'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

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.