“Evening, children,” said Sand dan Glokta, leaning on his cane. One leg dragged behind him like a regret. His smile was a razor wrapped in charm. “I see you’ve made camp in the least defensible spot within a mile. Excellent work. I’ve brought dinner.” He held up a dead rabbit by its ears. “Found it choking on its own stupidity. Reminded me of home.”
The mud had a name, but Logen Ninefingers couldn’t remember it. Didn’t matter. Mud was mud. It sucked at his boots, it splattered his coat, and if you fell in it face-first, it drowned you just the same as any other.
Logen stared into the fire. The flames flickered, and for just a moment, he saw a face in them. Bethod’s. Or the Bloody-Nine’s. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
“You followed us,” said Logen.
“Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers,” said the crippled torturer, biting into the raw rabbit. “Say he’s a sentimental fool.”
Ferro snorted. Glokta laughed—a wet, joyless sound.
Logen’s hand went to the Maker’s sword. The grip was cold. It always was. Ferro was already on her feet, knife reversed, a whisper of movement where there’d been a statue a heartbeat before. joe abercrombie the first law trilogy
Glokta’s eyes glittered. “Yours, if you’re not careful. Now eat your rabbit. We leave in an hour. The First of the Magi is tired of waiting, and when wizards get impatient, men get dead.”
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
“Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers,” Ferro muttered, returning to her blade. “Say he’s a fool who asks questions with obvious answers.” “Evening, children,” said Sand dan Glokta, leaning on
“I overtook you. There’s a difference. You move like a glacier with a grudge.” Glokta lowered himself onto a rock with a symphony of grunts. “The Arch Lector sends his regards. And a message. The Seed isn’t in the tomb. It never was. We’ve been chasing a ghost while the real prize walks into Adua wearing a different face.”
A twig snapped in the dark.
“So does snoring. And I don’t snore.” “I see you’ve made camp in the least