“So does snoring. And I don’t snore.”
“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.”
He had nine names for the dead. His dead. The ones he’d put in the ground with his own two hands—or with the help of the other bastard who lived inside him, the one who whispered still alive, still alive when the blood ran hot. He tried not to think about that one. Thinking gave it teeth.
“You’re staring,” she said, not looking up. joe abercrombie the first law trilogy
“Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers,” Ferro muttered, returning to her blade. “Say he’s a fool who asks questions with obvious answers.”
“Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers,” said the crippled torturer, biting into the raw rabbit. “Say he’s a sentimental fool.”
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. “So does snoring
“You followed us,” said Logen.
The fire was a spiteful, spitting thing, choked by a drizzle that wouldn’t decide if it was rain or just the world sweating. Across the flames, Ferro Maljinn sat sharpening her knife. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The sound was the only rhythm in a world that had forgotten how to dance.
“Better to do a thing,” he whispered to no one, “than to live with the fear of it.” You move like a glacier with a grudge
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
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.