There was another man waiting in there, walking round and round with his hands behind his back, as though he didn’t like to stand still too long. Not quite a pink, his leathery skin was somewhere between hers and theirs in tone. Head shaved, like a priest. Ferro didn’t like that.
She hated priests most of all.
His eyes lit up when he saw her though, for all her sneering at him, and he hurried over. A strange little man in travel-worn clothes, the top of his head came up no higher than Ferro’s mouth. ‘I am Brother Longfoot,’ flapping his hands around all over the place, ‘of the great order of Navigators.’
‘Lucky for you.’ Ferro turned her shoulder towards him, straining her ears to hear what the two old men were saying beyond the door, but Longfoot was not deterred.
‘It is lucky! Yes, yes, it most certainly is! God has truly blessed me! I declare that never, in all of history, has a man been so well suited to his profession, or a profession to a man, as I, Brother Longfoot, am suited to the noble science of Navigation! From the snow-covered mountains of the far North, to the sun-drenched sands of the utmost South, the whole world is my home, truly!’
He smiled at her with a look of sickening self-satisfaction. Ferro ignored him. The two pinks, the big one and the scrawny one, were talking to each other on the far side of the room. They spoke in some language she didn’t understand. Sounded like pigs grunting. Talking about her maybe, but she didn’t care. They went out another door, leaving her alone with the priest, still flapping his lips.
‘There are few nations within the Circle of the World to which I, Brother Longfoot, am a stranger, and yet I am at a loss as to your origins.’ He waited expectantly, but Ferro said nothing. ‘You would like me to guess, then? Indeed, it is a riddle. Let me see . . . your eyes have the shape of the people of distant Suljuk, where the black mountains rise sheer from the sparkling sea, indeed they do, and yet your skin is—’
‘Stop your mouth, cunt.’
The man paused in mid-sentence, coughed and moved away, leaving Ferro to attend to the voices on the other side of the door. She smiled to herself. The wood was thick and the sounds were muffled, but the two old men had not reckoned on the sharpness of her ears. They were still speaking in Kantic. Now that idiot of a Navigator was quiet she could make out every word that Yulwei was saying.
‘. . . Khalul breaks the Second Law, so you must break the First? I like it not, Bayaz! Juvens would never have allowed this!’ Ferro frowned. Yulwei had a strange note in his voice. Fear. The Second Law. He had spoken of it to the Eaters, Ferro remembered. It is forbidden to eat the flesh of men.
She heard the bald pink next. ‘The First Law is a paradox. All magic comes from the Other Side, even ours. Whenever you change a thing you touch the world below, whenever you make a thing you borrow from the Other Side, and there is always a cost.’
‘But the cost of this might be too high! It is a cursed thing, this Seed, a damned thing. Nothing but chaos grows from it! The sons of Euz, so great in wisdom and power, this Seed was the end of them, of all of them, in different ways. Are you wiser than Juvens, Bayaz? Are you more cunning than Kanedias? Are you stronger than Glustrod?’
‘None of those, brother, but tell me . . . how many Eaters has Khalul made?’
A long pause. ‘I cannot be sure.’
‘How many?’
Another pause. ‘Perhaps two hundred. Perhaps more. The priesthood scour the South for those with any promise. Faster and faster now he makes them, but most are young, and weak.’
‘Two hundred or more, and growing all the time. Many are weak, but among them are some that might be a match for you or I. Those that were Khalul’s apprentices in the Old Time—the one they called the East Wind, and those cursed bloody twins.’
‘Damn those bitches!’ Yulwei groaned.
‘Not to mention Mamun, whose lies began this chaos.’
‘The trouble was well rooted before he was even born, you know it, Bayaz. Still Mamun was in the Badlands. I felt him near. He is grown terrible strong.’
‘You know that I am right. Meanwhile, our numbers hardly grow.’
‘I thought this one, Quai, showed promise?’
‘We need only a hundred more like him and twenty years in which to train them. Then we might stand on equal terms. No, brother, no. We must use fire against fire.’
‘Even if the fire burns you and all creation to ashes? Let me go to Sarkant. Khalul might yet hear reason—’
Laughter. ‘He has enslaved half the world! When will you wake, Yulwei? When he has enslaved the rest of it? I cannot afford to lose you, brother!’
