Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

Hornlach’s tongue darted over his lips. He glanced furtively up at Frost and Severard, leaned slightly forward. So. Now comes the bargaining. “Inquisitor,” he said in a wheedling tone, “if I’ve learned one thing from life, it’s that every man wants something. Every man has his price, yes? And we have deep pockets. You have only to name it. Only name it! What do you want?”

“What do I want?” asked Glokta, leaning in to a more conspiratorial distance.

“Yes. What’s this all about? What do you want?” Hornlach was smiling now, a coy, clever little smile. How quaint, but you won’t buy your way out of this.

“I want my teeth back.”

The merchant’s smile began to fade.

“I want my leg back.”

Hornlach swallowed.

“I want my life back.”

The prisoner had turned very pale.

“No? Then perhaps I’ll settle for your head on a stick. You’ve nothing else I want, no matter how deep your pockets are.” Hornlach was trembling slightly now. No more bluster? No more deals? Then we can begin. Glokta picked up the paper in front of him, and read the first question. “What is your name?”

“Look, Inquisitor, I…” Frost smashed the table with his fist and Hornlach cowered in his chair.

“Answer his fucking question!” screamed Severard in his face.

“Gofred Hornlach,” squealed the merchant.

Glokta nodded. “Good. You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes, yes!”

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“You know I am!”

“Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to wilfully murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects? Were you ordered so to do by Magister Coster dan Kault, the head of the Guild of Mercers?”

“No!” shouted Hornlach, voice squeaky with panic. That is not the answer we need. Glokta glanced up at Practical Frost. The big white fist sank into the merchants gut, and he gave a gentle sigh and slid sideways.

“My mother keeps dogs, you know,” said Glokta.

“Dogs,” hissed Severard in the gasping merchant’s ear, as he shoved him back into the chair.

“She loves them. Trains them to do all manner of tricks.” Glokta pursed his lips. “Do you know how dogs are trained?”

Hornlach was still winded, lolling in his chair with watering eyes, some way from being able to speak. Still at that stage of a fish pulled suddenly from the water. Mouth opening and closing, but no sound.

“Repetition,” said Glokta. “Repeat, repeat, repeat. You must have that dog perform his tricks one hundred times the same, and then you must do it all again. It’s all about repetition. And if you want that dog to bark on cue, you mustn’t be shy with the whip. You’re going to bark for me, Hornlach, in front of the Open Council.”

“You’re mad,” cried the Mercer, staring around at them, “you’re all mad!”

Glokta flashed his empty smile. “If you like. If it helps.” He glanced back at the paper in his hand. “What is your name?”

The prisoner swallowed. “Gofred Hornlach.”

“You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes.”

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“Yes!”

“Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to wilfully murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects? Were you ordered so to do by Magister Coster dan Kault, the head of the Guild of Mercers?”

Hornlach cast desperately around him. Frost stared back, Severard stared back.

“Well?” demanded Glokta.

The merchant closed his eyes. “Yes,” he whimpered.

“What’s that?”

“Yes!”

Glokta smiled. “Excellent. Now tell me. What is your name?”

“It’s a beautiful country, isn’t it?” asked Bayaz, staring up at the rugged fells on either side of the road.

Their horses’ hooves thumped slowly along the track, the steady sound at odds with Logen’s unease. “Is it?”

“Well, it’s a hard country, of course, to those who don’t know its ways. A tough country, and unforgiving. But there’s something noble there too.” The First of the Magi swept his arm across the view, breathed in the cold air with relish. “It has honesty, integrity. The best steel doesn’t always shine the brightest.” He glanced over, swaying gently in his saddle. “You should know that.”

“I can’t say I see the beauty of it.”

“No? What do you see?”

Logen let his eyes wander over the steep, grassy slopes, spotted with patches of sedge and brown gorse, studded with outcrops of grey rock and stands of trees. “I see good ground for a battle. Provided you got here first.”

“Really? How so?”

Logen pointed at a knobbly hilltop. “Archers on the bluff there couldn’t be seen from the road, and you could hide most of your foot in these rocks. A few of the lightest armoured left on the slopes, just to draw the enemy on up the steepest ground there.”

He pointed to the thorny bushes that covered the lower slopes. “You’d let them come on a way, then when they were struggling through that gorse, you’d give them the arrows. Shafts falling on you from above like that, that’s no fun at all. They come quicker and further, and they bite deeper. That’d break them up. By the time they got to the rocks they’d be dog-tired and running short on discipline. That would be the time to charge. A bunch of Carls, leaping out of those stones, charging down from above, fresh and keen and screaming like devils, that could break ’em right there.”

Logen narrowed his eyes at the hillside. He’d been on both sides of a surprise like that, and in neither case was the memory a pleasant one. “But if they had a mind to hold, a few horsemen in those trees could finish it up. A few Named Men, a few hard fighters, bearing down on you from a place you never expected them, that’s a terrifying thing. That’d make them run. But tired as they’d be, they wouldn’t run too fast. That means prisoners, and prisoners might mean ransoms, or at least enemies cheaply killed. I see a slaughter, or a victory worth the singing, depending which side you’re on. That’s what I see.”

Bayaz smiled, head nodding with the slow movement of his horse. “Was it Stolicus who said the ground must be a general’s best friend, or it becomes his worst enemy?”

“I never heard of him, but he was right enough. This is good ground for an army, providing you got here first. Getting there first is the trick.”

“Indeed. We don’t have an army, however.”

“These trees could hide a few horsemen even better than a lot.” Logen glanced sidelong at the wizard. He was slouched happily in the saddle, enjoying a pleasant ride in the country. “I don’t think Bethod will have appreciated your advice, and I had scores enough with him already. He got wounded where he feels it most, in his pride. He’ll want vengeance. Want it badly.”

“Ah yes, vengeance, that most widespread of Northern pastimes. Its popularity never seems to wane.”

Logen stared grimly around at the trees, the rocks, the folds in the valley’s sides, the many hiding places. “There’ll be men out in these hills, looking for us. Small bands of skilled and battle-hardened men, well mounted and well armed, familiar with the land. Now Bethod has finished all his enemies there’s nowhere in the North out of his reach. They might be waiting there,” he pointed off towards some rocks by the road, “or in those trees, or those.” Malacus Quai, riding up ahead with the packhorse, glanced nervously around. “They could be anywhere.”

“Does that frighten you?” asked Bayaz.