There was nothing to say. Not for men who'd been through as much as the two of them had together—fighting the Shanka, crossing the mountains, getting through the wars, and after. Years of it. Dogman pressed his hand and Logen slapped his other hand on top of it, and Dogman slapped his other hand on top of that. They grinned at each other, and nodded, and things were back the way they had been. Nothing needed saying.
'Grim. Good to see you.'
'Uh,' grunted Grim, handing him up a mug then looking back to his shafts, just as though Logen had gone for a piss a minute ago and come back a minute later like everyone had expected. Logen had to grin. He'd have hoped for nothing else.
'That Black Dow hiding down there?'
'I'd have hidden better if I knew you were coming.' Dow looked Logen up and down with a grin not entirely welcoming. 'If it ain't Ninefingers his self. Thought you said he went over a cliff?' he barked at Dogman.
'That's what I saw.'
'Oh, I went over.' Logen remembered the wind in his mouth, the rock and the snow turning around him, the crash as the water crushed his breath out. 'I went on over and I washed up whole, more or less.' Dogman made room for him on the stretched-out hides by the fire, and he sat down, and the others sat near him.
Dow was shaking his head. 'You always was a lucky bastard when it came to staying alive. I should've known you'd turn up.'
'I thought the Flatheads had got you all sure,' said Logen. 'How d'you get out of there?'
'Threetrees got us out,' said Dogman.
Tul nodded. 'Led us out and over the mountains, and hunted through the North, and all the way down into Angland.'
'Squabbling all the way like a bunch of old women, no doubt?'
Dogman grinned across at Dow. 'There was some moaning on the trail.'
'Where's Threetrees now, then?' Logen was looking forward to having a word with that old boy.
'Dead,' said Grim.
Logen winced. He'd guessed that might be the way, since Dogman was in charge. Tul nodded his big head. 'Died fighting. Leading a charge, into the Shanka. Died fighting that thing. That Feared.'
'Bastard fucking thing.' And Dow hawked some spit into the mud.
'What about Forley?'
'Dead n'all,' barked Dow. 'He went into Carleon, to warn Bethod that the Shanka were coming over the mountains. Calder had him killed, just for the sport of it. Bastard!' And he spat again. He'd always been a great one for spitting, had Dow.
'Dead.' Logen shook his head. Forley dead, and Threetrees dead, it was a damn shame. But it wasn't so long since he thought the whole lot of them were back in the mud, so four still going was quite the bonus, in a way. 'Well. Good men both. The best, and died well, by the sound of it. As well as men can, anyway.'
'Aye,' said Tul, lifting up a mug. 'As well as you can. Here's to the dead.'
They all drank in silence, and Logen smacked his lips at the taste of beer. Too long away. 'So, a year gone by,' grunted Dow. 'We done some killing, and we walked a damn long way, and we fought in a bastard of a battle. We lost two men and we got us a new chief. What the hell you been up to, Ninefingers?'
'Well… that there is some kind of a tale.' Logen wondered what kind, exactly, and found he wasn't sure. 'I thought the Shanka got you all, since life's taught me to expect the worst, so I went south, and I fell in with this wizard. I went a sort of journey with him, across the sea and far away, to find some kind of a thing, which when we got there… weren't there.' It all sounded more than a bit mad now he said it.
'What kind of a thing?' asked Tul, his face all screwed up with puzzlement.
'Do you know what?' Logen sucked at his teeth, tasting of drink. 'I can't say that I really know.' They all looked at each other as if they never heard such a damn-fool story, and Logen had to admit they probably hadn't. 'Still, it hardly matters now. Turns out life ain't quite the bastard I took it for.' And he gave Tul a friendly clap on the back.
The Dogman puffed out his cheeks. 'Well, we're glad you're back, anyway. Guess you'll be taking your place again now, eh?'
'My place?'
'You'll be taking over, no? I mean to say, you were chief.'
'Used to be, maybe, but I've no plans to go back to it. Seems as if these lads are happy enough with things the way they are.'
