The cripple Glokta stood against the wall, leaning heavily on his cane and grinning his repulsive, toothless grin. “A word, Colonel Luthar.”
“If you are referring to this business with the peasants, it is well in hand.” Jezal was unable to keep the sneer of disgust entirely off his face. “You need not trouble yourself on that—”
“I am not referring to that business.”
“Then what?”
“Ardee West.”
The corridor seemed suddenly very empty, very quiet. The soldiers, the officers, the servants, all away in Angland. There were just the two of them, for all Jezal knew, in the entire barracks. “I fail to see how that is any concern of—”
“Her brother, our mutual friend Collem West, you do remember him? Worried-looking fellow, losing his hair. Bit of a temper.” Jezal felt a guilty flush across his face. He remembered the man well enough, of course, and his temper in particular. “He came to me shortly before departing for the war in Angland. He asked me to look to his sister’s welfare while he was away, risking his life. I promised to do so.” Glokta shuffled slightly closer and Jezal’s flesh crept. “A responsibility which, I assure you, I take as seriously as any task the Arch Lector might choose to give me.”
“I see,” croaked Jezal. That certainly explained the cripple’s presence at her house the other day, which had, until then, been causing him some confusion. He felt no easier in his mind, however. Considerably less, in fact.
“I hardly think that Collem West would be best pleased with what has been transpiring these last few days, do you?”
Jezal shifted guiltily from one foot to the other. “I admit that I have visited her—”
“Your visits,” whispered the cripple, “are not good for that girl’s reputation. We are left with three options. Firstly, and this is my personal favourite, you walk away, and you pretend you never met her, and you never see her again.”
“Unacceptable,” Jezal found himself saying, his voice surprisingly brash.
“Secondly, then, you marry the lady, and all’s forgotten.”
A course that Jezal was considering, but he was damned if he’d be bullied into it by this twisted remnant of a man. “And third?” he enquired, with what he felt was fitting contempt.
“Third?” A particularly disgusting flurry of twitches crawled up the side of Glokta’s wasted face. “I don’t think you want to know too much about number three. Let us only say that it will include a long night of passion with a furnace and a set of razors, and an even longer morning involving a sack, an anvil, and the bottom of the canal. You might find that one of the other two options suits you better.”
Before he knew what he was doing Jezal had taken a step forward, forcing Glokta to rock back, wincing, against the wall. “I do not have to explain myself to you! My visits are between me and the lady in question, but for your information, I long ago resolved to marry her, and am merely waiting for the right moment!” Jezal stood there in the darkness, hardly able to believe what he had heard himself say. Damn his mouth, it still landed him in all manner of trouble.
Glokta’s narrow left eye blinked. “Ah, lucky her.”
Jezal found himself moving forward again, almost butting the cripple in the face and crushing him helpless against the wall. “That’s right! So you can shove your threats up your crippled arse!”
Even squashed against the wall, Glokta’s surprise only lasted an instant. Then he leered his toothless grin, his eyelid fluttering and a long tear running down his gaunt cheek. “Why, Colonel Luthar, it is difficult for me to concentrate with you so very close.” He stroked the front of Jezal’s uniform with the back of his hand. “Especially given your unexpected interest in my arse.” Jezal jerked back, mouth sour with disgust. “It seems that Bayaz succeeded where Varuz failed, eh? He taught you where your spine is! My congratulations on your forthcoming wedding. But I think I’ll keep my razors handy, just in case you don’t follow through. I’m so glad we had this chance to talk.” And Glokta limped off towards the stairs, his cane tapping on the boards, his left boot scraping along behind.
“As am I!” shouted Jezal after him. But nothing could have been further from the truth.
Ghosts
Uffrith didn’t look much like it used to. Of course, the last time Logen had seen the place had been years ago, at night, after the siege. Crowds of Bethod’s Carls wandering the streets—shouting, and singing, and drinking. Looking for folk to rob and rape, setting fire to anything that would hold a flame. Logen remembered lying in that room after he’d beaten Threetrees, crying and gurgling at the pain all through him. He remembered scowling out the window and seeing the glow from the flames, listening to the screams over the town, wishing he was out there making mischief and wondering if he’d ever stand up again.
It was different now, with the Union in charge, but it wasn’t so very much more organised. The grey harbour was choked with ships too big for the wharves. Soldiers swarmed through the narrow streets, dropping gear all over. Carts and mules and horses, all loaded down and piled up, tried to shove a way through the press. Wounded limped on crutches down towards the docks, or were carried on stretchers through the spotting drizzle, bloody bandages stared at wide-eyed by the fresh-faced lads going the other way. Here and there, looking greatly puzzled at this mighty flood of strange people sweeping through their town, some Northerner was standing in a doorway. Women mostly, and children, and old men.
Logen walked fast up the sloping streets, pushing through the crowds with his head down and his hood up. He kept his fists bunched at his sides, so no one would see the stump of his missing finger. He kept the sword that Bayaz had given him wrapped up in a blanket on his back, under his pack, where it wouldn’t make anyone nervous. All the same, his shoulders prickled every step of the way. He was waiting to hear someone shout, “It’s the Bloody-Nine!” He was waiting for folk to start running, screaming, pelting him with rubbish, faces all stamped with horror.
But no one did. One more figure that didn’t belong was nothing to look at in all that damp chaos, and if anyone might have known him here, they weren’t looking for him. Most likely they’d all heard he went back to the mud, far away, and were good and glad about it too. Still, there was no point staying longer than he had to. He strode up to a Union officer who looked as if he might be in charge of something, pushed his hood back and tried to put a smile on his face.
He got a scornful look for his trouble. “We’ve no work for you, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“You don’t have my kind of work.” Logen held out the letter that Bayaz had given him.
The man unfolded it and looked it over. He frowned and read it again. Then he looked doubtfully up at Logen, mouth working. “Well then. I see.” He pointed towards a crowd of young men, standing nervous and uncertain a few strides away, huddled miserably together as the rain started to thicken up. “There’s a convoy of reinforcements leaving for the front this afternoon. You can travel with us.”
“Fair enough.” They didn’t look like they’d be much reinforcement, those scared-seeming lads, but that didn’t matter to him. He didn’t much care who he travelled with, as long as they were pointed at Bethod.
The trees clattered by on either side of the road—dim green and black, full of shadows. Full of surprises, maybe. It was a tough way to travel. Tough on the hands from clinging to the rail all the way, even tougher on the arse from bouncing and jolting on that hard seat. But they were getting there, gradually, and Logen reckoned that was the main thing.
There were more carts behind, spread out in a slow line along the road, loaded down with men, food, clothes, weapons, and all the stuff you need to make a war. Each one had a lamp lit, hanging up near the front, so there was a trail of bobbing lights in the dull dusk, down into the valley and up the far slope, marking out the path of the road they’d followed through the woods.