‘Remember, Bayaz, there are worse things than Khalul. Far worse.’ His voice dropped to a whisper and Ferro strained to hear. ‘The Tellers of Secrets are always listening . . .’
‘Enough, Yulwei! It is better not even to think of it!’ Ferro frowned. What was this nonsense? Tellers of Secrets? What secrets?
‘Remember what Juvens told you, Bayaz. Beware of pride. You have been using the Art. I know it. I see a shadow on you.’
‘Damn your shadows! I do what I must! Remember what Juvens told you, Yulwei. One cannot watch forever. Time is short, and I will watch no longer. I am first. It is my decision to make.’
‘Have I not always followed where you have led? Always, even when my conscience told me otherwise?’
‘And have I ever led you wrong?’
‘That remains to be seen. You are first, Bayaz, but you are not Juvens. It is my part to question, and that of Zacharus too. He will like this still less than I. Far less.’
‘It must be done.’
‘But others will pay the price, as they always have. This Northman, Ninefingers, he can speak to the spirits?’
‘Yes.’ Ferro frowned. Spirits? The nine-fingered pink had scarcely looked as if he could speak to other humans.
‘And if you find the Seed,’ came Yulwei’s voice from behind the door, ‘you mean for Ferro to carry it?’
‘She has the blood, and someone must.’
‘Be careful then, Bayaz. I know you, remember. Few better. Give me your word that you will keep her safe, even after she has served your purpose.’
‘I will guard her more closely than I would my own child.’
‘Guard her closer than you did the Maker’s child, and I will be satisfied.’
A long silence. Ferro worked her jaw as she thought on what she had heard. Juvens, Kanedias, Zacharus—the strange names meant nothing to her. And what kind of seed could burn all creation to ashes? She wanted no part of any such thing, she was sure of that. Her place was in the south, fighting the Gurkish with weapons that she understood.
The door opened, and the two old men stepped through. They could hardly have looked more different. One dark-skinned, tall and bony with long hair, the other white-skinned, heavy-built and bald. She looked at them suspiciously. It was the white one who spoke first.
‘Ferro, I have an offer to—’
‘I am not going with you, old pink fool.’
The slightest shadow of annoyance flitted across the bald man’s face, but was quickly mastered. ‘Why? What other business have you which is so very pressing?’
That needed no thinking about. ‘Vengeance.’ Her favourite word.
‘Ah. I see. You hate the Gurkish?’
‘Yes.’
‘They owe you a debt, for what they have done to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘For taking your family, your people, your country?’
‘Yes.’
‘For making you a slave,’ he whispered. She glowered back at him, wondering how he knew so much about her, wondering whether to go for him again. ‘They have robbed you, Ferro, robbed you of everything. They have stolen your life from you. If I were you . . . if I had suffered as you have suffered . . . there would not be enough blood in all the South to satisfy me. I would see every Gurkish soldier made a corpse before I was satisfied. I would see every Gurkish city burn before I was satisfied.
I would see their Emperor rotting in a cage before his own palace before I was satisfied!’
‘Yes!’ she hissed, a fierce smile across her face. He was talking her language now. Yulwei had never talked so—perhaps this old pink wasn’t so bad after all. ‘You understand! That is why I must go south!’
‘No, Ferro.’ It was the bald man grinning now. ‘You do not realise the chance that I am offering you. The Emperor does not truly rule in Kanta. Mighty though he seems, he dances to the tune of another, a hand well hidden. Khalul, they call him.’
‘The Prophet.’
Bayaz nodded. ‘If you are cut, do you hate the knife, or the one who wields it? The Emperor, the Gurkish, they are but Khalul’s tools, Ferro. Emperors come and go, but the Prophet is always there, behind them. Whispering. Suggesting. Ordering. He is the one that owes you.’
‘Khalul . . . yes.’ The Eaters had used that name. Khalul. The Prophet. The Emperor’s palace was filled with priests, everyone knew it. The palaces of the governors too. Priests, they were everywhere, swarming, like insects. In the cities, in the villages, in amongst the soldiers, always spreading their lies. Whispering. Suggesting. Ordering. Yulwei was frowning, unhappy, but Ferro knew that the old pink was right. ‘Yes, I see it!’
