Before They Are Hanged

futile effort to make his shirt come unstuck from his back.

Vitari gestured at Shickel, her gleaming eyes still fixed on Glokta under their drooping lids, a faint smile still clinging to her lips. “What should we do with this?”

An expendable agent of an uncaring master, sent unwilling to a faraway place, to fight, and kill, for reasons she hardly understands. Sound familiar? Glokta grimaced as he turned his aching back on the stinking chamber.

“Burn it,” he said.

Glokta stood on his balcony in the sharp evening, frowning down towards the Lower City.

It was windy up here on the rock, a cold wind off the dark sea, whipping at Glokta’s face, at his fingers on the dry parapet, slapping the tails of his coat against his legs. The closest thing we’ll get to winter in this cursed crucible. The flames of the torches by the door flapped and flickered in their iron cages, two lights in the gathering darkness. There were more lights out there, many more. Lamps burned on the rigging of the Union ships in the harbour, their reflections flashing and breaking in the water below. Lights glowed in the windows of the dark palaces under the citadel, in the tops of the lofty spires of the Great Temple. Down in the slums, thousands of torches burned. Rivers of tiny points of light, flowing out of the buildings, onto the roads, towards the gates of the Upper City. Refugees leaving their homes, such as they are. Heading for safety, such as it is. How long can we keep them safe, I wonder, once the land walls fall? He knew the answer already. Not long.

“Superior!”

“Why, Master Cosca. I’m so glad you could join me.”

“Of course! There’s nothing like a stroll in the evening air after a skirmish.” The mercenary strutted over. Even in the gloom, Glokta could see the difference in him. He walked with a spring in his step, a glint in his eye, his hair neatly brushed, his moustache waxed stiff. An inch or two taller and a good ten years younger, all of a sudden. He pranced to the parapet, closed his eyes and sucked a deep breath through his sharp nose.

“You look remarkably well for someone who has just fought in a battle.”

The Styrian grinned at him. “I wasn’t so much in the battle as just behind it. I’ve always felt the very front is a poor place to fight from. No one can hear you with all the clatter. That, and the chances of being killed there are really very high.”

“Doubtless. How did it go for us?”

“The Gurkish are still outside, so I’d say, as far as battles go, it went well. I doubt the dead would agree with me, but who cares a shit for their opinion?” He scratched happily at his neck. “We did well today. But tomorrow, and the day after, who can say? Still no chance of reinforcement?” Glokta shook his head and the Styrian took in a sharp breath. “It’s all the same to me, of course, but you may want to consider a withdrawal while we still hold the bay.”

Everyone would like to withdraw. Even me. Glokta snorted. “The Closed Council hold my leash, and they say no. The King’s honour will not permit it, they inform me, and apparently his honour is more valuable than our lives.”

Cosca raised his brows. “Honour, eh? What the hell is that anyway? Every man thinks it’s something different. You can’t drink it. You can’t fuck it. The more of it you have the less good it does you, and if you’ve got none at all you don’t miss it.” He shook his head. “But some men think it’s the best thing in the world.”

“Uh,” muttered Glokta, licking at his empty gums. Honour is worth less than one’s legs, or one’s teeth. A lesson I paid dearly for. He peered towards the shadowy outline of the land walls, studded with burning bonfires. The vague sounds of fighting could still be heard, the odd flaming arrow soared high into the air and fell in the ruined slums. Even now, the bloody business continues. He took a deep breath. “What are our chances of holding out for another week?”

“Another week?” Cosca pursed his lips. “Reasonable.”

“Two weeks?”

“Two?” Cosca clicked his tongue. “Less good.”

“Which would make a month a hopeless cause.”

“Hopeless would be the word.”

“You seem almost to revel in the situation.”

“Me? I’ve made a speciality from hopeless causes.” He grinned at Glokta. “These days, they’re the only ones that will have me.”

I know the feeling. “Hold the land walls as long as you can, then pull back. The walls of the Upper City must be our next line of defence.”

Cosca’s grin could just be seen shining in the darkness. “Hold as long as we can, and then pull back! I can hardly wait!”

“And perhaps we should prepare some surprises for our Gurkish guests when they finally make it past the walls. You know,” and Glokta waved his hand absently, “tripwires and hidden pits, spikes daubed with excrement and so on. You’ve some experience in that type of warfare, I daresay.”

“I am experienced in all types of warfare.” Cosca snapped his heels together and gave an elaborate salute. “Spikes and excrement! There’s honour for you.”

This is war. The only honour is in winning. “Talking of honour, you’d best let our friend General Vissbruck know where your surprises are. It would be a shame if he were to impale himself by accident.”

“Of course, Superior. A dreadful shame.”

Glokta felt his hand bunching into a fist on the parapet. “We must make the Gurkish pay for every stride of ground.” We must make them pay for my ruined leg. “For every inch of dirt.” For my missing teeth. “For every meagre shack, and crumbling hut, and worthless stretch of dust.” For my weeping eye, and my twisted back, and my repulsive shadow of a life. He licked at his empty gums. “Make them pay.”

“Excellent! The only good Gurkish are the dead ones!” The mercenary spun and marched through the door into the Citadel, his spurs jingling, leaving Glokta alone on the flat roof.

One week? Yes. Two weeks? Perhaps. Any longer? Hopeless. There may have been no ships, but that old riddler Yulwei was still right. And so was Eider. There never was any chance. For all our efforts, for all our sacrifices, Dagoska must surely fall. It is only a matter of time, now.

He stared out across the darkened city. It was hard to separate the land from the sea in the blackness, the lights on the boats from the lights in the buildings, the torches on the rigging from the torches in the slums. All was a confusion of points of light, flowing around each other, disembodied in the void. There was only one certainty in all of it.

We’re finished. Not tonight, but soon. We are surrounded, and the net will only draw tighter. It is a matter of time.

Scars

One by one, Ferro took out the stitches—slitting the thread neatly with the shining point of her knife, working them gently out of Luthar’s skin, dark fingertips moving quick and sure, yellow eyes narrowed with concentration. Logen watched her work, shaking his head slowly at the skill of it. He’d seen it done often, but never so well. Luthar barely even looked in pain, and he always looked in pain lately.

“Do we need another bandage on it?”

“No. We let it breathe.” The last stitch slid out, and Ferro tossed the bloody bits of thread away and rocked back on her knees to look at the results.

“That’s good,” said Logen, voice hushed. He’d never guessed that it could come out half so well. Luthar’s jaw looked slightly bent in the firelight, like he was biting down on one side. There was a ragged notch out of his lip, and a forked scar torn from it down to the point of his chin, pink dots on either side where the stitches had been, the