'No bother.'
'There's five of us,' the leader was saying, 'all Named Men and veterans. We've fought against Bethod, and we've fought with him, all across the North. We know his style, few better. We can scout, we can fight, we can lay surprises, as you see. We'll not shirk any task worth the doing, and any task that hurts Bethod is worth it to us. What do you say?'
'Well… er,' murmured Burr, rubbing his chin with his thumb. 'You plainly are a most…' and he looked from one hard, dirty, scarred face to the next '… useful set of men. How could I resist an offer so graciously made?'
'Then I better make the introductions. This here is the Dogman.'
'That's me,' growled the lean one with the pointy teeth, flashing his worrying grin again. 'Good to meet.' He grabbed hold of West's hand and squeezed it until his knuckles clicked.
Threetrees jerked his thumb sideways at the evil one with the axe and the missing ear. 'This friendly fellow's Black Dow. I'd say he gets better with time, but he don't.' Dow turned and spat on the ground again. 'The big lad is Tul Duru. They call him the Thunderhead. Then there's Harding Grim. He's off out there in the trees, keeping your horses off the road. Not to worry though, he'd have nothing to say.'
'And you?'
'Rudd Threetrees. Leader of this little crew, on account of our previous leader having gone back to the mud.'
'Back to the mud, I see.' Burr took a deep breath. 'Well then. You can report to Colonel West. I'm sure that he can find food and quarters for you, not to mention work.'
'Me?' asked West, sword still dangling from his hand.
'Absolutely.' The Lord Marshal had the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth. 'Our new allies should fit right in with Prince Ladisla's retinue.' West couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Just when he had thought his situation could not be any more difficult, he had five primitives to handle.
Threetrees seemed happy enough with the outcome. 'Good,' he said, slowly nodding his approval. 'That's settled then.'
'Settled,' said the Dogman, his evil smile growing wider still. The one called Black Dow gave West a long, cold stare. 'Fucking Union,' he growled.
* * *
Questions
« ^ »
To Sand dan Glokta,
Superior of Dagoska, and for his eyes alone.
You will take ship immediately, and assume command of the Inquisition in the city of Dagoska. You will establish what became of your predecessor, Superior Davoust. You will investigate his suspicion that a conspiracy is afoot, perhaps in the city's ruling council itself. You will examine the members of that council, and uproot any and all disloyalty. Punish treason with scant mercy, but ensure that your evidence is sound. We can afford no further blunders.
Gurkish soldiers already crowd to the peninsula, ready to exploit any weakness. The King's regiments are fully committed in Angland, so you can expect little help should the Gurkish attack. You will therefore ensure that the defences of the city are strong, and that provisions are sufficient to withstand any siege. You will keep me informed of your progress in regular letters. Above all, you will ensure that Dagoska does not, under any circumstances, fall into the hands of the Gurkish.
Do not fail me.
Sult
Arch Lector of his Majesty's Inquisition.
Glokta folded the letter carefully and slipped it back into his pocket, checking once again that the King's writ was safe beside it. Damn thing. The big document had been weighing heavily in his coat ever since the Arch Lector passed it to him. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands, the gold leaf on the big red seal glittering in the harsh sunlight. A single sheet of paper, yet worth more than gold. Priceless. With this, I speak with the King's own voice. I am the most powerful man in Dagoska, greater even than the Lord Governor himself. All must hear me and obey. As long as I can stay alive, that is.
The voyage had not been a pleasant one. The ship was small and the Circle Sea had been rough on the way over. Glokta's own cabin was tiny, hot and close as an oven. An oven swaying wildly all day and all night. If he had not been trying to eat gruel with the bowl slopping crazily around, he had been vomiting back up those small amounts he had actually managed to swallow. But at least below decks there was no chance of his useless leg giving way and dumping him over the side into the sea. Yes, the voyage has hardly been pleasant.
But now the voyage was over. The ship was already slipping up to its mooring in amongst the crowded wharves. The sailors were already struggling with the anchor, throwing ropes on to the dock. Now the gangplank was sliding across from ship to dusty shore.
'Right,' said Practical Severard. 'I'm going to get me a drink.'
