Superior? murmured Longfoot.
Glokta curled his lip. But wheres the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. Very well. Let him go. The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoots wrists. It would be best if I didnt ever see you again.
The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. Dont worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing. He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.
Tell me you brought the things, said Glokta.
Im untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent. Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. Time, my friends. Lets black up.
As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majestys Inquisition. Not that theres too much of a leap from one to the other.
Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. Always wise to wear a choice of colours, he explained. In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch. The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. Can I keep it?
No.
Youre a hard man, Superior. He grinned as he tossed the cap away into the shadows. And I love you for it. He pulled his own mask on, then frowned at Ardee, standing, confused and exhausted in a corner of the store-room. What about her?
Her? A prisoner, Practical Cosca! A spy in league with the Gurkish. His Eminence expressed his desire to question her personally. Ardee blinked at him. Its easy. Just look scared.
She swallowed. That shouldnt be a problem.
Wandering through the House of Questions with the aim of arresting the Arch Lector? I should say not. Glokta snapped his fingers. We need to move.
We need to move, said West. Have we cleared the docks? Where the hell is Poulder?
Nobody seems to know, sir. Brint tried to push his horse further, but they were squashed in by a grumbling throng. Spears waved, their points flailing dangerously close. Soldiers cursed. Sergeants bellowed. Officers clucked like frustrated chickens. It was hard to imagine more difficult terrain than the narrow streets behind the docks through which to manoeuvre an army of thousands. To make matters worse there was now an ominous flow of wounded, limping or being carried, in the opposite direction.
Make some room for the Lord Marshal! roared Pike. The Lord Marshal! He lifted his sword as though he was more than willing to lay about him with the flat, and men rapidly cleared out of the way, a valley forming through the rattling spears. A rider came clattering up out of their midst. Jalenhorm, a bloody cut across his forehead.
Are you alright?
The big man grinned. Its nothing, sir. Caught my head on a damn timber.
Progress?
Were forcing them back towards the western side of the city. Kroys cavalry made it to the Four Corners, as far as I can tell, but the Gurkish still have the Agriont well surrounded, and now theyre regrouping, counterattacking from the west. A lot of Kroys foot are still all caught up in the streets on the other side of the river. If we dont get reinforcement there soon
I need to speak to General Poulder, snapped West. Where the hell is bloody Poulder? Brint?
Sir?
Take a couple of these fellows and bring Poulder here, right away! He stabbed at the air with a finger. In person!
Yes, sir! Brint did his best to turn his horse around.
What about at sea? Is Reutzer up?
As far as Im aware hes engaged the Gurkish fleet, but Ive no idea how The smell of rotting salt and burning wood intensified as they emerged from the buildings and onto the harbour. Bloody hell.
West could only agree.
The graceful curve of Aduas docks had been transformed into a crescent of carnage. Near to them the quay was blackened, wasted, scattered with broken gear and broken bodies. Further off, crowds of men were struggling in ill-formed groups, polearms sticking up in all directions like hedgehogs spines, the air heavy with their noise. Union battle-flags and Gurkish standards flailed like scarecrows in the breeze. The epic conflict covered almost the entire long sweep of the shoreline. Several warehouses were in flames, sending up a shimmering heat-haze, lending a ghostly air to the hundreds of men locked in battle beyond them. Long smears of choking smoke, black, grey, white, rolled from the burning buildings and out into the bay. There, in the churning harbour, a host of ships was engaged in their own desperate struggle.
Vessels ploughed this way and that under full sail, turning, tacking, jockeying for position, flinging glittering spray high into the air. Catapults hurled flaming missiles, archers on the decks loosed flaming volleys, sailors crawled high in the cobwebs of rigging. Other ships were locked together in ungainly pairs by rope and grapple, like fighting dogs snapping at one another, glinting sunlight showing men in savage melée on their decks. Stricken vessels limped vainly, torn sailcloth hanging, slashed rigging dangling. Several were burning, sending up brown columns of smoke, turning the low sun into an ugly smudge.
Wreckage floated everywhere on the frothing waterbarrels, boxes, shivered timbers and dead sailors.
West knew the familiar shapes of the Union ships, yellow suns stitched into their sails, he could guess which were the Gurkish vessels. But there were others there toolong, lean, black-hulled predators, each one of their white sails marked with a black cross. One in particular towered far over every other vessel in the harbour, and was even now being secured at one of the few wharves still intact.
Nothing good ever comes from Talins, muttered Pike.
What the hell are Styrian ships doing here?
The ex-convict pointed to one in the very act of ramming a Gurkish ship in the side. Fighting the Gurkish, by the look of it.
Sir, somebody asked. What shall we do?
The eternal question. West opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How could one man hope to exert any measure of control over the colossal chaos spread out before him? He remembered Varuz, in the desert, striding around with his huge staff crowding after him. He remembered Burr, thumping at his maps and wagging his thick ringer. The greatest responsibility of a commander was not to command, but to look like he knew how to. He swung his sore leg over the saddle bow and slid down to the sticky cobbles.
We will set up our headquarters here, for the time being. Major Jalenhorm?
Sir?
Find General Kroy and tell him to keep pressing north and west, towards the Agriont.
Yes, sir.
Somebody get some men together and start clearing this rubbish from the docks. We need to get our people through quicker.
Yes, sir.
And somebody find me General Poulder, damn it! Each man has to do his part!
Whats this now? grunted Pike.
A strange procession was sweeping down the blasted quay towards them, almost dreamily out of place amongst the wreckage. A dozen watchful guards in black armour flanked a single man. He had black hair streaked with grey, sported a pointed beard, immaculately trimmed. He wore black boots, a fluted breastplate of black steel, a cloak of black velvet flowing majestically from one shoulder. He was dressed, in fact, like the worlds richest undertaker, but walked with the kind of steely self-importance reserved for the highest royalty. He plotted a direct course towards West, looking neither left nor right, the dumbfounded guards and staff forced effortlessly aside by his air of command like iron filings parted by magnetic repulsion.