‘She didn’t tell you?’
Glokta looked back. ‘Who?’
‘Your mother.’
He snorted. ‘My mother? Tell me what?’
‘I did come. Twice. As soon as I learned that you were back, I came. Your mother turned me away at the gates of your estate. She said that you were too ill to take visitors, and that in any case you wanted nothing more to do with the army, and nothing more to do with me in particular. I came back again, a few months later. I thought I owed you that much. That time a servant came to see me off. Later I heard that you had joined the Inquisition, and left for Angland. I put you out of my mind . . . until we met . . . that night in the city . . .’ West trailed off.
It took a while for his words to sink in, and by the time they had, Glokta realised that his mouth was hanging open. So simple. No conspiracy. No web of betrayal. He almost wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it. My mother turned him away at the gate, and I never thought to doubt that no one came. She always hated West. A most unsuitable friend, far beneath her precious son. No doubt she blamed him for what happened to me. I should have guessed, but I was too busy wallowing in pain and bitterness. Too busy being tragic. He swallowed. ‘You came?’
West shrugged. ‘For what it’s worth.’
Well. What can we do, except try to do better? Glokta blinked, and took a deep breath. ‘I’m, er . . . I’m sorry. Forget what I said, if you can. Please. Sit down. You were saying something about your sister.’
‘Yes. Yes. My sister.’ West fumbled his way back to his seat, looking down at the floor, his face taking on that worried, guilty look again. ‘We’re leaving for Angland soon, and I don’t know when I’ll be back . . . or if, I suppose . . . she’ll be without any friends in the city and, well . . . I think you met her once, when you came to our house.’
‘Of course, and a good deal more recently than that, in fact.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. With our mutual friend, Captain Luthar.’
West turned even paler. There is something more to this than he is telling me. But Glokta did not feel like putting his club foot through his one friendship quite yet, not so soon after it had been reborn. He stayed quiet, and after a moment the Major went on.
‘Life has been . . . difficult for her. I could have done something. I should have done something.’ He stared miserably down at the table and an ugly spasm ran across his face. I know that one. One of my own favourites. Self-loathing. ‘But I chose to let other things get in the way, and I did my best to forget all about it, and I pretended that everything was fine. She has suffered and I am to blame.’ He coughed, then swallowed awkwardly. His lip began to tremble and he covered his face with his hands. ‘My fault . . . if something were to happen to her . . .’ His shoulders shook silently, and Glokta raised his eyebrows. He was used to men crying in his presence of course. But I usually have at least to show them the instruments first.
‘Come on, Collem, this isn’t like you.’ He reached slowly across the table, half pulled his hand back, and then patted his sobbing friend awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘You’ve made some mistakes, but haven’t we all? They’re in the past, and can’t be changed. There’s nothing to be done now except to do better, eh?’ What? Can it really be me talking? Inquisitor Glokta, comforter of the needy? But West seemed reassured. He lifted his head, wiped his runny nose, stared up hopefully at Glokta with wet eyes.
‘You’re right, you’re right, of course. I have to make amends. Have to! Will you help me, Sand? Will you look after her, while I’m gone?’
‘I’ll do whatever I can for her, Collem, you can depend on me. I was once proud to call you my friend and . . . I would be again.’ Strange, but Glokta could almost feel a tear in his own eye. Me? Can it be? Inquisitor Glokta, trustworthy friend? Inquisitor Glokta, protector of vulnerable young women? He almost laughed out loud at the idea, and yet here he was. He never would have thought that he needed one, but it felt good to have a friend again.
‘Hollit,’ said Glokta.
‘What?’
‘Those three sisters, their name was Hollit.’ He chuckled to himself, the memory filtering through a little clearer than before. ‘They had a thing about fencing. Loved it. Something about the sweat, maybe.’
‘I think that was when I decided to take it up.’ West laughed, then screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember something. ‘What was our quartermaster’s name? He had a thing for the youngest one, was out of his mind with jealousy. What the hell was that man’s name? Fat man.’
The name was not so very difficult for Glokta to recall. ‘Rews. Salem Rews.’
