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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
     
    T ime is short. We must work quickly . Glokta nodded to Severard, and he smiled and pulled
the bag off Sepp dan Teufel’s head.
    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 blade shone mirror bright in
the harsh lamp light. Truly a thing of beauty. You’d like
to have that, wouldn’t you, Teufel? I bet you’d like to cut my head off with
it. Glokta almost hoped that he would, his right hand seemed to be
reaching for it, but he used it to shove the paper of confession away instead.
    ‘Ah,’ said Glokta, ‘the Master of the Mints is a
right-handed gentleman.’
    ‘A right-handed gentleman,’ Severard hissed in the
prisoner’s ear.
    Teufel was staring across the table through narrowed
eyes. ‘I know you! Glokta, isn’t it? The one who was captured in Gurkhul, the
one they tortured. Sand dan Glokta, am I right? Well, you’re in over your head
this time, I can tell you! Right in over your head! When High Justice Marovia
hears about this . . .’
    Glokta sprang to his feet, his chair screeching on the
tiles. His left leg was agony, but he ignored it. ‘Look at this!’ he hissed,
then opened his mouth wide, giving the horrified prisoner a good look at his
teeth. Or what’s left of them. ‘You see that? You
see? Where they cracked out the teeth above, they left them below, and where
they took them out below, they left them above, all the way to the back. See?’
Glokta pulled his cheeks back with his fingers so Teufel could get a better
view. ‘They did it with a tiny chisel. A little bit each day. It took months.’
Glokta sat down stiffly, then smiled wide.
    ‘What excellent work, eh? The irony of it! To leave
you half your teeth, but not a one of ‘em any use! I have soup most days.’ The
Master of the Mints swallowed hard. Glokta could see a drop of sweat running
down his neck. ‘And the teeth were just the beginning. I have to piss sitting
down like a woman, you know. I’m thirty-five years old, and I need help getting
out of bed.’ He leaned back again and stretched out his leg with a wince.
‘Every day is its own little hell for me. Every day. So tell me, can you seriously
believe that anything you might say could scare me?’
    Glokta studied his prisoner, taking his time. No longer half so sure of himself. ‘Confess,’ he
whispered. ‘Then we can ship you off to Angland and still get some sleep tonight.’
    Teufel’s face had turned almost as pale as Practical
Frost’s, but he said nothing. The Arch Lector will be here
soon. Already on his way, most likely. If there is no confession when he
arrives . . . we’ll all