'Make it a strong one, but see you catch up with me later. We'll have work to do tomorrow. Lots of work.'
Severard nodded, lanky hair swaying around his thin face. 'Oh, I live to serve.' I'm not sure what you live for, but I doubt it's that. He sauntered off, whistling tunelessly, clattered across the plank, down the wharf and off between the dusty brown buildings beyond.
Glokta eyed the narrow length of wood with not a little worry, worked his hand around the handle of his cane, tongued at his empty gums, building himself up to stepping on to it. An act of selfless heroism indeed. He wondered for a moment whether he would be wiser to crawl across on his stomach. It would reduce the chance of a watery death, but it would hardly be appropriate, would it? The city's awe-inspiring Superior of the Inquisition, slithering into his new domain on his belly?
'Need a hand?' Practical Vitari was looking at him sideways, leaning back on the ship's handrail, red hair sticking up off her head like the spines on a thistle. She seemed to have spent the entire journey basking in the open air like a lizard, quite unmoved by the reeling of the ship, enjoying the crushing heat every bit as much as Glokta despised it. It was hard to judge her expression beneath her black Practical's mask. But it's a good bet she's smiling. No doubt she's already preparing her first report to the Arch Lector: 'The cripple spent most of the voyage below decks, puking. When we arrived at Dagoska he had to be hoisted ashore with the cargo. Already he has become a laughing stock…'
'Of course not!' snapped Glokta, hobbling up onto the plank as though he took his life in his hands every morning. It wobbled alarmingly as he planted his right foot on it, and he became painfully aware of the grey-green water slapping at the slimy stones of the quay a long drop below him. Body found floating by the docks…
But in the end he was able to shuffle across without incident, dragging his withered leg behind him. He felt an absurd pang of pride when he made it to the dusty stones of the docks and finally stood on dry land again. Ridiculous. Anyone would think I'd beaten the Gurkish and saved the city already, rather than hobbled three strides. To add insult to injury, now that he had become used to the constant lurching of the ship, the stillness of land was making his head spin and his stomach roll, and the rotten salt stink of the baking docks was very far from helping. He forced himself to swallow a mouthful of bitter spit, closed his eyes and turned his face towards the cloudless sky.
Hell, but it's hot. Glokta had forgotten how hot the South could be. Late in the year, and still the sun was blazing down, still he was running with sweat under his long black coat. The garments of the Inquisition may be excellent for instilling terror in a suspect, but I fear they are poorly suited to a hot climate.
Practical Frost was even worse off. The hulking albino had covered every exposed inch of his milky skin, even down to black gloves and a wide hat. He peered up at the brilliant sky, pink eyes narrowed with suspicion and misery, broad white face beaded with sweat around his black mask.
Vitari peered sidelong at the pair of them. 'You two really should get out more,' she muttered.
A man in Inquisitor's black was waiting at the end of the wharf, sticking close to the shade of a crumbling wall but still sweating generously. A tall, bony man with bulging eyes, his hooked nose red and peeling from sunburn. The welcoming committee? Judging by its scal
e, I am scarcely welcome at all.
'I am Harker, senior Inquisitor in the city.'
'Until I arrived,' snapped Glokta. 'How many others have you?'
The Inquisitor frowned. 'Four Inquisitors and some twenty Practicals.'
'A small complement, to keep a city of this size free of treason.'
Harker's frown grew more surly yet. 'We've always managed.' Oh, indeed. Apart from mislaying your Superior, of course. 'This is your first visit to Dagoska?'
'I have spent some time in the South.' The best days of my life, and the worst. 'I was in Gurkhul during the war. I saw Ulrioch.' In ruins after we burned the city. 'And I was in Shaffa for two years.' If you count the Emperors Prisons. Two years in the boiling heat and the crushing darkness. Two years in hell. 'But I have never been to Dagoska.'
'Huh,' snorted Harker, unimpressed. 'Your quarters are in the Citadel.' He nodded towards the great rock that loomed up over the city. Of course they are. In the very highest part of the highest building, no doubt. 'I'll show you the way. Lord Governor Vurms and his council will be keen to meet their new Superior.' He turned with a look of some bitterness. Feel you should have got the job yourself, eh? I'm delighted to disappoint you.
