Before They Are Hanged

is always the chance of her falling off. The land
walls were twenty strides high at the least. Glokta allowed himself
the very slightest smile at the thought of the Arch Lector’s
favourite Practical slipping, sliding, tumbling from the wall, hands
clutching at nothing. Perhaps a despairing scream as she fell to
her death?
    But she didn’t
fall. Bitch. Considering her next report to the Arch Lector, no
doubt. “The cripple continues to flounder like a landed fish.
He has yet to uncover the slightest trace of Davoust, or any traitor,
despite questioning half the city. The one man he has arrested is a
member of his own Inquisition…â€

The Thing About Trust
    The wheel on the
cart turned slowly round, and squeaked. It turned round again, and
squeaked. Ferro scowled at it. Damn wheel. Damn cart. She shifted her
scorn from the cart to its driver.
    Damn apprentice.
She didn’t trust him a finger’s breadth. His eyes
flickered over to her, lingered an insulting moment, then darted off.
As if he knew something about Ferro that she did not know herself.
That made her angry. She looked away from him to the first of the
horses, and its rider.
    Damn Union boy
with his stiff back, sitting in his saddle like a King sits on his
throne, as though being born with a good-shaped face was an
achievement to be endlessly proud of. He was pretty, and neat, and
dainty as a princess. Ferro smiled grimly to herself. The princess of
the Union, that’s what he was. She hated fine-looking people
even more than ugly ones. Beauty was never to be trusted.
    You would have
had to look far and wide to find anyone less beautiful than the big
nine-fingered bastard. He sat in his saddle slumped over like some
great sack of rice. Slow-moving, scratching, sniffing, chewing like a
big cow. Trying to look like he had no killing in him, no mad fury,
no devil. She knew better. He nodded to her and she scowled back. He
was a devil wearing a cow’s skin, and she was not fooled.
    Better than that
damn Navigator, though. Always talking, always smiling, always
laughing. Ferro hated talk, and smiles, and laughter, each one more
than the last. Stupid little man with his stupid tales. Underneath
all his lies he was plotting, watching, she could feel it.
    That left the
First of the Magi, and she trusted him least of all.
    She saw his eyes
sliding to the cart. Looking at the sack he’d put the box in.
Square, grey, dull, heavy box. He thought no one had seen, but she
had. Full of secrets is what he was. Bald bastard, with his thick
neck and his wooden pole, acting as if he had done nothing but good
in his life, as if he would not know where to begin at making a man
explode.
    â€œDamn
fucking pinks,â€

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.
    â€œThis is
the place,â€

Campfire Politics
    Logen shifted
uncomfortably in his saddle, and squinted up at the few birds
circling around over the great flat plain. Damn but his arse hurt.
His thighs were sore, his nose was all full of the smell of horse.
Couldn’t find a comfortable position to put his fruits in.
Always squashed, however often he jammed his hand down inside his
belt to move ’em. A damn uncomfortable journey this was turning
out to be, in all sorts of ways.
    He used to talk
on the road, back in the North. When he was a boy he’d talked
to his father. When he was a young man he’d talked