Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

The door opened, and the two old men stepped through. They could hardly have looked more different. One dark-skinned, tall and bony with long hair, the other white-skinned, heavy-built and bald. She looked at them suspiciously. It was the white one who spoke first.

“Ferro, I have an offer to—”

“I am not going with you, old pink fool.”

The slightest shadow of annoyance flitted across the bald man’s face, but was quickly mastered. “Why? What other business have you which is so very pressing?”

That needed no thinking about. “Vengeance.” Her favourite word.

“Ah. I see. You hate the Gurkish?”

“Yes.”

“They owe you a debt, for what they have done to you?”

“Yes.”

“For taking your family, your people, your country?”

“Yes.”

“For making you a slave,” he whispered. She glowered back at him, wondering how he knew so much about her, wondering whether to go for him again. “They have robbed you, Ferro, robbed you of everything. They have stolen your life from you. If I were you… if I had suffered as you have suffered… there would not be enough blood in all the South to satisfy me. I would see every Gurkish soldier made a corpse before I was satisfied. I would see every Gurkish city burn before I was satisfied. I would see their Emperor rotting in a cage before his own palace before I was satisfied!”

“Yes!” she hissed, a fierce smile across her face. He was talking her language now. Yulwei had never talked so—perhaps this old pink wasn’t so bad after all. “You understand! That is why I must go south!”

“No, Ferro.” It was the bald man grinning now. “You do not realise the chance that I am offering you. The Emperor does not truly rule in Kama. Mighty though he seems, he dances to the tune of another, a hand well hidden. Khalul, they call him.”

“The Prophet.”

Bayaz nodded. “If you are cut, do you hate the knife, or the one who wields it? The Emperor, the Gurkish, they are but Khalul’s tools, Ferro. Emperors come and go, but the Prophet is always there, behind them. Whispering. Suggesting. Ordering. He is the one that owes you.”

“Khalul… yes.” The Eaters had used that name. Khalul. The Prophet. The Emperor’s palace was filled with priests, everyone knew it. The palaces of the governors too. Priests, they were everywhere, swarming, like insects. In the cities, in the villages, in amongst the soldiers, always spreading their lies. Whispering. Suggesting. Ordering. Yulwei was frowning, unhappy, but Ferro knew that the old pink was right. “Yes, I see it!”

“Help me, and I will give you vengeance, Ferro. Real vengeance. Not one dead soldier, or ten, but thousands. Tens of thousands! Perhaps the Emperor himself, who knows?” He shrugged, and half turned away from her. “Still, I cannot force you. Go back to the Badlands, if you wish—hide, and run, and grub in the dust like a rat. If that satisfies you. If that is the full measure of your vengeance. The Eaters want you now. Khalul’s children. Without us they will have you, and sooner rather than later. Still, the choice is yours.”

Ferro frowned. All those years in the wilderness, fighting tooth and nail, always running, had got her nothing. No vengeance worthy of the word. If it had not been for Yulwei, she would be finished now. White bones in the desert. Meat in the bellies of the Eaters. In the cage before the Emperor’s palace.

Rotting.

She could not say no, and she knew it, but she did not like it. This old man had known exactly what to offer her. She hated to have no choice.

“I will think about it,” she said.

Again, the slightest shadow of anger on the bald pink’s face, quickly covered. “Think about it then, but not for long. The Emperor’s soldiers are massing, and time is short.” He followed the others out of the room, leaving her alone with Yulwei.

“I do not like these pinks,” she said, loud enough for the old one to hear her in the corridor, and then more softly. “Do we have to go with them?”

“You do. I must return to the South.”

“What?”

“Someone must keep watch on the Gurkish.”

“No!”

Yulwei began to laugh. “Twice you have tried to kill me. Once you have tried to run away from me, but now that I am leaving you want me to stay? There’s no understanding you, Ferro.”

She frowned. “This bald one says he can give me vengeance. Does he lie?”

“No.”

“Then I must go with him.”

“I know. That is why I brought you here.”

She could think of nothing to say. She looked down at the floor, but Yulwei surprised her by stepping forward suddenly. She raised her hand, to ward off a blow, but instead he put his arms round her and squeezed her tightly. A strange feeling. Being so close to someone else. Warm. Then Yulwei stepped away, one hand on her shoulder. “Walk in God’s footsteps, Ferro Maljinn.”

“Huh. They have no God here.”

“Say rather that they have many.”

“Many?”

“Had you not noticed? Here, each man worships himself.” She nodded. That seemed close to the truth. “Be careful, Ferro. And listen to Bayaz. He is the first of my order, and few indeed are wise as he.”

“I do not trust him.”

Yulwei leaned closer. “I did not tell you to trust him.” Then he smiled, and turned his back. She watched him walk slowly to the door, then out into the corridor. She heard his bare feet flapping away on the tiles, the bangles on his arms jingling softly.

Leaving her alone with the luxury, and the gardens, and the pinks.

There was a thumping knock at the door, and Glokta jerked his head up, left eye suddenly twitching. Who the hell comes knocking at this hour? Frost? Severard? Or someone else? Superior Goyle, maybe, come to pay me a visit with his circus freaks? Might the Arch Lector have grown tired of his toy cripple already? One could hardly say the feast went according to plan, and his Eminence is hardly the forgiving type. Body found floating by the docks…

The knocking came again. Loud, confident knocking. The kind that demands the door be opened, before it’s broken down. “I’m coming!” he shouted, voice cracking slightly as he prised himself out from behind his table, legs wobbly. “I’m just coming!” He snatched up his cane and limped to the front door, took a deep breath and fumbled with the latch.

It was not Frost, or Severard. Nor was it Goyle, or one of his freakish Practicals. It was someone much more unexpected. Glokta raised an eyebrow, then leaned against the door frame. “Major West, what a surprise.”

Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. “Inquisitor Glokta,” mumbled West—hesitant, awkward, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Glokta with icy formality.

The Major nearly winced. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Glokta shut the front door behind him, then limped after West into his dining room. The Major squeezed himself into one of the chairs and Glokta took another. They sat there facing each other for a moment, without speaking. What the hell does he want, at this hour or any other? Glokta scrutinised his old friend’s face in the glow from the fire and the one, flickering candle. Now that he could see him more clearly, he realised West had changed. He looks old. His hair was thinning at the temples, going grey round his ears. His face was pale, pinched, slightly hollow. He looks worried. Ground down. Close to the edge. West looked round at the mean room, the mean fire, the mean furniture, cautiously up at Glokta, then quickly down at the floor. Nervous, as if he had something picking at his mind. He looks ill at ease. As well he might.