‘Help me, and I will give you vengeance, Ferro. Real vengeance. Not one dead soldier, or ten, but thousands. Tens of thousands! Perhaps the Emperor himself, who knows?’ He shrugged, and half turned away from her. ‘Still, I cannot force you. Go back to the Badlands, if you wish—hide, and run, and grub in the dust like a rat. If that satisfies you. If that is the full measure of your vengeance. The Eaters want you now. Khalul’s children. Without us they will have you, and sooner rather than later. Still, the choice is yours.’
Ferro frowned. All those years in the wilderness, fighting tooth and nail, always running, had got her nothing. No vengeance worthy of the word. If it had not been for Yulwei, she would be finished now. White bones in the desert. Meat in the bellies of the Eaters. In the cage before the Emperor’s palace.
Rotting.
She could not say no, and she knew it, but she did not like it. This old man had known exactly what to offer her. She hated to have no choice.
‘I will think about it,’ she said.
Again, the slightest shadow of anger on the bald pink’s face, quickly covered. ‘Think about it then, but not for long. The Emperor’s soldiers are massing, and time is short.’ He followed the others out of the room, leaving her alone with Yulwei.
‘I do not like these pinks,’ she said, loud enough for the old one to hear her in the corridor, and then more softly. ‘Do we have to go with them?’
‘You do. I must return to the South.’
‘What?’
‘Someone must keep watch on the Gurkish.’
‘No!’
Yulwei began to laugh. ‘Twice you have tried to kill me. Once you have tried to run away from me, but now that I am leaving you want me to stay? There’s no understanding you, Ferro.’
She frowned. ‘This bald one says he can give me vengeance. Does he lie?’
‘No.’
‘Then I must go with him.’
‘I know. That is why I brought you here.’
She could think of nothing to say. She looked down at the floor, but Yulwei surprised her by stepping forward suddenly. She raised her hand, to ward off a blow, but instead he put his arms round her and squeezed her tightly. A strange feeling. Being so close to someone else. Warm. Then Yulwei stepped away, one hand on her shoulder. ‘Walk in God’s footsteps, Ferro Maljinn.’
‘Huh. They have no God here.’
‘Say rather that they have many.’
‘Many?’
‘Had you not noticed? Here, each man worships himself.’ She nodded. That seemed close to the truth. ‘Be careful, Ferro. And listen to Bayaz. He is the first of my order, and few indeed are wise as he.’
‘I do not trust him.’
Yulwei leaned closer. ‘I did not tell you to trust him.’ Then he smiled, and turned his back. She watched him walk slowly to the door, then out into the corridor. She heard his bare feet flapping away on the tiles, the bangles on his arms jingling softly.
Leaving her alone with the luxury, and the gardens, and the pinks.
Old Friends
There was a thumping knock at the door, and Glokta jerked his head up, left eye suddenly twitching. Who the hell comes knocking at this hour? Frost? Severard? Or someone else? Superior Goyle, maybe, come to pay me a visit with his circus freaks? Might the Arch Lector have grown tired of his toy cripple already? One could hardly say the feast went according to plan, and his Eminence is hardly the forgiving type. Body found floating by the docks . . .
The knocking came again. Loud, confident knocking. The kind that demands the door be opened, before it’s broken down. ‘I’m coming!’ he shouted, voice cracking slightly as he prised himself out from behind his table, legs wobbly. ‘I’m just coming!’ He snatched up his cane and limped to the front door, took a deep breath and fumbled with the latch.
It was not Frost, or Severard. Nor was it Goyle, or one of his freakish Practicals. It was someone much more unexpected. Glokta raised an eyebrow, then leaned against the door frame. ‘Major West, what a surprise.’
Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. ‘Inquisitor Glokta,’ mumbled West—hesitant, awkward, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Glokta with icy formality.
The Major nearly winced. ‘May I come in?’
