“This is the place,” said Vick. Just crowded enough. Plenty of escape routes. But so much confusion that a little more would hardly raise a brow. Not until it was far too late.
She started towards Shudra, not too fast, not too slow, not looking right at him, no one to remark upon, easing one hand into her pocket. She strode past a woman stripped to her waist on a platform, on her knees in front of a crudely lettered sign, eyes brimming with ecstasy as she whipped herself, bare back a mass of new scratches and old scars.
“Repent!” she was screeching with every crack of the whip. “Repent!” She twisted around, raised a trembling finger. “Repent, sister!”
“Later,” said Vick as she strode past.
And now she saw the hooded figure. Just where she’d guessed he’d be. Walking towards Shudra, not too fast, not too slow, not looking right at him, no one to remark upon.
“There,” she hissed.
“He doesn’t look like much,” said Tallow.
“He’d be a poor assassin if he stood out.” She cut sideways through the crowd then around a platform where a blistered old man was yelling at the heavens.
She fell in behind the hooded figure, keeping pace as he slipped towards Shudra. Hoods are good for hiding you from others, but they hide them from you, too. She eased her brass knuckles on, feeling the reassuring tickle of cold metal between her fingers.
She saw the flash of steel as the hooded man pulled something from his pocket, held it down beside his leg, half-hidden in the folds of his clothes.
She quickened her pace, closing on him as he closed on Shudra, heart thumping hard now and her breath coming fast as she thought out how she’d do it.
Shudra clapped as the prophet finished his sermon, turned smiling to say something to one of his guards, caught sight of the hooded man coming, frowned slightly.
The hooded man stepped towards him, lifting the blade.
Doesn’t matter how skilled, or tough, or big a man is if he doesn’t see you coming.
Vick caught his wrist as the knife went up and hauled it down, pulling him backwards and punching him as hard as she could in the side of his knee.
He gave a shocked gasp as his leg went from under him. She twisted his arm, knife clattering down, dragged him around as he fell and shoved him on his face on the stones, her knee in the small of his back.
She hit him quick and hard, barking with each punch, in the kidney, in the armpit, in the side of his neck, and he quivered, back arched, gave a breathy wheeze then went limp.
“Casamir dan Shenkt, I presume,” she forced through her gritted teeth. She looked up at Shudra, who was staring down at her with wide eyes, his guards only now fumbling out their weapons. “No need to worry. You’re safe.”
Her hired men were shoving through the crowd, one of them snapping manacles shut on the assassin’s wrists while the other dragged him groaning up under one arm.
“But you might want to head home and bar the door,” she said as she stood, frowning into the crowd for any other threats. “Maybe stay off the streets until the vote.”
“You saved my life,” breathed Shudra. “Did the Styrians send you?”
Vick snorted. “The Union sent me.” She was pleased to see he looked more shocked than ever as she nodded towards the assassin, swearing noisily as her men dragged him away. “The Styrians sent him.”
Safe Hands
“Your Majesty!” Wetterlant started forward, pressing his face to the bars. He was a handsome man with a playful head of dark curls, but something missing about the eyes. “Thank the Fates you’re here. They’ve been treating me like a dog!”
“We’ve been treating you like a prisoner, Lord Wetterlant,” grated out Glokta as the Practical wheeled him to a halt and retreated into the shadows. Shadows were one thing of which there was no shortage down here. “This is the House of Questions, not an inn. These are some of the best quarters we have.”
“You have a window.” High Justice Bruckel pointed through the bars at it. A tiny square of light, up near the ceiling. “He has a window!”
“I barely get a window,” said Glokta.
“You dare to talk to me about windows, you crippled remnant?” snarled Wetterlant. “Your Majesty, please, I know you are a reasonable man—”
“I like to think so,” said Orso, stepping into the light. “I understand you have requested the king’s justice. My justice,” he corrected. He would still on occasion forget that he was the king, in spite of the phrase Your Majesty being flung at him five thousand times a day.
“I have, Your Majesty! I fling myself upon your mercy! I am ill-used! I am falsely accused!”
“Of the rape or the murder?”
Wetterlant blinked. “Well… of everything! I’m an innocent man.”
“The murder, as I understand it, was witnessed by… how many, Glokta?”
“Seventeen witnesses, Your Majesty. All sworn statements.”
“Seventeen bloody peasants!” Wetterlant gripped the bars in a sudden fury. “You’d take their word over mine?”
“Look at the number of them,” said Orso. “Your groundskeeper has already been hanged on the strength of their testimony.”
“It was all his idea, the bastard! I tried to talk him out of it. He threatened me!”
Glokta sucked air disgustedly through his empty gums. “We’ve only been here a minute and you’ve gone from innocent to coerced.”
“Few moments more,” murmured the high justice, “he’ll be the victim.”
“Can we speak alone?” Wetterlant’s voice was growing increasingly shrill. “Man to man, you know. Orso, please—”
“We were never on first-name terms,” snapped Orso. “I can’t see us getting there now, can you?”
Wetterlant looked from Glokta to Bruckel to Orso, and evidently found little cause for encouragement. “Things have got entirely out of hand. It was simple high spirits.”
“From innocence, to coercion, to high spirits,” said Glokta.
“You understand, Your Majesty. You’ve embarrassed yourself often enough.”
Orso stared at him. “Embarrassed myself, without doubt. But I never bloody raped anyone!” He found he had screamed the last words at the very top of his voice. The high justice took a nervous step back. Glokta ever so slightly narrowed his eyes. Wetterlant blinked, and his lower lip began to wobble.
“What will become of me?” he whispered, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. It was a strange about-face, from frothing outrage to melodramatic self-pity in a breath.
“The traditional punishment,” pattered the high justice. “For such crimes. Is hanging.”
“I’m a member of the Open Council!”
“You’ll find we all hang much the same,” said Glokta, softly.
“You can’t hang a member of the Open Council!”
“From innocence, to coercion, to high spirits, to immunity.” Orso leaned towards the bars. “You demanded the king’s justice. I mean to give it to you.” And he turned on his heel and stalked away.
“Your Majesty!” wailed Wetterlant as the Practical wrestled Glokta’s chair around, one of its wheels shrieking. “Orso, please!”