‘Rews, that’s the one! I’d forgotten all about him. Rews! He could tell a story like no one else, that man. We’d sit up all night listening to him, all of us rolling with laughter! Whatever became of him?’
Glokta paused for a moment. ‘I think he left the army . . . to become a merchant of some sort.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘I heard he moved north.’
Back to the Mud
Carleon weren’t at all how the Dogman remembered it, but then he tended to remember it burning. A memory like that stays with you. Roofs falling in, windows cracking, crowds of fighters everywhere, all drunk on pain and winning and, well, drink—looting, killing, setting fires, all the unpleasant rest of it. Women screaming, men shouting, stinking with smoke and fear. In short, a sack, with him and Logen at the heart of it.
Bethod had put the fires out and made it his. Moved in, then started building. He hadn’t got far when he kicked Logen and the Dogman and the rest of them into exile, but they must have been building every day since. It was twice as big now as it used to be, even before it got burned, covering the whole hill and all the slope down to the river. Bigger than Uffrith. Bigger than any city the Dogman had seen. From where he was, up in the trees on the other side of the valley, you couldn’t see the people, but there had to be an awful lot of them in there. Three new roads leading out from the gates. Two big new bridges. New buildings everywhere, and big ones where the small ones used to be. Lots of them. Built from stone, mostly, slate roofs, glass in some of the windows even.
‘They been busy,’ said Threetrees.
‘New walls,’ said Grim.
‘Lots of ’em,’ muttered the Dogman. There were walls all over. There was a big one round the outside, with proper towers and everything, and a big ditch beyond it. There was an even bigger one round the top of the hill where Skarling’s Hall used to stand. Huge great thing. Dogman could hardly work out where they got all the stone for the building of it. ‘Biggest damn wall I ever saw,’ he said.
Threetrees shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. If Forley gets took, we won’t never get him out.’
‘If Forley gets took there’ll be five of us, chief, and we’ll be looked for. He’s no threat to no one, but we are. Getting him out’ll be the least of our worries. He’ll muddle through, like always. Most likely he’ll outlive the lot of us.’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ muttered Threetrees. ‘We’re in a dangerous line of work.’
They slithered back through the brush, back to the camp. Black Dow was there, looking even worse-tempered than usual. Tul Duru too, working at a hole in his coat with a needle, face all screwed up as his great thick fingers fumbled with the little splinter of metal. Forley was sat near him, looking up at the sky through the leaves.
‘How you feeling Forley?’ asked the Dogman.
‘Bad, but you got to have fear to have courage.’
Dogman grinned at him. ‘So I heard. Reckon we’re both heroes then, eh?’
‘Must be,’ he said, grinning back.
Threetrees was all business. ‘You sure about this, Forley? Sure you want to go in there? Once you get in, there might be no getting out, no matter how good a talker y’are.’
‘I’m sure. I may be shittin’ myself, but I’m going. I can do more good there than I can out here. Someone’s got to warn ’em about the Shanka. You know it, chief. Who
else is there?’
The old boy nodded to himself, slow as the sun rising. Taking his moment, as always. ‘Aye. Alright. Tell ’em I’m waiting here, by the old bridge. Tell ’em I’m alone. Just in case Bethod decides you’re not welcome, you understand?’
‘I get it. You’re on your own, Threetrees. It was just the two of us made it back over the mountains.’
They’d all gathered now, and Forley smiled round at ’em. ‘Well then, lads, it’s been something ain’t it?’
‘Shut up, Weakest,’ scowled Dow. ‘Bethod ain’t got nothing against you. You’re coming back.’
‘In case I don’t, though. It’s been something.’ The Dogman nodded to him, awkward. It was the same dirty, scarred-up faces as usual, but grimmer than ever. None of ’em liked letting one of their own put himself in danger, but Forley was right, someone had to do it, and he was the best suited. Sometimes weakness is a better shield than strength, the Dogman reckoned. Bethod was an evil bastard, but he was a clever one. The Shanka were coming, and he needed the warning. Hopefully, he’d be grateful for it.
