The Blade Itself

“Unhhh,” said Frost, nodding his head.

“You spoil me.” Glokta stroked the polished wood on the arm of the chair. My boys. Where would I be without you? Back home in bed with mother fussing over me, I suppose, wondering how she’ll ever find a nice girl to marry me now. He glanced over the instruments on the table. His case was there, of course, and a few other things, well-used, but still highly serviceable. A pair of long-handled tongs particularly caught his eye. He glanced up at Severard. “Teeth?”

“Seemed a good place to start.”

“Fair enough.” Glokta licked at his own empty gums then cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Teeth, it is.”

As soon as the gag was off the assassin started screaming at them in Styrian, spitting and cursing, struggling pointlessly at his chains. Glokta didn’t understand a word of it. But I think I catch the meaning, more or less. Something very offensive indeed, I imagine. Something about our mothers, and so on. But I am not easily offended. He was a rough looking sort, face pockmarked with acne scars, nose broken more than once and bent out of shape. How disappointing. I was hoping the Mercers might have gone up-market on this occasion at least, but that’s merchants for you. Always looking for the bargain.

Practical Frost ended the torrent of unintelligible abuse by punching the man heavily in the stomach. That’ll take his breath away for a moment. Long enough to get the first word in.

“Now then,” said Glokta, “we’ll have none of that nonsense here. We know you’re a professional, sent to blend in and do a job. You wouldn’t blend in too well if you couldn’t even speak the language, now would you?”

The prisoner had got his breath back. “Pox on all of you, you bastards!” he gasped.

“Excellent! The common tongue will do nicely for our little chats. I have a feeling we may end up having several. Is there anything you would like to know about us before we begin? Or shall we get straight to it?”

The prisoner stared up suspiciously at the painted figure of the Master Maker, looming over Glokta’s head. “Where am I?”

“We’re just off the Middleway, down near the water.” Glokta winced as the muscles in his leg suddenly convulsed. He stretched it out cautiously, waiting until he heard the knee click before he carried on. “You know, the Middleway is one of the very arteries of the city, it runs straight through its heart, from the Agriont to the sea. It passes through many different districts, has all manner of notable buildings. Some of the most fashionable addresses in the whole city are just up the lane. To me though, it’s nothing but a road between two dentists.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed, then darted over the instruments on the table. But no more cursing. It seems the mention of dentistry has got his attention.

“Up at the other end of the avenue,” and Glokta pointed roughly northwards, “in one of the most expensive parts of town, opposite the public gardens, in a beautiful white house in the very shadow of the Agriont, is the establishment of Master Farrad. You might have heard of him?”

“Get fucked!”

Glokta raised his eyebrows. If only. “They say that Master Farrad is the finest dentist in the world. I believe he came from Gurkhul originally, but he escaped the tyranny of the Emperor to join us in the Union and make a better life for himself, saving our wealthiest citizens from the terrors of bad teeth. When I came back from my own little visit to the South, my family sent me to him, to see if there was anything he could do for me.” Glokta smiled wide, showing the assassin the nature of the problem. “Of course there wasn’t. The Emperor’s torturers saw to that. But he’s a damn fine dentist, everyone says so.”

“So what?”

Glokta let his smile fade. “Down at the other end of the Middleway, down near the sea, in amongst the filth and the scum and the slime of the docks, am I. The rents may be cheap hereabouts, but I feel confident that, once we have spent some time together, you will not think me any less talented than the esteemed Master Farrad. It is simply that my talents lie in a different direction. The good Master eases the pain of his patients, while I am a dentist…” and Glokta leaned slowly forward “…of a different sort.”

The assassin laughed in his face. “Do you think you can scare me with a bag on the head and a nasty painting?” He looked round at Frost and Severard. “You crowd of freaks?”

“Do I think we scare you? The three of us?” Glokta allowed himself a chuckle at that. “Here you sit, alone, unarmed and thoroughly restrained. Who knows where you are but us, or cares to know? You have no hope of deliverance, or of escape. We’re all professionals here. I think you can guess what’s coming, more or less.” Glokta grinned a sickly grin. “Of course we scare you, don’t play the fool. You hide it well, I’ll admit, but that can’t last. The time will come, soon enough, when you’ll be begging to go back in the bag.”

“You’ll get nothing from me,” growled the assassin, staring him straight in the eye. “Nothing.” Tough. A tough man. But it’s easy to act tough before the work begins. I should know.

Glokta rubbed his leg gently. The blood was flowing nicely now, the pain almost gone. “We’ll keep it simple to begin with. Names, that’s all I want, for now. Just names. Why don’t we start with yours? At least you can’t tell us you don’t know the answer.”

They waited. Severard and Frost stared down at the prisoner, the green eyes smiling, the pink ones not. Silence.

Glokta sighed. “Right then.” Frost planted his fists on either side of the assassins jaw, started to squeeze until his teeth were forced apart. Severard shoved the ends of the tongs in between and forced his jaws open, much too wide for comfort. The assassin’s eyes bulged. Hurts, doesn’t it? But that’s nothing, believe me.

“Watch his tongue,” said Glokta, “we want him talking.”

“Don’t worry,” muttered Severard, peering into the assassin’s mouth. He ducked back suddenly. “Ugh! His breath smells like shit!”

A shame, but I am hardly surprised. Clean living is rarely a priority for hired killers. Glokta got slowly to his feet, limped round the table. “Now then,” he murmured, one hand hovering over his instruments, “where to begin?” He picked up a mounted needle and craned forward, his other hand gripped tight around the top of his cane, probing carefully at the killer’s teeth. Not a pretty set, to be sure. I do believe I’d rather have my teeth than his.

“Dear me, these are in a terrible state. Rotten through and through. That’s why your breath stinks so badly. There’s no excuse for it, a man of your age.”

“Haah!” yelped the prisoner as Glokta touched a nerve. He tried to speak, but with the tongs in place he made less sense than Practical Frost.

“Quiet now, you’ve had your chance to talk. Perhaps you’ll get another later, I haven’t decided.” Glokta put the needle back down on the table, shaking his head sadly. “Your teeth are a fucking disgrace. Revolting. I do declare, they’re just about falling out on their own. Do you know,” he said, as he took the little hammer and chisel from the table, “I do believe you’d be better off without them.”

Flatheads

Grey morning time, out in the cold, wet woods, and the Dogman was just sat there, thinking about how things used to be better. Sat there, minding the spit, turning it round every once in a while and trying not to get too nervous with the waiting. Tul Duru wasn’t helping any with that. He was striding up and down the grass, round the old stones and back, wearing his great boots out, about as patient as a wolf on heat. Dogman watched him stomping—clomp, clomp, clomp. He’d learned a long time ago that great fighters are only good for one thing. Fighting. At pretty much everything else, and at waiting in particular, they’re fucking useless.

“Why don’t you sit yourself down, Tul?” muttered Dogman. “There’s stones aplenty for the purpose. Warmer here by the fire and all. Rest those flapping feet o’ yours, you’re getting me twitchy.”

“Sit me down?” rumbled the giant, coming up and looming over the Dogman like a great bloody house. “How can I sit, or you either?” He frowned across the ruins and into the trees from under his great, heavy brows. “You sure this is the place?”