face was carved from marble. ‘Confess!’

Bang! The tip of Teufel’s index finger jumped in the air. His middle finger was down to the first joint. Glokta paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead on the back of his hand. His leg was throbbing with the exertion. Blood was dripping onto the tiles with a steady tap, tap, tap. Teufel was staring wide-eyed at his shortened fingers.

Severard shook his head. ‘That’s excellent work, Inquisitor.’ He flicked one of the discs of flesh across the table. ‘The precision . . . I’m in awe.’

‘Aaaargh!’ screamed the Master of the Mints.
Now it dawns on him.
Glokta raised the cleaver once again.

‘I will confess!’ shrieked Teufel, ‘I will confess!’

‘Excellent,’ said Glokta brightly.

‘Excellent,’ said Severard.

‘Etherer,’ said Practical Frost.

The Wide and Barren North

T
he Magi are an ancient and mysterious order, learned in the secrets of the world, practised in the ways of magic, wise and powerful beyond the dreams of men. That was the rumour. Such a one should have ways of finding a man, even a man alone in the wide and barren North. If that was so, then he was taking his time about it.

Logen scratched at his tangled beard and wondered what was keeping the great one. Perhaps he was lost. He asked himself again if he should have stayed in the forests, where food at least was plentiful. But to the south the spirits had said, and if you went south from the hills you came to these withered moors. So here he had waited in the briars and the mud, in bad weather, and mostly gone hungry.

His boots were worn out anyway, so he had set his miserable camp not far from the road, the better to see this wizard coming. Since the wars, the North was full of dangerous scum – deserting warriors turned bandit, peasants fled from their burned-out land, leaderless and desperate men with nothing left to lose, and so on. Logen wasn’t worried, though. No one had a reason to come to this arsehole of the world. No one but him and the Magus.

So he sat and waited, looked for food, didn’t find any, sat and waited some more. At this time of year the moors were often soaked by sudden downpours, but he would have smoky, thorny little fires by night if he could, to keep his flagging spirits up and attract any passing wizards. It had been raining this evening, but it had stopped a while before and it was dry enough for a fire. Now he had his pot over it, cooking a stew with the last of the meat he had brought with him from the forest. He would have to move on in the morning, and look for food. The Magus could catch up with him later, if he still cared.

He was stirring his meagre meal, and wondering whether to go back north or move on south tomorrow, when he heard the sound of hooves on the road. One horse, moving slowly. He sat back on his coat and waited. There was a neigh, the jingle of a harness. A rider came over the rise. With the watery sun low on the horizon behind, Logen couldn’t see him clearly, but he sat stiff and awkward in his saddle, like a man not used to the road. He urged his horse gently in the direction of the fire and reined in a few yards away.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

He was not in the least what Logen had been expecting. A gaunt, pale, sickly-looking young man with dark rings round his eyes, long hair plastered to his head by the drizzle and a nervous smile. He seemed more wet than wise, and certainly didn’t look powerful beyond the dreams of men. He looked mostly hungry, cold, and ill. He looked something like Logen felt, in fact.

‘Shouldn’t you have a staff?’

The young man looked surprised. ‘I don’t . . . that is to say . . . er . . . I’m not a Magus.’ He trailed off and licked his lips nervously.

‘The spirits told me to expect a Magus, but they’re often wrong.’

‘Oh . . . well, I’m an apprentice. But my Master, the great Bayaz,’ and he bowed his head reverently, ‘is none other than the First of the Magi, great in High Art and learned in deep wisdom. He sent me to find you,’ he looked suddenly doubtful, ‘and bring you . . . you are Logen Ninefingers?’

Logen held up his left hand and looked at the pale young man through the gap where his middle finger used to be. ‘Oh good.’ The apprentice breathed a sigh of relief, then suddenly stopped himself. ‘Oh, that is to say . . . er . . . sorry about the finger.’

Logen laughed. It was the first time since he dragged himself out of the river. It wasn’t very funny but he laughed loud. It felt good. The young man smiled and slipped painfully from the saddle. ‘I am Malacus Quai.’