'No,' whispered Logen, but all that came out was a dull slurp. He had no more power to stop it than he had to make the sky fall in. Seemed to him then that men do pay for the things they've done, alright. But sometimes the payment isn't what they expected.

'The Bloody-Nine!' roared Crummock again, as he sank down on his knees and lifted up his arms towards the sky, 'King o' the Northmen!'

Greater Good

« ^ »

The room was another over-bright box. It had the same off-white walls, spotted with brown stains. Mould, or blood, or both. The same battered table and chairs. Virtually instruments of torture in themselves. The same burning pains in Glokta's foot, and leg, and back. Some things never change. The same prisoner, as far as anyone could have told, with the same canvas bag over their head. Just like the dozens who have been through this room over the past few days, and just like the dozens more crammed into the cells beyond the door, waiting on our pleasure.

'Very well.' Glokta waved a tired hand, 'let us begin.'

Frost dragged the bag from the prisoner's head. A long, lean Kantic face with deep creases around the mouth and a neatly trimmed black beard, streaked with grey. A wise, dignified face, deep-set eyes even now adjusting to the glare.

Glokta burst out laughing. Each chuckle stabbed at the base of his stiff spine and rattled his stiff neck, but he could not help himself. Even after all these years, fate can still play jokes on me.

'Wath futhy?' grunted Frost.

Glokta wiped his runny eye. 'Practical Frost, we are truly honoured. Our latest prisoner is none other than Master Farrad, formerly of Yashtavit in Kanta, and more recently of a magnificent address at the top of the Kingsway. We are in the presence of the finest dentist in the Circle of the World.' And one must appreciate the irony.

Farrad blinked into the glaring lamplight. 'I know you.'

'Yes.'

'You are the one who was a prisoner of the Gurkish.'

'Yes.'

'The one they tortured. I remember… you were brought to me.'

'Yes.'

Farrad swallowed. As though the memory alone is enough to make him vomit. He glanced up at Frost and the pink eyes glowered back, unblinking. He glanced round the grubby, bloodstained room, at the cracked tiles, at the scarred table-top. His eyes lingered on the paper of confession lying upon it. 'After what they did to you—how can you do this, now?'

Glokta showed Farrad his toothless grin. 'After what they did to me, how could I do anything else?'

'Why am I here?'

'For the same reason as everyone else who comes here.' Glokta watched Frost plant the heavy tips of his fingers on the paper of confession and slide it deliberately across the table towards the prisoner. 'To confess.'

'Confess to what?'

'Why, to spying for the Gurkish.'

Farrad's face creased up with disbelief. 'I am no spy! The Gurkish took everything from me! I fled my home when they came! I am innocent, you must know this!'