They walked together, down to the edge of the trees, looking out towards the path. It crossed over the old bridge and wound down into the valley. From there to the gates of Carleon. Into Bethod’s fortress.
Forley took a deep breath, and the Dogman clapped him on his shoulder. ‘Luck, Forley. Good luck.’
‘And to you.’ He squeezed Dogman’s hand in his for a minute. ‘To all of you lads, eh?’ and he turned and marched off towards the bridge, with his head up high.
‘Luck, Forley!’ shouted Black Dow, startling them all.
He turned round for a minute, the Weakest, stood on top of the bridge, and he grinned. Then he was gone.
Threetrees took a deep breath. ‘Weapons,’ he said, ‘just in case Bethod don’t want to hear sense. And wait for the signal, eh?’
It seemed a long time waiting, up in the leaves, staying quiet and still, looking down at all them new walls. The Dogman lay on his belly, bow near at hand, watching, waiting, wondering how Forley was doing in there. A long, tense time. Then he saw them. Horsemen coming out the nearest gate, riding over one of the new bridges, crossing the river. They’d got a cart at the back. Dogman wasn’t sure why they’d have a cart, but he didn’t like it any. No sign of Forley, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or a bad.
They came quick, spurring up the side of the valley, up the steep path towards the trees and the stream and the old stone bridge across it. Right at the Dogman. He could hear the hooves thumping on the dirt. Close enough to count now, and take a good look at. Spears, shields and good armour. Helmets and mail. Ten of ’em, and two others sitting on the cart, either side of the driver, carrying some sorts of things that looked like little bows on blocks of wood. He didn’t know what they were about, and he didn’t like not knowing. He was the one wanted to be giving them the surprises.
He wriggled back through the brush on his stomach, sloshed through the stream and hurried to the edge of the trees, where he could get a good view of the old bridge. Threetrees, Tul and Dow were standing round the near side of it, and he waved over to them. Couldn’t see Grim, he must’ve been off in the woods away beyond. He made the sign for horsemen, held up his fist to say ten, hand flat on his chest to say armour.
Dow took up his sword and axe, ran up into a bunch of broken rocks, high up beside the bridge, keeping low and quiet. Tul slid down the bank into the stream, luckily no more than knee-deep right then, plastered his big self against the far side of the arch with his great long sword held up above the water. Made the Dogman a bit nervous, he could see Tul so clear from where he was sitting. Still, the riders wouldn’t see him at all if they came straight up the path. They’d only be expecting one man alone, and Dogman hoped they wouldn’t come too careful. He hoped, ’cause if they took the time to check it’d be a fucking disaster.
He watched Threetrees strap his shield on his arm, draw his sword, stretch his neck out, then he just stood, waiting, big and solid, blocking the path on the near side of the bridge, seeming all alone in the world.
The Dogman could hear the hoof-beats loud now, and the clattering of the cart’s wheels out beyond the trees. He pulled out a few arrows and planted them in the earth, point down, where he could get to ’em quick. Doing his best to swallow his fear. His fingers were shaking all the while, but that didn’t matter. They’d work alright when they needed to.
‘Wait for the signal,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Wait for the signal.’
He nocked a shaft to his bow and half-drew the string, taking aim down towards the bridge. Damn it but he needed to piss bad.
The first spear-point showed itself over the crest of the hill, then others. Bobbing helmets, mailed chests, horses’ faces, bit by bit the riders came up towards the bridge. The cart rolled behind, with its driver and its two funny passengers, pulled by a big shaggy carthorse.
The rider up front saw Threetrees now, waiting for him, over the hump of the bridge, and he spurred on forward. The Dogman breathed a little easier as the others trotted after him in a clump, all eagerness. Forley must’ve said as he was told—they were expecting only one. Dogman could see Tul peering up from underneath the mossy arch as the horses clopped above him. By the dead, his hands were shaking. He was worried he’d let the arrow fly half-drawn and ruin the whole thing.