'But you know a sight more than me about leading men—'
'I don't know that's a fact. Me being in charge never worked out too well for anyone, now did it? Not for us, not for those who fought with us, not for them we fought against.' Logen hunched his shoulders at the memories. 'I'll put my word in, if you want it, but I'd sooner follow you. I did my time, and it wasn't a good one.'
Dogman looked like he'd been hoping for a different outcome. 'Well… if you're sure…'
'I'm sure.' And Logen slapped him on the shoulder. 'Not easy, is it, being chief?'
'No,' grumbled Dogman. 'It bloody ain't.'
'Besides, I reckon a lot of these lads have been on the other side of an argument with me before, and they're not altogether pleased to see me.' Logen looked down the fire at the hard faces, heard the mutterings with his name in them, too quiet to tell the matter for sure, but he could guess that it wasn't complimentary.
'They'll be glad enough to have you alongside 'em when the fighting starts, don't worry about that.'
'Maybe.' Seemed an awful shame that he'd have to set to killing before folk would give him so much as a nod. Sharp looks came at him from out the dark, flicking away when he looked back. There was only one man, more or less, who met his eye. A big lad with long hair, halfway down the fire.
'Who's that?' asked Logen.
'Who's what?'
'That lad down there staring at me.'
'That there is Shivers.' Dogman sucked at his pointed teeth. 'He's got a lot of bones, Shivers. Fought with us a few times now, and he does it damn well. First of all I'll tell you he's a good man and we owe him. Then I ought to mention that he's Rattleneck's son.'
Logen felt a wave of sickness. 'He's what?'
'His other son.'
'The boy?'
'Long time ago now, all that. Boys grow up.'
A long time ago, maybe, but nothing was forgotten. Logen could see that straight away. Nothing was ever forgotten, up here in the North, and he should've known better than to think it might be. 'I should say something to him. If we have to fight together… I should say something.'
Dogman winced. 'Might be better that you don't. Some wounds are best not picked at. Eat, and talk to him in the morning. Everything sounds fairer in the daylight. That or you can decide against it.'
'Uh,' grunted Grim.
Logen stood up. 'You're right, most likely, but it's better to do it—'
'Than to live with the fear of it.' Dogman nodded into the fire. 'You been missed, Logen, and that's a fact.'
'You too, Dogman. You too.'
He walked down through the darkness, smelly with smoke and meat and men, along behind the Carls sitting at the fire. He felt them hunching their shoulders, muttering as he passed. He knew what they were thinking. The Bloody-Nine, right behind me, and there's no worse man in the world to have your back to. He could see Shivers watching him all the way, one eye cold through his long hair, lips pressed together in a hard line. He had a knife out for eating, but just as good for stabbing a man. Logen watched the firelight gleaming on its edge as he squatted down beside him.
'So you're the Bloody-Nine.'
Logen grimaced. 'Aye. I reckon.'
Shivers nodded, still staring at him. 'This is what the Bloody-Nine looks like.'
'Hope you're not disappointed.'
'Oh no. Not me. Good to have a face on you, after all this time.'
Logen looked down at the ground, trying to think of some way to come at it. Some way to move his hands, or set his face, some words that might start to make the tiniest part of it right. 'Those were hard times, back then,' he ended up saying.
'Harder'n now?'
Logen chewed at his lip.
'Well, maybe not.'
'Times are always hard, I reckon,' said Shivers between gritted teeth. 'That ain't an excuse for doing a runny shit.'
'You're right. There ain't any excuses for what I did. I'm not proud of it. Don't know what else I can say, except I hope you can put it out of the way, and we can fight side by side.'
'I'll be honest with you,' said Shivers, and his voice was strangled-sounding, like he was trying not to shout, or trying not to cry, or both at once, maybe. 'It's a hard thing to just put behind me. You killed my brother, when you'd promised him mercy, and you cut his arms and legs off, and you nailed his head on Bethod's standard.' His knuckles were trembling white round the grip of his knife, and Logen saw that it was taking all he had not to stab him in the face, and he didn't blame him. He didn't blame him one bit. 'My father never was the same after that. He'd nothing in him any more. I spent a lot of years dreaming of killing you, Bloody-Nine.'
Logen nodded, slowly. 'Well. You'll never be alone with that dream.'
