Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

Farrad gaped down in horror at the bloody mess of dentistry before him. And even the very Prince of Teeth can never have seen such a thing. Glokta leaned forwards. “I daresay you’ve pulled a tooth or two before yourself.” The prisoner nodded dumbly. “Then you can probably imagine how tired I am after this lot. That’s why I’d really like to be done with you as quickly as possible. I don’t want you here, and you certainly don’t want to be here. We can help each other.”

“What must I do?” muttered Farrad, his tongue moving nervously around his own mouth.

“It is not complicated. First you sign your confession.”

“Thorry,” mumbled Frost, leaning forward and brushing a couple of teeth off the document, one of them leaving a long, pink streak across the paper.

“Then you name two others.”

“Two other what?”

“Why, two other spies for the Gurkish, of course, from among your people.”

“But… I know no spies!”

“Then some other names will have to serve. You have been named already, several times.”

The dentist swallowed, then shook his head, and pushed the paper away. A brave man, and a righteous one. But bravery and righteousness are bad virtues to have in this room. “I will sign. But I will not name innocent men. God have mercy on me, I will not.”

“God might have mercy on you. But he doesn’t hold the pliers down here. Clamp him.”

Frost gripped Farrad’s head from behind with one great white hand, tendons standing from the pale skin as he forced his mouth open. Then he shoved the clamp between Farrad’s jaws and spun the nut round nimbly between finger and thumb until they were held wide open.

“Ah!” gurgled the dentist. “Ayrh!”

“I know. And we’re just getting started.” Glokta pushed back the lid of his case, watched the polished wood, the sharpened steel, the shining glass spread outwards. What the… There was a disconcerting gap in the tools. “For pity’s sake! Have you had the pliers out of here, Frost?”

“Nuh,” grunted the albino, shaking his head angrily.

“Damn it! Can none of these bastards keep their own instruments? Go next door and see if we can borrow some, at least.”

The Practical lumbered from the room, the heavy door hanging ajar behind him. Glokta winced as he rubbed at his leg. Farrad stared at him, spit running from one corner of his forced-open mouth. His bulging eyes rolled sideways as a howl of pain came muffled from the corridor outside.

“I do apologise for this,” said Glokta. “We’re usually a great deal more organised, but it’s been busy as hell here the last few days. Such a lot to get through, you see.”

Frost pulled the door shut and handed Glokta a pair of rusty pliers, handles first. There was some dry blood and a couple of curly hairs caked to the jaws.

“Is this the best they could do? These are dirty!”

Frost shrugged. “Whath a ifferenth?”

A fair point, I suppose. Glokta gave a long sigh, struggled up from his chair and leaned forwards to peer into Farrad’s mouth. And a sweet set he has, too. A pearly white complement. I suppose you’d expect prize-winning teeth from a prize-winning dentist. Anything else would be a poor advertisement for his trade.

“I applaud your cleanliness. It’s a rare privilege to question a man who appreciates the importance of washing the mouth out. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a better set of teeth.” Glokta tapped at them happily with the pliers. “It seems a shame to tear them all out, just so that you can confess in ten minutes time instead of now, but there we are.” He closed the jaws around the nearest tooth, worked his hand around the handles.

“Gurlgh,” gurgled Farrad. “Glaigh!”

Glokta pursed his lips, as though considering, then released the pliers. “Let us give the good master one further chance to talk.” Frost unscrewed the clamp and pulled it from Farrad’s mouth along with a string of drool. “Is there something you wish to say?”

“I will sign!” gasped Farrad, a long tear running down one cheek. “God help me, I will sign!”

“And you will name two accomplices?”

“Whatever you wish… please… whatever you wish.”

“Excellent,” said Glokta, as he watched the pen scratching against the paper of confession. “Who’s next?”

Glokta heard the lock behind him rattle. He scowled as he turned his head, preparing to scream at his presumptuous visitor.

“Your Eminence,” he whispered, with barely concealed dismay, grimacing as he struggled to get up from his chair.

“No need to rise, I do not have all day.” Glokta found himself frozen in the most painful possible position, bent somewhere between sitting and standing, and had to sag back into his chair with little grace as Sult swept into the room, three of his huge Practicals looming silently in the doorway behind him. “You may ask your freak of nature to leave us.”

Frost’s eyes narrowed, flickered over the other Practicals, then back to Sult. “Very good, Practical Frost,” said Glokta hastily. “You may remove our prisoner.”

The albino unlocked Farrad’s manacles and dragged the dentist from his chair with one white fist, hauled him gasping by his collar to the door at the back of the room and ripped back the bolt with his free hand. He gave one pink glare over his shoulder and Sult glared back. Then he slammed the door behind him.

His Eminence slid into the chair opposite Glokta. No doubt still warm from the sweating arse of the brave and righteous Master Farrad. He brushed some of the teeth from the table-top before him with the side of one gloved hand and sent them clicking onto the floor. And he could not have seemed to care less had they been breadcrumbs. “There is a deadly conspiracy afoot within the Agriont. Have we made progress in unmasking it?”

“I have interviewed most of the Kantic prisoners, extracted a suitable number of confessions, there should not be—”

Sult gave an angry wave of his hand. “Not that, halfwit. I refer to that bastard Marovia and his pawns, the so-called First of the Magi and our so-called King.”

Even now, with the Gurkish knocking at the gates? “Your Eminence, I had assumed the war would take precedence—”

“You have not the wit to assume,” sneered Sult. “What evidence have you collected against Bayaz?”

I stumbled upon something I shouldn’t have at the University, then was almost drowned in my bath. “So far… nothing.”

“What of the parentage of King Jezal the First?”

“That avenue too appears… a dead end.” Or an avenue with my own death at the end, if my owners at Valint and Balk were to hear of it. And they hear of everything.

The Arch Lector’s lips twisted. “Then what the hell have you been doing lately?”

For the last three days I have been busy tearing meaningless confessions from the mouths of innocent men, so that we could appear effective. When was I supposed to find time to bring down the state, precisely? “I have been occupied with seeking Gurkish spies—”

“Why do I never get anything from you but excuses? I have begun to wonder, since your effectiveness has so sharply declined, how you were able to keep Dagoska out of Gurkish hands so long. You must have needed a tremendous sum of money to strengthen the city’s defences.”

It took all of Glokta’s self-control to prevent his eye from twitching straight out of his head. Still, now, you twitching jelly, or we are done. “The Guild of Spicers were persuaded to contribute when their own livelihoods were on the line.”

“How uncharacteristically generous of them. Now that I think of it, I find the whole business of Dagoska has a strange flavour. It has always struck me as odd that you chose to dispose of Magister Eider so privately, rather than sending her back to me.”