Ardee blinked, collected the few scattered tools with trembling hands and put them back in their places. She wedged the box under her arm and stood up, somewhat unsteadily, wiping the blood from her nose on her white sleeve. Glokta noticed that she had a piece of one of Severards fingers caught in her hair.
You have something he pointed at his head, just here.
What? Gah! She tore the dead thing out and flung it on the ground, gave a shiver of disgust. You should find another way to make a living.
I have been thinking that for some time. But there are still a few more questions I must have answered.
The door creaked and Glokta felt a sudden stab of panic. Cosca stepped through into the room. He whistled softly as he surveyed the carnage, pushed his cap back on his head, its feather casting a spray of long shadows across the mural behind him. Youve made quite a mess, Superior, quite a mess.
Glokta fingered his cane. His leg was on fire, his heart was thumping dully at his temples, he was damp with cold sweat under his scratchy clothes. Unavoidable.
I thought youd want to know that we had our visitors. Six Practicals of the Inquisition. I rather suspect they may have been sent here to kill you. Undoubtedly. On the Arch Lectors orders, acting on information from the late Practical Frost.
And? asked Glokta. After the events of the past hour he was almost expecting Cosca to come at him, sword swinging.
But if the last hour has taught us anything, it is that the least trusted henchman is not always the least reliable. And we cut them to pieces, of course. The Styrian grinned. Im insulted you might think otherwise.
Good. Good. At least something has gone to plan. Glokta wanted nothing more than to slide to the floor and lie there, screaming. But there is work to do. He winced as he limped for the door. We need to head for the Agriont immediately.
The first traces of dawn were leaking into the cold, clear sky as Glokta hobbled out onto the Middleway, Ardee at his shoulder. There was still mist on the air, but it was fading, now. A fine day in prospect, it would appear. A fine day for bloodshed, treachery, and
Shapes were moving in the mist, away south down the wide cobbled road, towards the sea. There were noises too. Rattling, jingling. It sounded very much like a body of armoured men on the move. Further off, someone was shouting. A bell began to clang, sullen and muffled. A warning bell.
Cosca frowned into the thinning mist. What is that?
The shapes grew more distinct. Armoured men, carrying spears, and in numbers. Their tall helmets were plainly not of Union design.
Ardee touched Glokta on the arm. Are they
Gurkish. Their armour glinted in the thin, grey light as the fog drifted aside. A vast body of them, marching north up the Middleway. They must finally have landed men at the docks, broken through into the centre of the city. What astonishingly poor timing. Back! Glokta turned towards the alley, slipped and nearly fell, grimacing as Ardee caught him by the elbow and dragged him up straight.
Back to the mansion! And hope we werent seen already. And keep those lamps with you, well need them. He hurried to the stinking alley as best he could, barged and jostled by Coscas mercenaries.
Damn these Gurkish, hissed the Styrian. I dont know for the life of me what I did to upset them so.
You have my sympathy. The gate squealed shut and a couple of the mercenaries started dragging a broken fountain behind it. Im not sure how long that will keep out one of the Emperors legions.
Might I ask what the plan is now, exactly, Superior? Charming though your palace is, sitting here and waiting for relief would hardly seem to be an option.
No. Glokta struggled up the steps and through the open front door. We need to get to the Agriont.
Something tells me our Gurkish friends will have had the same idea. We will not be getting there overground, that is certain.
Then we must go underground. Glokta limped into the guts of the building as smartly as he could, Ardee and the mercenaries following behind in a worried crowd. There is an entrance to the sewers here. One can get all the way to the Agriont, if one knows the route.
Sewers? Cosca grinned. I like nothing more than wading through lifes filth, as you well know, but sewers can be quite confusing. Do you know the route?
Actually, no. But I know a man who says he can find a way through anything, even a river of shit. Brother Longfoot! he called out as he hobbled towards the steps. I have a proposition for you!
The Day of Judgement
Lord Marshal West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the fertile plains of Midderland, his eye-glass clutched tightly in one gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the flat autumn fieldspatchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim homecoming.
There was not so much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be sure of nothing.
They must be expecting us. They must be.
Maybe theyre sleeping late, said Jalenhorm, ever the optimist.
Pike was more direct. What difference if they are?
Not much, West admitted. King Jezals orders had been specific. The city was infested with Gurkish troops and the defences were close to complete collapse. There was no time for clever stratagems, for careful approaches, for probing the enemy for weak spots. Prince Ladisla, ironically, would probably have been as good a commander for this particular situation as anyone else. For once, circumstances called for a magnificent charge, followed closely by death or glory. The only thing under Wests control was the timing.
Brint pulled up his horse nearby, sending a shower of grit into the cold air. He swung down from the saddle and gave a smart salute. General Kroys cavalry is in position on the right wing, Lord Marshal, and ready to charge at your order.
Thank you, Captain. His foot?
Perhaps halfway to deploying. Some companies are still spread out down the roads.
Still?
Muddy-going, sir.
Huh. Armies left mud behind them like a slug left a trail. What about Poulder?
A similar position, as far as I can tell, said Brint. No messages?
Jalenhorm shook his head. General Poulder has not been forthcoming this morning.
West stared towards the city, that distant grey line beyond the fields. Soon. He chewed at his lip, already raw from his constant worrying. Very soon. Mustnt let fly half-drawn. When a little more of the foot comes up