He caught other cold looks from across the flames, now. Frowns in the shadows, grim faces in the flickering light. Men he didn't even know, afraid to their bones, or nursing scores against him. A whole lot of fear and a whole lot of scores. He could count on the fingers of one hand the folk who were pleased to see him alive. Even missing a finger. And this was supposed to be his side of the fight.
Dogman had been right. Some wounds are best not picked at. Logen got up, his shoulders prickling, and walked back to the head of the fire, where the talk came easier. He'd no doubt Shivers wanted to kill him just as much as he ever had, but that was no surprise.
You have to be realistic. No words could ever make right the things he'd done.
* * *
Bad Debts
« ^ »
Superior Glokta,
Though I believe that we have never been formally introduced, I have heard your name mentioned often these past few weeks. Without causing offence, I hope, it seems as if every room I enter you have recently left, or are due soon to arrive in, and every negotiation I undertake is made more complicated by your involvement.
Although our employers are very much opposed in this business, there is no reason why we should not behave like civilised men. It may be that you and I can hammer out between us an understanding that will leave us both with less work and more progress.
I will be waiting for you at the slaughter-yard near the Tour Corners tomorrow morning from six. My apologies for such a noisy choice of spot but I feel our conversation would be better kept private.
I daresay that neither one of us is to be put off by a little ordure underfoot.
Harlen Morrow,
Secretary to High Justice Marovia.
Being kind, the place stank. It would seem that a few hundred live pigs do not smell so sweet as one would expect. The floor of the shadowy warehouse was slick with their stinking slurry, the thick air full of their desperate noise. They honked and squealed, grunted and jostled each other in their writhing pens, sensing, perhaps, that the slaughterman's knife was not so very far away. But, as Morrow had observed, Glokta was not one to be put off by the noise, or the knives, or, for that matter, an unpleasant odour. I spend my days wading through the metaphorical filth, after all. Why not the real thing? The slippery footing was more of a problem. He hobbled with tiny steps, his leg burning. Imagine arriving at my meeting caked in pig dung. That would hardly project the right image of fearsome ruthlessness, would it?
He saw Morrow now, leaning on one of the pens. Just like a farmer admiring his prize-winning herd. Glokta limped up beside him, boots squelching, wincing and breathing hard, sweat trickling down his back. 'Well, Morrow, you know just how to make a girl feel special, I'll give you that.'
Marovia's secretary grinned up at him, a small man with a round face and eyeglasses. 'Superior Glokta, may I first say that I have nothing but the highest respect for your achievements in Gurkhul, your methods in negotiation, and—'
'I did not come here to exchange pleasantries, Morrow. If that's all your business I can think of sweeter-smelling venues.'
'And sweeter companions too, I do not doubt. To business, then. These are trying times.'
'I'm with you there.'
'Change. Uncertainty. Unease amongst the peasantry—'
'A little more than unease, I would say, wouldn't you?'
'Rebellion, then. Let us hope that the Closed Council's trust in Colonel Luthar will be justified, and he will stop the rebels outside the city.'
'I wouldn't trust his corpse to stop an arrow, but I suppose the Closed Council have their reasons.'
'They always do. Though, of course, they do not always agree with each other.' They never agree about anything. It's practically a rule of the damn institution. 'But it is those that serve them,' and Morrow peered significantly over the rims of his eye-glasses, 'that carry the burden for their lack of accord. I feel that we, in particular, have been stepping on each other's toes rather too much for either of our comfort.'
'Huh,' sneered Glokta, working his numb toes inside his boot. 'I do hope your feet aren't too bruised. I could never live with myself if I caused you to limp. Might you have a solution in mind?'
'You could say that.' He smiled down at the pigs, watching them squirm and grunt and clamber over one another. 'We had hogs on the farm, where I grew up.' Mercy. Anything but the life story. 'It was my responsibility to feed them. Rising in the morning, so early it was still dark, breath smoking in the cold.' Oh, he paints a vivid picture! Young Master Morrow, up to his knees in filth, watching his pigs gorge themselves, and dreaming of escape. A brave new life in the glittering city! Morrow grinned up at him, dim light twinkling on the lenses of his spectacles. 'You know, these things will eat anything. Even cripples.'
