Dogman looked up at him. You are? For what?
For all of it. For Threetrees, for Tul for Cathil. West had to swallow an unexpected lump in his throat. For all of it. Im sorry.
Ah, were all sorry. I dont blame you. I dont blame no one, not even Bethod. What good does blame do? We all do what we have to. I gave up looking for reasons a long time ago.
West thought about that for a moment. Then he nodded. Alright. They sat and watched the torches being lit around the bay below, like glittering dust spreading out across the dark country.
Night time, and a grim one. Grim for the cold, and the drip, drip of thin rain, and all the hard miles that needed slogging over before dawn. Grim most of all for what waited at the end of it, when the sun came up. Marching to a battle only got harder each time. When Logen had been a young man, before he lost a finger and gained a black reputation, thered at least been some trace of excitement to it, some shadow of a thrill. Now there was only the sick fear. Fear of the fight, and worse still, fear of the results.
Being king was no kind of help. It was no help to anything, far as he could see. It was just like being chief, but worse. Made him think there was something he should be doing that he wasnt. Made the gap between him and everyone else that bit wider. That bit more unbridgeable.
Boots squelched and sucked, weapons and harness clattered and jingled, men grunted and cursed in the darkness. A few of them had spitting torches now, to light the muddy way, streaks of rain flitting down in the glow around them. The rain fell on Logen too, a feathery kiss at his scalp, and his face, the odd pit and patter on the shoulders of his old coat.
The Union army was spread out down five roads, all heading east, all pointing towards Adua and what sounded like a hard reckoning with the Gurkish. Logen and his crew were on the northernmost one. Off to the south he could see a faint line of flickering lights, floating disembodied in the black country, stretching away out of sight. Another column. Another few thousand men, cursing through the mud towards a bloody dawn.
Logen frowned. He saw the side of Shivers lean face, up ahead, by the flickering light of a torch, a scowl full of hard shadows, one eye glinting. They watched each other for a moment, then Shivers turned his back, hunched up his shoulders and carried on walking.
He still dont like me much, that one, and never will.
Careless slaughter aint necessarily the high road to popularity, said Dogman. Especially in a king.
But that one there might have the bones to do something about it. Shivers had a grudge. One that wasnt going away with time, or kindness, or even lives saved. There arent many wounds that ever heal all the way, and there are some that hurt more with every day that passes.
The Dogman seemed to guess at Logens thoughts. Dont worry about Shivers. Hes alright. Weve got plenty to worry about with these Gurkish, or whatever.
Uh, said Grim.
Logen wasnt so sure about that. The worst enemies are the ones that live next door, his father always used to tell him. Back in the old days hed just have murdered the bastard where he stood and problem solved. But he was trying to be a better man now. He was trying hard.
By the dead, though, Dogman was saying. Fighting against brown men, now, for the Union? How the bloody hell did that all happen? We shouldnt be down here.
Logen took a long breath, and he let Shivers walk away. Furious stuck around for us. Wasnt for him wed never have been done with Bethod. We owe him. Its just this one last fight.
You ever noticed how one fight has a habit of leading on to another? Seems like theres always one fight more.
Uh, said Grim.
Not this time. This is the last, then were done.
That so? And what happens then?
Back to the North, I guess. Logen shrugged his shoulders. Peace, isnt it?
Peace? grunted the Dogman. Just what is that, anyway? What do you do with it?
I reckon well well make things grow, or something.
Make things grow? By all the fucking dead! What do you, or I, or any one of us know about making things grow? What else have we done, all our lives, but kill?
Logen wriggled his shoulders, uncomfortable. Got to keep some hope. A man can learn, cant he?
Can he? The more you kill, the better you get at it. And the better you get at killing, the less use you are for anything else. Seems to me weve lived this long cause when it comes to killing were the very best there is.
Youre in a black mood, Dogman.
I been in a black mood for years. What worries me is that you aint. Hope dont much suit the likes of us, Logen. Answer me this. You ever touched a thing that wasnt hurt by it? What have you ever had, that didnt turn to dirt?
Logen thought about that. His wife and his children, his father and his people, all back to the mud. Forley, Threetrees and Tul. All good folk, and all dead, some of them by Logens own hand, some of them by his neglect, and his pride, and his foolishness. He could see their faces, now, in his thoughts, and they didnt look happy. The dead dont often. And that was without looking to the dark and sullen crew lurking behind. A crowd of ghosts. A hacked and bloody army. All the folk hed chosen to kill. Shama Heartless, his guts hanging out of his split stomach. Blacktoe, with his crushed legs and his burned hands. That Finnius bastard, one foot cut off and his chest slashed open. Bethod, even, right at the front with his skull pounded to mush, his frowning face twisted sideways, Crummocks dead boy peering from around his elbow. A sea of murder. Logen squeezed his eyes shut then prised them wide open, but the faces still lingered at the edge of his mind. There was nothing he could say.
Thought so. Dogman turned away from him, wet hair dripping round his face. You have to be realistic, aint you always told me? You have to be that. He strode off up the road, under the cold stars. Grim lingered next to Logen for a moment, then he shrugged his damp shoulders and followed the Dogman, taking his torch with him.
A man can change, whispered Logen, not sure whether he was talking to the Dogman, or to himself, or to those corpse-pale faces waiting in the darkness. Men clattered down the track all round him, and yet he stood alone. A man can change.
Questions
A trace of autumn fog had slunk off the restless sea as the sun went down over crippled Adua, turning the chill night ghostly. A hundred strides distant the houses were indistinct. Two hundred and they were spectral, the few lights in the windows floating wraiths, hazy through the gloom. Good weather for bad work, and we have much of that ahead of us.
No distant explosions had rattled the still darkness so far. The Gurkish catapults had fallen silent. At least for the moment, and why not? The city almost belongs to them, and why burn your own city? Here, on the eastern side of Adua, far from the fighting, all seemed timelessly calm. Almost as if the Gurkish had never come. So when a vague clattering filtered through the gloom, as of the boots of a body of well-armed men, Glokta could not help a pang of nervousness, and pressed himself into the deeper shadows against the hedge by the road. Faint, bobbing lights filtered through the murk. Then the outline of a man, one hand resting casually on the pommel of a sword, walking with a loose, strutting slouch that bespoke extreme over-confidence. Something tall appeared to stick from his head, waving with his movements.
Glokta peered into the murk. Cosca?
The very same! laughed the Styrian. He was affecting a fine leather cap with a ludicrously tall plume, and he flicked at it with a finger. I bought a new hat. Or should I say you bought me one, eh, Superior?