King o the Northmen! someone shrieked, way back in the crowd.
No, croaked Logen, but no one heard him. They were all too drunk with blood and fury, or busy thinking what was easiest, or too scared to say any different. The chants broke out all over, first a trickle of them, then a flow, and then a flood, and all Logen could do was watch, clinging to the bloody stone and trying not to fall.
The Bloody-Nine! King o the Northmen!
Pale-as-Snow was down on one knee beside him, spots of Bethods blood sprayed across the white fur on his coat. He always had been one to lick whatever arse was nearest, but he wasnt alone. They were all kneeling, up on the walls and down on the grass. The Dogmans Carls and Bethods. The men whod held the shields for Logen and the ones whod held the shields for the Feared. Maybe Bethod had taught them a lesson. Maybe theyd forgotten how to be their own men, and now they needed someone else to tell them what to do.
No, whispered Logen, but all that came out was a dull slurp. He had no more power to stop it than he had to make the sky fall in. Seemed to him then that men do pay for the things theyve done, alright. But sometimes the payment isnt what they expected.
The Bloody-Nine! roared Crummock again, as he sank down on his knees and lifted up his arms towards the sky, King o the Northmen!
Greater Good
The room was another over-bright box. It had the same off-white walls, spotted with brown stains. Mould, or blood, or both. The same battered table and chairs. Virtually instruments of torture in themselves. The same burning pains in Gloktas foot, and leg, and back. Some things never change. The same prisoner, as far as anyone could have told, with the same canvas bag over their head. Just like the dozens who have been through this room over the past few days, and just like the dozens more crammed into the cells beyond the door, waiting on our pleasure.
Very well. Glokta waved a tired hand, let us begin.
Frost dragged the bag from the prisoners head. A long, lean Kantic face with deep creases around the mouth and a neatly trimmed black beard, streaked with grey. A wise, dignified face, deep-set eyes even now adjusting to the glare.
Glokta burst out laughing. Each chuckle stabbed at the base of his stiff spine and rattled his stiff neck, but he could not help himself. Even after all these years, fate can still play jokes on me.
Wath futhy? grunted Frost.
Glokta wiped his runny eye. Practical Frost, we are truly honoured. Our latest prisoner is none other than Master Farrad, formerly of Yashtavit in Kanta, and more recently of a magnificent address at the top of the Kingsway. We are in the presence of the finest dentist in the Circle of the World. And one must appreciate the irony.
Farrad blinked into the glaring lamplight. I know you.
Yes.
You are the one who was a prisoner of the Gurkish.
Yes.
The one they tortured. I remember you were brought to me.
Yes.
Farrad swallowed. As though the memory alone is enough to make him vomit. He glanced up at Frost and the pink eyes glowered back, unblinking. He glanced round the grubby, bloodstained room, at the cracked tiles, at the scarred table-top. His eyes lingered on the paper of confession lying upon it. After what they did to youhow can you do this, now?
Glokta showed Farrad his toothless grin. After what they did to me, how could I do anything else?
Why am I here?
For the same reason as everyone else who comes here. Glokta watched Frost plant the heavy tips of his fingers on the paper of confession and slide it deliberately across the table towards the prisoner. To confess.
Confess to what?
Why, to spying for the Gurkish.
Farrads face creased up with disbelief. I am no spy! The Gurkish took everything from me! I fled my home when they came! I am innocent, you must know this!
Of course. As have been all the spies who confessed in this room over the last few days. But they all confessed, without exception. Will you sign the paper?
I have nothing to confess to!
Why is it that no one can answer the questions I ask? Glokta stretched out his aching back, worked his creaking neck from side to side, rubbed at the bridge of his nose with finger and thumb. Nothing helped. But then nothing ever does. Why must they always make it so very difficult, for me and for themselves? Practical Frost, would you show the good master our work so far?
The albino slid a dented tin bucket out from under the table and dumped the contents without ceremony in front of the prisoner. Teeth clattered, and slid, and spun across the wood. Hundreds of them. Teeth of all shapes and sizes, from white, through all the shades of yellow, to brown. Teeth with bloody roots and with shreds of flesh attached. A couple tumbled from the far end of the table and bounced from the grimy tiles, clicked away into the corners of the narrow room.
Farrad gaped down in horror at the bloody mess of dentistry before him. And even the very Prince of Teeth can never have seen such a thing. Glokta leaned forwards. I daresay youve pulled a tooth or two before yourself. The prisoner nodded dumbly. Then you can probably imagine how tired I am after this lot. Thats why Id really like to be done with you as quickly as possible. I dont want you here, and you certainly dont want to be here. We can help each other.
What must I do? muttered Farrad, his tongue moving nervously around his own mouth.
It is not complicated. First you sign your confession.
Thorry, mumbled Frost, leaning forward and brushing a couple of teeth off the document, one of them leaving a long, pink streak across the paper.
Then you name two others.
Two other what?
Why, two other spies for the Gurkish, of course, from among your people.
But I know no spies!
Then some other names will have to serve. You have been named already, several times.
The dentist swallowed, then shook his head, and pushed the paper away. A brave man, and a righteous one. But bravery and righteousness are bad virtues to have in this room. I will sign. But I will not name innocent men. God have mercy on me, I will not.
God might have mercy on you. But he doesnt hold the pliers down here. Clamp him.
Frost gripped Farrads head from behind with one great white hand, tendons standing from the pale skin as he forced his mouth open. Then he shoved the clamp between Farrads jaws and spun the nut round nimbly between finger and thumb until they were held wide open.
Ah! gurgled the dentist. Ayrh!
I know. And were just getting started. Glokta pushed back the lid of his case, watched the polished wood, the sharpened steel, the shining glass spread outwards. What the There was a disconcerting gap in the tools. For pitys sake! Have you had the pliers out of here, Frost?
Nuh, grunted the albino, shaking his head angrily.
Damn it! Can none of these bastards keep their own instruments? Go next door and see if we can borrow some, at least.
The Practical lumbered from the room, the heavy door hanging ajar behind him. Glokta winced as he rubbed at his leg. Farrad stared at him, spit running from one corner of his forced-open mouth. His bulging eyes rolled sideways as a howl of pain came muffled from the corridor outside.
I do apologise for this, said Glokta. Were usually a great deal more organised, but its been busy as hell here the last few days. Such a lot to get through, you see.
Frost pulled the door shut and handed Glokta a pair of rusty pliers, handles first. There was some dry blood and a couple of curly hairs caked to the jaws.