‘Of course.’ Glokta shut the front door behind him, then limped after West into his dining room. The Major squeezed himself into one of the chairs and Glokta took another. They sat there facing each other for a moment, without speaking. What the hell does he want, at this hour or any other? Glokta scrutinised his old friend’s face in the glow from the fire and the one, flickering candle. Now that he could see him more clearly, he realised West had changed. He looks old. His hair was thinning at the temples, going grey round his ears. His face was pale, pinched, slightly hollow. He looks worried. Ground down. Close to the edge. West looked round at the mean room, the mean fire, the mean furniture, cautiously up at Glokta, then quickly down at the floor. Nervous, as if he had something picking at his mind. He looks ill at ease. As well he might.
He did not seem ready to break the silence, so Glokta did it for him. ‘So, how long has it been, eh? Apart from that night in town, and we can hardly count that, can we?’
The memory of that unfortunate meeting hung between them for a moment like a fart, then West cleared his throat. ‘Nine years.’
‘Nine years. Imagine that. Since we stood on the ridge, old friends together, looking down towards the river. Down towards the bridge and all those Gurkish on the other side. Seems a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Nine years. I can remember you pleading with me not to go down there, but I was having none of it. What a fool I was, eh? Thought I was our only hope. Thought I was invincible.’
‘You saved us all that day, saved the whole army.’
‘Did I? How wonderful. I daresay if I’d died on that bridge there’d be statues of me all over the place. Shame I didn’t, really. Shame for everyone.’
West winced and shifted in his chair, looking ever more uncomfortable. ‘I looked for you, afterwards . . .’ he mumbled.
You looked for me? How hugely fucking noble. What a true friend. Precious little good it did me, dragged off in agony with my leg hacked to mincemeat. And that was just the beginning. ‘You did not come to discuss old times, West.’
‘No . . . no, I didn’t. I came about my sister.’
Glokta paused. He had certainly not expected that answer. ‘Ardee?’
‘Ardee, yes. I’m leaving for Angland soon and . . . I was hoping that, perhaps, you could keep an eye on her for me, while I’m away
.’ West’s eyes flickered up nervously. ‘You always had a way with women . . . Sand.’ Glokta grimaced at the sound of his first name. No one called him that anymore. No one besides my mother. ‘You always knew just what to say. Do you remember those three sisters? What were their names? You had them all eating out of your hand.’ West smiled, but Glokta couldn’t.
He remembered, but the memories were weak now, colourless, faded. The memories of another man. A dead man. My life began in Gurkhul, in the Emperor’s prisons. The memories since then are much more real. Stretched out in bed like a corpse after I came back, in the darkness, waiting for friends who never came. He looked at West, and he knew that his glance was terribly cold. Do you think to win me with your honest face and your talk of old times? Like a long-lost dog, at last come faithfully home? I know better. You stink, West. You smell like betrayal. That memory at least is mine.
Glokta leaned back slowly in his chair. ‘Sand dan Glokta,’ he murmured, as though recalling a name he once knew. ‘Whatever became of him, eh, West? You know, that friend of yours, that dashing young man, handsome, proud, fearless? Magic touch with the women? Loved and respected by all, destined for great things? Wherever did he go?’
West looked back, puzzled and unsure of himself, and said nothing.
Glokta lurched towards him, hands spread out on the table, lips curling back to show his ruined mouth. ‘Dead! He died on the bridge! And what remains? A fucking ruin with his name! A limping, skulking shadow! A crippled ghost, clinging to life the way the smell of piss clings to a beggar. He has no friends, this loathsome fucking remnant, and he wants none! Get you gone, West! Go back to Varuz, and to Luthar, and the rest of those empty bastards! There’s no one here you know!’ Glokta’s lips trembled and spat with revulsion. He wasn’t sure who disgusted him more—West, or himself.
The Major blinked, his jaw muscles working silently. He got shakily to his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Tell me!’ shouted Glokta, bringing him up short of the door. ‘The rest of them, they stuck to me so long as I was useful, so long as I was going up. I always knew it. I wasn’t so very surprised they wanted nothing to do with me when I came back. But you, West, I always thought you were a better friend than that, a better man. I always thought that you at least—you alone—would come to visit me.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose I was wrong.’ Glokta turned away, frowning towards the fire, waiting for the sound of the front door closing.