Harker set off into the city at a brisk pace, Practical Frost trudging along beside him, heavy shoulders hunched around his thick neck, sticking to every trace of shade as though the sun were shooting tiny darts at him. Vitari zig-zagged across the dusty street as if it was a dance-floor, peering through windows and down narrow side-streets. Glokta shuffled along doggedly behind, his left leg already starting to burn with the effort.
'The cripple shuffled only three strides into the city before he fell on his face, and had to be carried the rest of the way by stretcher, squealing like a half-slaughtered pig and begging for water, while the very citizens he was sent to terrify watched, dumbstruck…'
He curled his lips back and dug his remaining teeth into his empty gums, forced himself to keep pace with the others, the handle of his cane cutting into his palm, his spine giving an agonising click with every step.
'This is the Lower City,' grumbled Harker over his shoulder, 'where the native population are housed.'
A giant, boiling, dusty, stinking slum. The buildings were mean and badly maintained: rickety shacks of one storey, leaning piles of half-baked mud bricks. The people were all dark-skinned, poorly dressed, hungry-looking. A bony woman peered out at them from a doorway. An old man with one leg hobbled past on bent crutches. Down a narrow alley ragged children darted between piles of refuse. The air was heavy with the stink of rot and bad sewers. Or no sewers at all. Flies buzzed everywhere. Fat, angry flies. The only creatures prospering here.
'If I'd known it was such a charming place,' observed Glokta, 'I'd have come sooner. Seems the Dagoskans have done well from joining the Union, eh?'
Harker did not recognise the irony. 'They have indeed. During the short time the Gurkish controlled the city, they took many of the leading citizens as slaves. Now, under the Union, they are truly free to work and live as they please.'
'Truly free, eh?' So this is what freedom looks like. Glokta watched a group of sullen natives crowding round a stall poorly stocked with half-rotten fruit and flyblown offal.
'Well, mostly.' Harker frowned. 'The Inquisition had to weed out a few troublemakers when we first arrived. Then, three years ago, the ungrateful swine mounted a rebellion.' After we gave them the freedom to live like animals in their own city? Shocking. 'We got the better of them, of course, but they caused no end of damage. After that they were barred from keeping weapons, or entering the Upper City, where most of the whites live. Since then, things have been quiet. It only goes to show that a firm hand is most effective when it comes to dealing with these primitives.'
'They built some impressive defences, for primitives.'
A high wall cut through the city before them, casting a long shadow over the squalid buildings of the slum. There was a wide pit in front, freshly dug and lined with sharpened stakes. A narrow bridge led across to a tall gate, set between looming towers. The heavy doors were open, but a dozen men stood before them: sweating Union soldiers in steel caps and studded leather coats, harsh sun glinting on their swords and spears.
'A well-guarded gate,' mused Vitari. 'Considering that it's inside the city.'
Harker frowned. 'Since the rebellion, natives have only been allowed within the Upper City if they have a permit.'
'And who holds a permit?' asked Glokta.
'Some skilled craftsmen and so forth, still employed by the Guild of Spicers, but mostly servants who work in the Upper City and the Citadel. Many of the Union citizens who live here have native servants, some have several.'
'Surely the natives are citizens of the Union also?'
Harker curled his lip. 'If you say so, Superior, but they can't be trusted, and that's a fact. They don't think like us.'
'Really?' If they think at all it will be an improvement on this savage.
'They're all scum, these browns. Gurkish, Dagoskan, all the same. Killers and thieves, the lot of them. Best thing to do is to push them down and keep them down.' Harker scowled out at the baking slum. 'If a thing smells like shit, and is the colour of shit, the chances are it is shit.' He turned and stalked off across the bridge.
'What a charming and enlightened man,' murmured Vitari. You read my mind.