The cart stopped on the far bank, the two men on it stood up and pointed their strange bows at Threetrees. The Dogman got himself a nice aim on one of ’em, and drew the string back all the way. Most of the riders were on the bridge by now, horses shying and stirring about, unhappy at being packed in so tight. The one at the front reined up in front of Threetrees, spear pointing at him. The old boy didn’t back away a step, though. Not him. He just frowned up, not giving the riders any room to get around him, keeping ’em choked up on the bridge.
‘Well, well,’ the Dogman heard their leader saying. ‘Rudd Threetrees. We thought you was long dead, old man.’ He knew the voice. One of Bethod’s Carls, from way back. Bad-Enough they called him.
‘Reckon I’ve got a fight or two left in me,’ said Threetrees, still giving no ground.
Bad-Enough took a look about him, squinting into the trees, sense enough to see he was in a poor position, but not too careful. ‘Where’s the rest of you? Where’s that fucker Dow, eh?’
Threetrees shrugged. ‘There’s just me.’
‘Back to the mud, eh?’ The Dogman could just see Bad-Enough grinning under his helmet. ‘Shame. Hoped I’d be the one to kill that dirty bastard.’
Dogman winced, half expecting Dow to come flying out of those rocks right then, but there was no sign of him. Not yet. Waiting for the signal, for once.
‘Where’s Bethod?’ asked Threetrees.
‘The King don’t come out for the likes of you! Anyhow, he’s off in Angland, kicking the Union’s arses. Prince Calder’s taking care of things while he’s gone.’
Threetrees snorted. ‘Prince is it, now? I remember him sucking on his mother’s tit. He could scarcely do that right.’
‘A lot’s changed, old man. All kind of things.’
By the dead, Dogman was wishing they’d get on with it, one way or another. He could hardly keep the piss in. ‘Wait for the signal,’ he was mouthing to himself, just to try and keep his hands steady.
‘The Flatheads are everywhere,’ Threetrees was saying. ‘They’ll be coming south by next summer, sooner maybe. Something needs doing.’
‘Well, why don’t you come with us, eh? You can warn Calder yourself. We brought a cart, for you to ride in. Man of your age shouldn’t have to walk.’ A couple of the other riders laughed at that, but Threetrees didn’t join ’em.
‘Where’s Forley?’ he growled. ‘Where’s the Weakest?’
There was more sniggering from the horsemen. ‘Oh, he’s nearby,’ said Bad-Enough, ‘he’s real close. Why don’t you get in the cart, and we’ll take you right to him. Then we can all sit round and
talk about Flatheads, nice and peaceful.’
The Dogman didn’t like this. Not at all. He’d got a nasty feeling. ‘You must take me for some new kind o’ fool,’ said Threetrees. ‘I’m going nowhere ’til I’ve seen Forley.’
Bad-Enough frowned at that. ‘You’re in no state to be telling us what you’ll do. You might have been the big man once, but you’re come to less than nothing, and that’s a fact. Now give up your blade and get in the fucking cart like I told you, before I lose my temper.’
He tried to nudge his horse forward again but Threetrees wasn’t budging. ‘Where’s Forley?’ he growled. ‘And I’ll have a straight answer or I’ll have your guts.’
Bad-Enough grinned over his shoulder at his mates, and they grinned back. ‘Alright, old man, since you’re asking. Calder wanted us to wait for this, but I’ve got to see the look on your face. The Weakest’s in the cart. Leastways, most of him is.’ He smiled and let something drop from his saddle. A canvas sack, with something in it. Dogman could guess already what it was. It hit the ground near Threetrees’ feet. The something rolled out, and the Dogman could see on the old boy’s face that he’d guessed right. Forley’s head.
Well that was it, o’ course. Fuck the signal. Dogman’s first arrow stuck one of the men on the cart right through his chest, and he screamed and tumbled over into the back, dragging the driver with him. It was a good shot, but there was no time to think on that, he was far too busy fumbling for another arrow, and shouting. Didn’t even know what he was shouting, just that he was. Grim must’ve been shooting as well, one of the Carls on the bridge gave a yell, fell off his horse and splashed into the stream.
The Blade Itself Page 53
