Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

Dogman sighed. “I didn’t stick around to ask. Me and Bethod ain’t on the best of terms.”

“I’ll tell you why,” sneered Dow. “Bethod ain’t interested in your city. Not yet anyhow.”

“He’s interested in breaking you up into pieces small enough to chew on,” said Tul.

Dogman nodded. “Like that one you was with, that he just finished spitting out the bones of.”

“Excuse me,” snapped the Prince, no idea what was being said, “but it might help if we continued in the common tongue—”

Threetrees ignored him and carried on in Northern. “He’s going to pull your army into little bits. Then he’s going to squash ’em one by one. You think he’s going south, so he hopes your Marshal Burr will send some men south. He’ll catch ’em napping on his way back north, and if they’re few enough he’ll cut ’em to pieces like he did those others.”

“Then,” rumbled Tul, “when all your pretty soldiers are stuck back in the mud or run back across the water…”

“He’ll crack the towns open like nuts in winter, no rush, and his Carls will make free with the contents.” Dow sucked his teeth, staring across at the girl. Staring like a mean dog might stare at a side of bacon. She stared right back, which was much to her credit, the Dogman thought. He doubted he’d have had the bones to do the same in her position.

“Bethod’s going north and we’ll be following.” Threetrees said it in a way that made it clear it weren’t a matter for discussion. “Keep an eye on him, hope to move fast and keep ahead, so that if your friend Burr comes blundering through these woods, we can warn him where Bethod’s at before he stumbles on him like a blind man falling down a fucking well.”

The Prince slapped angry at the ground. “I demand to know what is being said!”

“That Bethod is heading north with his army,” hissed West at him through gritted teeth. “And that they intend to follow him.”

“This is intolerable!” snapped the fool, tugging at his filthy cuffs. “That course of action puts us all in danger! Please inform them that we will be setting out southwards without delay!”

“That’s settled, then.” They all turned to see who spoke, and got quite the shock. Grim, talking Union as smooth and even as the Prince himself. “You’re going south. We’re going north. I need to piss.” And he got up and wandered off into the dark. Dogman stared after him, mouth open. Why did he need to learn someone else’s language when he never spoke more than two words together in his own?

“Very well!” squawked the Prince, shrill and panicky. “I should have expected no better!”

“Your Highness!” hissed West at him. “We need them! We won’t make it to Ostenhorm or anywhere else without their help!”

The girl’s eyes slid sideways. “Do you even know which way south is?” Dogman stifled a chuckle, but the Prince weren’t laughing.

“We should head south!” he snarled, dirty face twitching with anger.

Threetrees snorted. “The baggage don’t get a vote, boy, even supposing this was a voting band, which it ain’t.” He was finally speaking Union, but Dogman didn’t reckon the Prince would be too happy to know what was being said. “You had your chance to give the orders, and look where it’s got you. Not to mention those were fools enough to do what you told ’em. You’ll not be adding any of our names to their list, I can tell you that. If you want to follow us, you’d best learn to keep up. If you want to give the orders, well—”

“South is that way,” said the Dogman, jerking his thumb into the woods. “Good luck.”

To Arch Lector Sult,

head of his Majesty’s Inquisition.

Your Eminence,

The siege of Dagoska continues. Three days in a row the Gurkish have made assaults against our walls, each one greater in size and determination. They strive to fill in our channel with boulders, to cross it with bridges, to scale our walls and bring rams against our gates. Three times they have attacked and three times we have thrown them back. Their losses have been heavy, but losses they can well afford. The Emperor’s soldiers crawl like ants across the peninsula. Still, our men are bold, our defences are strong, our resolve is unshakeable, and Union vessels still ply the bay, keeping us well supplied. Be assured, Dagoska will not fall.

On a subject of lesser importance, you will, no doubt, be pleased to learn that the issue of Magister Eider has been put to rest. I had suspended her sentence while I considered the possibility of using her connection with the Gurkish against them. Unfortunately for her, the chances of such subtle measures bearing fruit have dropped away, leaving us with no further use for her. The sight of a woman’s head decorating the battlements might have been detrimental to the morale of our troops. We, after all, are the civilised faction. The one-time Magister of the Guild of Spicers has therefore been dealt with quietly, but, I can assure you, quite finally. Neither one of us need spare her, or her failed conspiracy, any further thought.

As always, your Eminence, I serve and obey.

Sand dan Glokta

Superior of Dagoska.

It was quiet down by the water. Quiet, and dark, and still. The gentle waves slapped at the supports of the wharf, the timbers of the boats creaked softly, a cool breeze washed in off the bay, the dark sea glittered in the moonlight under a sky dusted with stars.

You could never guess that a few short hours ago men were dying in their hundreds less than half a mile away. That the air was split with screams of pain and fury. That even now the ruins of two great siege towers are still smouldering beyond the land walls, corpses scattered round them like leaves fallen in autumn…

“Thhhhh.” Glokta felt his neck click as he turned and squinted into the darkness. Practical Frost emerged from the shadows between two dark buildings, peering suspiciously around, herding a prisoner in front of him; someone much smaller, hunched over and wrapped in a cloak with the hood up, arms secured behind them. The two figures crossed the dusty quay and came down the wharf, their footfalls clapping hollow on the wooden planks.

“Alright, Frost,” said Glokta as the albino pulled his prisoner up. “I don’t think we need that any more.” The white fist pulled back the cowl.

In the pale moonlight, Carlot dan Eider’s face looked gaunt and wasted, full of sharp edges, with a set of black grazes across her hollow cheek. Her head had been shaved, after the fashion of confessed traitors, and without that weight of hair her skull seemed strangely small, almost child-like, her neck absurdly long and fragile. Especially with a ring of angry bruises round it, the dark after-images left by the links of Vitari’s chain. There was hardly any remnant of the sleek and masterful woman who had taken him by the hand in the Lord Governor’s audience chamber, it seemed an age ago. A few weeks in the darkness, sleeping on the rotten floor of a sweltering cell, not knowing if you’ll live another hour—that can ruin the looks. I should know.

She lifted her chin at him, nostrils wide, eyes gleaming in black shadows. That mixture of fear and defiance that comes on some people when they know they are about to die. “Superior Glokta, I hardly dared hope I would see you again.” Her words might have been jaunty, but there was no disguising the edge of fear in her voice. “What now? A rock tied round the legs and into the bay? Isn’t that all a touch dramatic?”

“It would be, but that isn’t what I have in mind.” He looked up at Frost and gave the barest of nods. Eider flinched, squeezing her eyes shut and biting on her lip, hunching her shoulders as she felt the hulking Practical loom up behind her. Waiting for the crushing blow on the back of the skull? The stabbing point between the shoulder blades? The choking wire across the throat? The terrible anticipation. Which shall it be? Frost raised his hand. There was a flash of metal in the darkness. Then a gentle clicking as the key slid smoothly into Eider’s manacles and unlocked them.