The big one was dressed all in black, with a mask over the lower part of his face. He had white hair, white eyebrows, skin white as milk. Jezal stared at the white devil across the road, and he glared back with narrowed pink eyes.
“Help!” It was the fellow with the bag on his head, his voice shrill with fear. “Help, I am—” The white man dealt him a savage blow in the midriff and he folded up with a sigh.
“You there!” shouted West.
Jalenhorm was already rushing across the street.
“What?” said Kaspa, propped up on his elbows in the road.
Jezal’s mind was full of mud, but his feet seemed to be following Jalenhorm, so he stumbled along with them, feeling very sick. West came behind him. The white ghost started up and turned to stand between them and his prisoner. Another man moved briskly out of the shadows, tall and thin, dressed all in black and masked, but with long greasy hair. He held up a gloved hand.
“Gentlemen,” his whining commoner’s voice was muffled by his mask, “gentlemen please, we’re on the King’s business!”
“The King conducts his business in the day-time,” growled Jalenhorm.
The new arrival’s mask twitched slightly as he smiled. “That’s why he needs us for the night-time stuff, eh, friend?”
“Who is this man?” West was pointing at the fellow with the bag on his head.
The prisoner was struggling up again. “I am Sepp dan—oof!” The white monster silenced him with a heavy fist in the face, knocking him limp into the road.
Jalenhorm put a hand on the hilt of his sword, jaw clenching, and the white ghost loomed forward with a terrible speed. Close up he was even more massive, alien, and terrifying. Jalenhorm took an involuntary step back, stumbled on the rutted surface of the road and pitched onto his back with a crash. Jezal’s head was thumping.
“Back!” bellowed West. His sword whipped out of its scabbard with a faint ringing.
“Thaaaaah!” hissed the monster, fists clenched like two big white rocks.
“Aargh,” gurgled the man with the bag on his head.
Jezal’s heart was in his mouth. He looked at the thin man. The thin man’s eyes smiled back. How could anyone smile at a time like this? Jezal was surprised to see that he had a long, ugly knife in his hand. Where did that come from? He fumbled drunkenly for his sword.
“Major West!” came a voice from the shadows down the street, Jezal paused, uncertain, steel halfway out. Jalenhorm scrambled to his feet, the back of his uniform crusted with mud, pulled out his own sword. The pale monster stared at them unblinking, not retreating a finger’s breadth.
“Major West!” came the voice again, accompanied now by a clicking, scraping sound. West’s face had turned pale. A figure emerged from the shadows, limping badly, cane tapping on the dirt. His broad-brimmed hat obscured the upper part of his face, but his mouth was twisted into a strange smile. Jezal noticed with a sudden wave of nausea that his four front teeth were missing. He shuffled towards them, ignoring all the naked steel, and offered his free hand to West.
The Major slowly sheathed his sword, took the hand and shook it limply. “Colonel Glokta?” he asked in a husky voice.
“Your humble servant, though I’m no longer an army man. I’m with the King’s Inquisition now.” He reached up slowly and removed his hat. His face was deathly pale, deeply lined, close-cropped hair scattered with grey. His eyes stared out feverish bright from deep, dark rings, the left one noticeably narrower than the right, pink-rimmed and glistening wet. “And these are my assistants, Practicals Severard,” the lanky one gave a mockery of a bow, “and Frost.”
The white monster jerked the prisoner to his feet with one hand. “Hold on,” said Jalenhorm, stepping forward, but the Inquisitor put a gentle hand on his arm.
“This man is a prisoner of His Majesty’s Inquisition, Lieutenant Jalenhorm.” The big man paused, surprised to be called by name. “I realise your motives are of the best, but he is a criminal, a traitor. I have a warrant for him, signed by Arch Lector Sult himself. He is most unworthy of your assistance, believe me.”
Jalenhorm frowned and stared balefully at Practical Frost. The pale devil looked terrified. About as terrified as a stone. He hauled the prisoner over his shoulder without apparent effort and turned up the street. The one called Severard smiled with his eyes, sheathed his knife, bowed again and followed his companion, whistling tunelessly as he sauntered off.
The Inquisitor’s left eyelid began to flutter and tears rolled down his pale cheek. He wiped it carefully on the back of his hand. “Please forgive me. Honestly. It’s coming to something when a man can’t control his own eyes, eh? Damn weeping jelly. Sometimes I think I should just have it out, and make do with a patch.” Jezal’s stomach roiled. “How long has it been, West? Seven years? Eight?”
A muscle was working on the side of the Major’s head. “Nine.”
“Imagine that. Nine years. Can you believe it? It seems like only yesterday. It was on the ridge, wasn’t it, where we parted?”
“On the ridge, yes.”
“Don’t worry, West, I don’t blame you in the least.” Glokta slapped the Major warmly on the arm. “Not for that, anyway. You tried to talk me out of it, I remember. I had time enough to think about it in Gurkhul, after all. Lots of time to think. You were always a good friend to me. And now young Collem West, a Major in the King’s Own, imagine that.” Jezal had not the slightest idea what they were talking about. He wanted only to be sick, then go to bed.
Inquisitor Glokta turned toward him with a smile, displaying once again the hideous gap in his teeth. “And this must be Captain Luthar, for whom everyone has such high hopes in the coming Contest. Marshal Varuz is a hard master, is he not?” He waved his cane weakly at Jezal. “Jab, jab, eh, Captain? Jab, jab.”
Jezal felt his bile rising. He coughed and looked down at his feet, willing the world to remain motionless. The Inquisitor looked around expectantly at each of them in turn. West looked pale. Jalenhorm mud-stained and sulky. Kaspa was still sitting in the road. None of them had anything to say.
Glokta cleared his throat. “Well, duty calls,” he bowed stiffly, “but I hope to see you all again. Very soon.” Jezal found himself hoping he never saw the man again.
“Perhaps we might fence again sometime?” muttered Major West.
Glokta gave a good natured laugh. “Oh, I would enjoy that, West, but I find that I’m ever so slightly crippled these days. If you’re after a fight, I’m sure that Practical Frost could oblige you,” he looked over at Jalenhorm, “but I must warn you, he doesn’t fight like a gentleman. I wish you all a pleasant evening.” He placed his hat back on his head then turned slowly and shuffled off down the dingy street.
The three officers watched him limp away in an interminable, awkward silence. Kaspa finally stumbled over. “What was all that about?” he asked.
“Nothing,” said West through gritted teeth. “Best we forget it ever happened.”
Teeth and Fingers
The Master of the Mints was a strong, noble-looking man. His face was already starting to bruise. “What is the meaning of this?” he roared, all bluster and bravado. “Do you know who I am?”
Glokta snorted. “Of course we know who you are. Do you think we are in the habit of snatching people from the streets at random?”
“I am the Master of the Royal Mints!” yelled the prisoner, struggling at his bonds. Practical Frost looked on impassively, arms folded. The irons were already glowing orange in the brazier. “How dare you…”
“We cannot have these constant interruptions!” shouted Glokta. Frost kicked Teufel savagely in the shin and he yelped with pain. “How can our prisoner sign his paper of confession if his hands are tied? Please release him.”
Teufel stared suspiciously around as the albino untied his wrists. Then he saw the cleaver. The polished