It was a different world beyond the gates. Stately domes, elegant towers, mosaics of coloured glass and pillars of white marble shone in the blazing sun. The streets were wide and clean, the residences well maintained. There were even a few thirsty-looking palms in the neat squares. The people here were sleek, well dressed, and white-skinned. Aside from a great deal of sunburn. A few dark faces moved among them, keeping well out of the way, eyes on the ground. Those lucky enough to be allowed to serve? They must be glad that we in the Union would not tolerate such a thing as slavery.
Over everything Glokta could hear a rattling din, like a battle in the distance. It grew louder as he dragged his aching leg through the Upper City, and reached a furious pitch as they emerged into a wide square, packed from one edge to the other with a bewildering throng. There were people of Midderland, and Gurkhul, and Styria, narrow-eyed natives of Suljuk, yellow-haired citizens of the Old Empire, bearded Northmen even, far from home.
'Merchants,' grunted Harker. All the merchants in the world, it looks like. They crowded round stalls laden with produce, great scales for the weighing of materials, blackboards with chalked-in goods and prices. They bellowed, borrowed and bartered in a multitude of different languages, threw up their hands in strange gestures, shoved and tugged and pointed at one another. They sniffed at boxes of spice and sticks of incense, fingered at bolts of cloth and planks of rare wood, squeezed at fruits, bit at coins, peered through eye-glasses at flashing gemstones. Here and there a native porter stumbled through the crowds, stooped double under a massive load.
'The Spicers take a cut of everything,' muttered Harker, shoving impatiently through the chattering press.
'That must be a great deal,' said Vitari under her breath. A very great deal, I should imagine. Enough to defy the Gurkish. Enough to keep a whole city prisoner. People will kill for much, much less.
Glokta grimaced and snarled his way across the square, jolted and barged and painfully shoved at every limping step. It was only when they finally emerged from the crowds at the far side that he realised they were standing in the very shadow of a vast and graceful building, rising arch upon arch, dome upon dome, high over the crowds. Delicate spires at each corner soared into the air, slender and frail.
'Magnificent,' muttered Glokta, stretching out his aching back and squinting up, the pure white stone almost painful to look at in the afternoon glare. 'Seeing this, one could almost believe in God.' If one didn't know better.
'Huh,' sneered Harker. 'The natives used to pray here in their thousands, poisoning the air with their damn chanting and superstition, until the rebellion wa
s put down, of course.'
'And now?'
'Superior Davoust declared it off limits to them. Like everything else in the Upper City. Now the Spicers use it as an extension to the marketplace, buying and selling and so on.'
'Huh.' How very appropriate. A temple to the making of money. Our own little religion.
'I believe some bank uses part of it for their offices, as well.'
'A bank? Which one?'
'The Spicers run that side of things,' snapped Harker impatiently. 'Valint and something, is it?'
'Balk. Valint and Balk.' So some old acquaintances are here before me, eh? I should have known. Those bastards are everywhere. Everywhere there's money. He peered round at the swarming marketplace. And there's a lot of money here.
The way grew steeper as they began to climb the great rock, the streets built onto shelves cut out from the dry hillside. Glokta laboured on through the heat, stooped over his cane, biting his lip against the pain in his leg, thirsty as a dog and with sweat leaking out through every pore. Harker made no effort to slow as Glokta toiled along behind him. And I'll be damned if I'm going to ask him to.
'Above us is the Citadel.' The Inquisitor waved his hand at the mass of sheer-walled buildings, domes and towers clinging to the very top of the brown rock, high above the city. 'It was once the seat of the native King, but now it serves as Dagoska's administrative centre, and accommodates some of the most important citizens. The Spicers' guildhall is inside, and the city's House of Questions.'
'Quite a view,' murmured Vitari.
Glokta turned and shaded his eyes with his hand. Dagoska was spread out before them, almost an island. The Upper City sloped away, neat grids of neat houses with long, straight roads in between, speckled with yellow palms and wide squares. On the far side of its long, curving wall lay the dusty brown jumble of the slums. Looming over them in the distance, shimmering in the haze, Glokta could see the mighty land walls, blocking the one narrow neck of rock that joined the city to the mainland, the blue sea on one side and the blue harbour on the other. The strongest defences in the world, so they say. I wonder if we shall be putting that proud boast to the test before too long?
Before They Are Hanged Page 4