Ah. So that's it.
It was then that Glokta became aware of a man moving furtively towards them from the far end of the shed. A burly-looking man in a ragged coat, keeping to the shadows. He had his arm pressed tightly by his side, hand tucked up in his sleeve. Just as if he were hiding a knife up there, and not doing it very well. Better just to walk up with a smile on your face and the knife in plain view. There are a hundred reasons to carry a blade in a slaughterhouse. But there can only ever be one reason to try and hide one.
He glanced over his shoulder, wincing as his neck clicked. Another man, much like the first, was creeping up from that direction. Glokta raised his eyebrows. 'Thugs? How very unoriginal.'
'Unoriginal, perhaps, but I think you will find them quite effective.'
'So I'm to be slaughtered in the slaughterhouse, eh, Morrow? Butchered at the butchers! Sand dan Glokta, breaker of hearts, winner of the Contest, hero of the Gurkish war, shat out the arses of a dozen different pigs!' He snorted with laughter and had to wipe some snot off his top lip.
'I'm so glad you enjoy the irony,' muttered Morrow, looking slightly put out.
'Oh, I do. Fed to the swine. So obvious I can honestly say it's not what I expected.' He gave a long sigh. 'But not expected and not planned for are two quite different things.'
The bowstring made no sound over the clamour of the hogs. The thug seemed at first to slip, to drop his shining knife and fall on his side for no reason. Then Glokta saw the bolt poking from his side. Not too great a surprise, of course, and yet it always seems like magic.
The hired man at the other end of the warehouse took a shocked step back, never seeing Practical Vitari slip silently over the rail of the empty pen behind him. There was a flash of metal in the darkness as she slashed the tendons at the back of his knee and brought him down, his cry quickly shut off as she pulled her chain tight round his neck.
Severard dropped down easily from the rafters off to Glokta's left and squelched into the muck. He sauntered over, flatbow across his shoulder, kicked the fallen knife off into the darkness and looked down at the man he had shot. 'I owe you five marks,' he called to Frost. 'Missed his heart, damn it. Liver, maybe?'
'Lither,'
grunted the albino, emerging from the shadows at the far end of the warehouse. The man struggled up to his knees, clutching at the shaft through his side, twisted face half crusted with filth. Frost lifted his stick as he passed and dealt him a crunching blow on the back of the head, putting a sharp end to his cries and knocking him face down in the muck. Vitari, meanwhile, had wrestled her man onto the floor and was kneeling on his back, dragging at the chain round his neck. His struggling grew weaker, and weaker, and stopped. A little more dead meat on the floor of the slaughterhouse.
Glokta looked back to Morrow. 'How quickly things can change, eh, Harlen? One minute everyone wants to know you. The next?' He tapped sadly at his useless foot with the filthy toe of his cane. 'You're fucked. It's a tough lesson.' I should know.
Marovia's secretary backed away, tongue darting over his lips, one hand held out in front of him. 'Now hold on—'
'Why?' Glokta pushed out his bottom lip. 'Do you really think we can grow to love each other again after all this?'
'Perhaps we can come to some—'
'I'm not upset that you tried to kill me. But to make such a pathetic effort at it? We're professionals, Morrow. It's an insult, that you thought this might work.'
'I'm hurt,' muttered Severard.
'Wounded,' sang Vitari, chain jingling in the darkness.
'Deethly othended,' grunted Frost, herding Morrow back towards the pen.
'You should have stuck to licking Hoffs big drunk arse. Or maybe you should have stayed on the farm, with your pigs. Tough work, perhaps, in the early morning, and so on. But it's a living.'
'Just wait! Just wuurgh—'
Severard grabbed Morrow's shoulder from behind, stabbed him through the side of his neck and chopped his throat out as calmly as if he was gutting a fish.
Blood showered over Glokta's boots and he stumbled back, wincing as pain shot up his ruined leg. 'Shit!' he hissed through his gums, nearly stumbling and falling on his arse in the filth, only managing to stay upright by clinging desperately to the fence beside him. 'Couldn't you just have strangled him?'