“Who are you?” he croaked, voice suddenly loud in the dead stillness. Was he dreaming? He shook his head, squeezed the jar in his hand. It all felt real. Horribly real.
“Logen…” The woman moved silently towards him. Soft light from the window caught the side of her face. A white cheek, a shadowy eye-socket, the corner of a mouth, then sunk in darkness again. There was something familiar… Logen’s mind fumbled for it as he backed away, eyes fixed on her outline, keeping the table between them.
“What do you want?” He had a cold feeling in his chest, a bad feeling. He knew he should be shouting for help, raising the others, but somehow he had to know who it was. Had to know. The air was freezing, Logen could almost see his breath smoking before his face. His wife was dead, he knew that, dead and cold and gone back to the mud, long ago and far away. He’d seen the village, burned to ashes, full of corpses. His wife was dead… and yet…
“Thelfi?” he whispered.
“Logen…” Her voice! Her voice! His mouth dropped open. She reached out for him, through the light from the window. Pale hand, pale fingers, long, white nails. The room was icy, icy cold. “Logen!”
“You’re dead!” He raised the jar, ready to smash it down on her head. The hand reached out, fingers spreading wide.
Suddenly, the room was bright as day. Brighter. Brilliant, searing bright. The murky outlines of the doors, the furniture, were transformed into hard white edges, black shadows. Logen squeezed his eyes shut, shielded them with his arm, dropped back gasping against the wall. There was a deafening crash like a landslide, a tearing and splintering like a great tree falling, a stink of burning wood. Logen opened one eye a crack, peered out from between his fingers.
The chamber was strangely altered. Dark, once more, but less dark than before. Light filtered in through a great ragged hole in the wall where the window used to be. Two of the chairs had gone, a third teetered on three legs, broken edges glowing faintly, smouldering like sticks that had been a long time in a fire. The table, standing right beside him just a moment before, was sheared in half on the other side of the room. Part of the ceiling had been torn away from the rafters and the floor was littered with chunks of stone and plaster, broken lengths of wood and fragments of glass. Of the strange woman there was no sign.
Bayaz picked his way unsteadily through the wreckage towards the gaping hole in the wall, nightshirt flapping around his thick calves, and peered out into the night. “It’s gone.”
“It?” Logen stared at the steaming hole. “She knew my name…”
The wizard stumbled over to the last remaining intact chair and flung himself into it like a man exhausted. “An Eater, perhaps. Sent by Khalul.”
“A what?” asked Logen, baffled. “Sent by who?”
Bayaz wiped sweat from his face. “You wanted not to know.”
“That’s true.” Logen couldn’t deny it. He rubbed at his chin, staring out of the ragged patch of night sky, wondering whether now might be a good time to change his mind. But by then it was too late. There was a frantic hammering at the door.
“Get that, would you?” Logen stumbled stupidly through the debris and slid back the bolt. An angry-looking guard shouldered his way past, a lamp in one hand, drawn sword in the other.
“There was a noise!” The light from his lamp swept over the wreckage, found the ragged edge of the ripped plaster, the broken stone, the empty night sky beyond. “Shit,” he whispered.
“We had an uninvited guest,” muttered Logen.
“Er… I must notify…” the guard looked thoroughly confused “…somebody.” He tripped and nearly fell over a fallen beam as he backed towards the door. Logen heard his footsteps rattling away down the stairs.
“What’s an Eater?” There was no reply. The wizard was asleep, eyes closed, a deep frown on his face, chest moving slowly. Logen looked down. He was surprised to see he still had the pot, beautiful and delicate, clasped tightly in his right hand. He carefully swept clear a space on the floor and set the jar down, in amongst the wreckage.
One of the doors banged open and Logen’s heart jumped. It was Malacus, wild-eyed and staring, hair sticking up off his head at all angles. “What the…” He stumbled to the hole and peered gingerly out into the night. “Shit!”
“Malacus, what’s an Eater?”
Quai’s head snapped round to look at Logen, his face a picture of horror. “It’s forbidden,” he whispered, “to eat the flesh of men…”
Questions
Glokta heaped porridge into his mouth as fast as he could, hoping to get half a meal’s worth down before his gorge began to rise. He swallowed, coughed, shuddered. He shoved the bowl away, as though its very presence offended him. Which, in fact, it does. “This had better be important, Severard,” he grumbled.
The Practical scraped his greasy hair back with one hand. “Depends what you mean by important. It’s about our magical friends.”
“Ah, the First of the Magi and his bold companions. What about them?”
“There was some manner of a disturbance at their chambers last night. Someone broke in, they say. There was a fight of some sort. Seems as if some damage was done.”
“Someone? Some sort? Some damage?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Seems? Seems isn’t good enough for us, Severard.”
“Well it’ll have to be, this time. The guard was a little thin on the details. Looked damn worried, if you ask me.” Severard sprawled a little deeper into his chair, shoulders hunching up around his ears. “Someone needs to go and look into it, might as well be us. You can get a good look at them, close up. Ask them some questions, maybe.”
“Where are they?”
“You’ll love this. The Tower of Chains.”
Glokta scowled as he sucked a few bits of porridge from his empty gums. Of course. And right at the top, I bet. Lots of steps. “Anything else?”
“The Northman went for a stroll yesterday, walked in circles round half the Agriont. We watched him, of course.” The Practical sniffed and adjusted his mask. “Ugly bastard.”
“Ah, the infamous Northman. Did he commit any outrages? Rape and murder, buildings aflame, that type of thing?”
“Not much, being honest. A tedious morning for everyone. Wandered around and gawped at things. He spoke to a couple of people.”
“Anyone we know?”
“No one important. One of the carpenters working on the stands for the Contest. A clerk on the Kingsway. There was some girl near the University. He spoke to her for a while.”
“A girl?”
Severard’s eyes grinned. “That’s right, and a nice-looking one too. What was her name?” He snapped his fingers. “I made sure I found it out. Her brother’s with the King’s Own… West, something West…”
“Ardee.”
“That’s the one! You know her?”
“Hmm.” Glokta licked at his empty gums. She asked me how I was. I remember. “What did they have to talk about?”
The Practical raised his eyebrows. “Probably nothing. She’s from Angland though, not been in the city long. Might be some connection. You want me to bring her in? We could soon find out.”
“No!” snapped Glokta. “No. No need. Her brother used to be a friend of mine.”
“Used to be.”
“No one touches her, Severard, you hear?”
The Practical shrugged. “If you say so, Inquisitor. If you say so.”
“I do.”
There was a pause. “So we’re done with the Mercers then, are we?” Severard sounded almost wistful.
“It would seem so. They’re finished. Nothing but some cleaning up to do.”