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.Already on his way, most likely.If there is no confession when he arrives & we'll all be off to Angland.Atbest.Glokta took hold of his cane and got to his feet.'I like to think ofPage 25ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlmyself as an artist, but artistry takes time and we have wasted half theevening searching for you in every brothel in the city.Thankfully, PracticalFrost has a keen nose and an excellent sense of direction.He can sniff out arat in a shithouse.''A rat in a shithouse,' echoed Severard, eyes glittering bright in the orangeglow from the brazier.'We are on a tight schedule so let me be blunt.You will confess to me withinten minutes.'Teufel snorted and folded his arms.'Never.''Hold him.' Frost seized the prisoner from behind and folded him in avice-like grip, pinning his right arm to his side.Severard grabbed hold ofhis left wrist and spread his fingers out on the scarred table-top.Gloktacurled his fist round the smooth grip of the cleaver, the blade scrapingagainst the wood as he pulled it slowly towards him.He stared down atTeufel's hand.What beautiful fingernails he has.How long and glossy.Youcannot work down a mine with nails like that.Glokta raised the cleaver high.'Wait!' screamed the prisoner.Bang! The heavy blade bit deep into the table top, neatly paring off Teufel'smiddle fingernail.He was breathing fast now, and there was a sheen of sweaton his forehead.Now we'll see what kind of a man you really are.'I think you can see where this is going,' said Glokta.'You know, they did itto a corporal who was captured with me, one cut a day.He was a tough man,very tough.They made it past his elbow before he died.' Glokta lifted thecleaver again.'Confess.''You couldn't& 'Bang! The cleaver took off the very tip of Teufel's middle finger.Bloodbubbled out on to the table top.Severard's eyes were smiling in the lamplight.Teufel's jaw dropped.But the pain will be a while coming.'Confess!'bellowed Glokta.Bang! The cleaver took off the top of Teufel's ring finger, and a little discout of his middle finger which rolled a short way and dropped off onto thefloor.Frost's face was carved from marble.'Confess!'Bang! The tip of Teufel's index finger jumped in the air.His middle fingerwas down to the first joint.Glokta paused, wiping the sweat from his foreheadon the back of his hand.His leg was throbbing with the exertion.Blood wasdripping onto the tiles with a steady tap, tap, tap.Teufel was staringwide-eyed at his shortened fingers.Severard shook his head.'That's excellent work, Inquisitor.' He flicked oneof the discs of flesh across the table.'The precision& I'm in awe.''Aaaargh!' screamed the Master of the Mints.Now it dawns on him.Gloktaraised the cleaver once again.'I will confess!' shrieked Teufel, 'I will confess!''Excellent,' said Glokta brightly.'Excellent,' said Severard.'Etherer,' said Practical Frost.The Wide and Barren North« ^ »The Magi are an ancient and mysterious order, learned in the secrets of theworld, practised in the ways of magic, wise and powerful beyond the dreams ofmen.That was the rumour.Such a one should have ways of finding a man, even aman alone in the wide and barren North.If that was so, then he was taking histime about it.Logen scratched at his tangled beard and wondered what was keeping the greatone.Perhaps he was lost.He asked himself again if he should have stayed inthe forests, where food at least was plentiful.But to the south the spiritshad said, and if you went south from the hills you came to these witheredmoors.So here he had waited in the briars and the mud, in bad weather, andmostly gone hungry.His boots were worn out anyway, so he had set his miserable camp not far fromPage 26ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlthe road, the better to see this wizard coming.Since the wars, the North wasfull of dangerous scum deserting warriors turned bandit, peasants fled fromtheir burned-out land, leaderless and desperate men with nothing left to lose,and so on.Logen wasn't worried, though.No one had a reason to come to thisarsehole of the world.No one but him and the Magus.So he sat and waited, looked for food, didn't find any, sat and waited somemore.At this time of year the moors were often soaked by sudden downpours,but he would have smoky, thorny little fires by night if he could, to keep hisflagging spirits up and attract any passing wizards.It had been raining thisevening, but it had stopped a while before and it was dry enough for a fire.Now he had his pot over it, cooking a stew with the last of the meat he hadbrought with him from the forest.He would have to move on in the morning, andlook for food.The Magus could catch up with him later, if he still cared.He was stirring his meagre meal, and wondering whether to go back north ormove on south tomorrow, when he heard the sound of hooves on the road.Onehorse, moving slowly.He sat back on his coat and waited.There was a neigh,the jingle of a harness.A rider came over the rise.With the watery sun lowon the horizon behind, Logen couldn't see him clearly, but he sat stiff andawkward in his saddle, like a man not used to the road.He urged his horsegently in the direction of the fire and reined in a few yards away.'Good evening,' he said.He was not in the least what Logen had been expecting.A gaunt, pale,sickly-looking young man with dark rings round his eyes, long hair plasteredto his head by the drizzle and a nervous smile
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