Before They Are Hanged

stood there for a long moment, watching one another in the darkness, in the silence. “Alright, pink,” she growled. “I will stick, as you say, and we will see. But I make no fucking promises, you understand?”

“I didn’t ask for promises. My turn at the watch. You get some rest.”

“I need no rest, I told you that.”

“Suit yourself, but I’m sitting down.”

“Fine.”

The big pink began to lower himself cautiously towards the earth, and she followed him. They sat cross- legged where they had stood, facing each other, the embers of the campfire glowing beside them, casting a faint brightness over the four sleepers, across one side of the pink’s lumpy face, casting a faint warmth across hers.

They watched each other.

Allies

To Arch Lector Sult,

head of his Majesty’s Inquisition.

Your Eminence,

Work is underway on the defences of the city. The famous land walls, though powerful, are in a shameful condition, and I have taken vigorous steps to strengthen them. I have also ordered extra supplies, food, armour, and weapons, essential if the city is to stand a siege of any duration.

Unfortunately, the defences are extensive, and the scale of the task vast. I have begun the work on credit, but credit will only stretch so far. I most humbly entreat that your Eminence will send me funds with which to work. Without money our efforts must cease, and the city will be lost.

The Union forces here are few, and morale is not high. There are mercenaries within the city, and I have ordered that more be recruited, but their loyalty is questionable, particularly if they cannot be paid. I therefore request that more of the King’s soldiers might be sent. Even a single company could make a difference.

You will hear from me soon. Until then, I serve and obey.

Sand dan Glokta,

Superior of Dagoska.

“This is the place,” said Glokta.

“Uh,” said Frost.

It was a rough building of one storey, carelessly built from mud bricks, no bigger than a good-sized wood shed. Chinks of light spilled out into the night from around the ill-fitting door and the ill-fitting shutters in the single window. It was much the same as the other huts in the street, if you could call it a street. It hardly looked like the residence of a member of Dagoska’s ruling council. But then Kahdia is the odd man out in many ways. The leader of the natives. The priest without a temple. The one with least to lose, perhaps?

The door opened before Glokta even had the chance to knock. Kahdia stood in the doorway, tall and slender in his white robe. “Why don’t you come in?” The Haddish turned, stepped over to the only chair and sat down in it.

“Wait here,” said Glokta.

“Uh.”

The inside of the shed was no more auspicious than the outside. Clean, and orderly, and poor as hell. The ceiling was so low that Glokta could only just stand upright, the floor was hard-packed dirt. A straw mattress lay on empty crates at one end of the single room, a small chair beside it. A squat cupboard stood under the window, a few books stacked on top, a guttering candle burning beside them. Apart from a dented bucket for natural functions, that appeared to be the full extent of Kahdia’s worldly possessions. No sign of any hidden corpses of Superiors of the Inquisition, but you never know. A body can be packed away quite neatly, if one cuts it into small enough pieces…

“You should move out of the slums.” Glokta shut the door behind him on creaking hinges, limped to the bed and sat down heavily on the mattress.

“Natives are not permitted within the Upper City, or had you not heard?”

“I’m sure that an exception could be made in your case. You could have chambers in the Citadel. Then I wouldn’t have to limp all the way down here to speak to you.”

“Chambers in the Citadel? While my fellows rot down here in the filth? The least a leader can do is to share the burdens of his people. I have little other comfort to give them.” It was sweltering hot down here in the Lower City, but Kahdia did not seem uncomfortable. His gaze was level, his eyes were fixed on Glokta’s, dark and cool as deep water. “Do you disapprove?”

Glokta rubbed at his aching neck. “Not in the least. Martyrdom suits you, but you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t join in.” He licked at his empty gums. “I’ve made my sacrifices.”

“Perhaps not all of them. Ask your questions.” Straight to business, then. Nothing to hide? Or nothing to lose?

“Do you know what became of my predecessor, Superior Davoust?”

“It is my earnest hope that he died in great pain.” Glokta felt his eyebrows lift. The very last thing I expected—an honest answer. Perhaps the first honest answer that I have received to that question, but hardly one that frees him from suspicion.

“In great pain, you say?”

“Very great pain. And I will shed no tears if you join him.”

Glokta smiled. “I don’t know that I can think of anyone who will, but Davoust is the matter in hand. Were your people involved in his disappearance?”

“It is possible. Davoust gave us reasons enough. There are many families missing husbands, fathers, daughters, because of his purges, his tests of loyalty, his making of examples. My people number many thousands, and I cannot watch them all. The one thing I can tell you is that I know nothing of his disappearance. When one devil falls they always send another, and here you are. My people have gained nothing.”

“Except Davoust’s silence. Perhaps he discovered that you had made a deal with the Gurkish. Perhaps joining the Union was not all your people hoped for.”

Kahdia snorted. “You know nothing. No Dagoskan would ever strike a deal with the Gurkish.”

“To an outsider, the two of you seem to have much in common.”

“To an ignorant outsider, we do. We both have dark skin, and we both pray to God, but that is the full extent of the similarity. We Dagoskans have never been a warlike people. We remained here on our peninsula, confident in the strength of our defences, while the Gurkish Empire spread like a cancer across the Kantic continent. We thought their conquests were none of our concern. That was our folly. Emissaries came to our gates, demanding that we kneel before the Gurkish Emperor, and acknowledge that the prophet Khalul speaks with the voice of God. We would do neither, and Khalul swore to destroy us. Now, it seems, he will finally succeed. All of the South will be his dominion.” And the Arch Lector will not be in the least amused.

“Who knows? Perhaps God will come to your aid.”

“God favours those who solve their own problems.”

“Perhaps we can solve some problems between us.”

“I have no interest in helping you.”

“Even if you help yourself as well? I have it in mind to issue a decree. The gates of the Upper City will be