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Authors: Joe Abercrombie
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be off to Angland. At best. Glokta took hold of
his cane and got to his feet. ‘I like to think of myself as an artist, but artistry
takes time and we have wasted half the evening searching for you in every
brothel in the city. Thankfully, Practical Frost has a keen nose and an
excellent sense of direction. He can sniff out a rat in a shithouse.’
‘A rat in a shithouse,’ echoed Severard, eyes
glittering bright in the orange glow from the brazier.
‘We are on a tight schedule so let me be blunt. You
will confess to me within ten minutes.’
Teufel snorted and folded his arms. ‘Never.’
‘Hold him.’ Frost seized the prisoner from behind and
folded him in a vice-like grip, pinning his right arm to his side. Severard
grabbed hold of his left wrist and spread his fingers out on the scarred
table-top. Glokta curled his fist round the smooth grip of the cleaver, the
blade scraping against the wood as he pulled it slowly towards him. He stared
down at Teufel’s hand. What beautiful fingernails he has.
How long and glossy. You cannot work down a mine with nails like that. Glokta raised the cleaver high.
‘Wait!’ screamed the prisoner.
Bang! The heavy blade bit deep into the table top,
neatly paring off Teufel’s middle fingernail. He was breathing fast now, and
there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Now we’ll see
what kind of a man you really are.
‘I think you can see where this is going,’ said
Glokta. ‘You know, they did it to a corporal who was captured with me, one cut
a day. He was a tough man, very tough. They made it past his elbow before he
died.’ Glokta lifted the cleaver again. ‘Confess.’
‘You couldn’t . . .’
Bang! The cleaver took off the very tip of Teufel’s
middle finger. Blood bubbled out on to the table top. Severard’s eyes were
smiling in the lamp light. Teufel’s jaw dropped. But the
pain will be a while coming. ‘Confess!’ bellowed Glokta.
Bang! The cleaver took off the top of Teufel’s ring finger,
and a little disc out of his middle finger which rolled a short way and dropped
off onto the floor. Frost’s face was carved from marble. ‘Confess!’
Bang! The tip of Teufel’s index finger jumped in the
air. His middle finger was down to the first joint. Glokta paused, wiping the
sweat from his forehead on the back of his hand. His leg was throbbing with the
exertion. Blood was dripping onto the tiles with a steady tap, tap, tap. Teufel
was staring wide-eyed at his shortened fingers.
Severard shook his head. ‘That’s excellent work,
Inquisitor.’ He flicked one of the discs of flesh across the table. ‘The precision
. . . I’m in awe.’
‘Aaaargh!’ screamed the Master of the Mints. Now it dawns on him. Glokta raised the cleaver once again.
‘I will confess!’ shrieked Teufel, ‘I will confess!’
‘Excellent,’ said Glokta brightly.
‘Excellent,’ said Severard.
‘Etherer,’ said Practical Frost.
The
Wide and Barren North
T he Magi are an ancient and
mysterious order, learned in the secrets of the world, practised in the ways of
magic, wise and powerful beyond the dreams of men. That was the rumour. Such a
one should have ways of finding a man, even a man alone in the wide and barren
North. If that was so, then he was taking his time about it.
Logen scratched at his tangled beard and wondered what
was keeping the great one. Perhaps he was lost. He asked himself again if he
should have stayed in the forests, where food at least was plentiful. But to
the south the spirits had said, and if you went south from the hills you came
to these withered moors. So here he had waited in the briars and the mud, in
bad weather, and mostly gone hungry.
His boots were worn out anyway, so he had set his
miserable camp not far from the road, the better to see this wizard coming.
Since the wars, the North was full of dangerous scum—deserting warriors turned
bandit, peasants fled from their burned-out land, leaderless and desperate men
with
his cane and got to his feet. ‘I like to think of myself as an artist, but artistry
takes time and we have wasted half the evening searching for you in every
brothel in the city. Thankfully, Practical Frost has a keen nose and an
excellent sense of direction. He can sniff out a rat in a shithouse.’
‘A rat in a shithouse,’ echoed Severard, eyes
glittering bright in the orange glow from the brazier.
‘We are on a tight schedule so let me be blunt. You
will confess to me within ten minutes.’
Teufel snorted and folded his arms. ‘Never.’
‘Hold him.’ Frost seized the prisoner from behind and
folded him in a vice-like grip, pinning his right arm to his side. Severard
grabbed hold of his left wrist and spread his fingers out on the scarred
table-top. Glokta curled his fist round the smooth grip of the cleaver, the
blade scraping against the wood as he pulled it slowly towards him. He stared
down at Teufel’s hand. What beautiful fingernails he has.
How long and glossy. You cannot work down a mine with nails like that. Glokta raised the cleaver high.
‘Wait!’ screamed the prisoner.
Bang! The heavy blade bit deep into the table top,
neatly paring off Teufel’s middle fingernail. He was breathing fast now, and
there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Now we’ll see
what kind of a man you really are.
‘I think you can see where this is going,’ said
Glokta. ‘You know, they did it to a corporal who was captured with me, one cut
a day. He was a tough man, very tough. They made it past his elbow before he
died.’ Glokta lifted the cleaver again. ‘Confess.’
‘You couldn’t . . .’
Bang! The cleaver took off the very tip of Teufel’s
middle finger. Blood bubbled out on to the table top. Severard’s eyes were
smiling in the lamp light. Teufel’s jaw dropped. But the
pain will be a while coming. ‘Confess!’ bellowed Glokta.
Bang! The cleaver took off the top of Teufel’s ring finger,
and a little disc out of his middle finger which rolled a short way and dropped
off onto the floor. Frost’s face was carved from marble. ‘Confess!’
Bang! The tip of Teufel’s index finger jumped in the
air. His middle finger was down to the first joint. Glokta paused, wiping the
sweat from his forehead on the back of his hand. His leg was throbbing with the
exertion. Blood was dripping onto the tiles with a steady tap, tap, tap. Teufel
was staring wide-eyed at his shortened fingers.
Severard shook his head. ‘That’s excellent work,
Inquisitor.’ He flicked one of the discs of flesh across the table. ‘The precision
. . . I’m in awe.’
‘Aaaargh!’ screamed the Master of the Mints. Now it dawns on him. Glokta raised the cleaver once again.
‘I will confess!’ shrieked Teufel, ‘I will confess!’
‘Excellent,’ said Glokta brightly.
‘Excellent,’ said Severard.
‘Etherer,’ said Practical Frost.
The
Wide and Barren North
T he Magi are an ancient and
mysterious order, learned in the secrets of the world, practised in the ways of
magic, wise and powerful beyond the dreams of men. That was the rumour. Such a
one should have ways of finding a man, even a man alone in the wide and barren
North. If that was so, then he was taking his time about it.
Logen scratched at his tangled beard and wondered what
was keeping the great one. Perhaps he was lost. He asked himself again if he
should have stayed in the forests, where food at least was plentiful. But to
the south the spirits had said, and if you went south from the hills you came
to these withered moors. So here he had waited in the briars and the mud, in
bad weather, and mostly gone hungry.
His boots were worn out anyway, so he had set his
miserable camp not far from the road, the better to see this wizard coming.
Since the wars, the North was full of dangerous scum—deserting warriors turned
bandit, peasants fled from their burned-out land, leaderless and desperate men
with
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