Free Book 3 - A Path to Coldness of Heart by Glen Cook

connected to Kavelin had been involved somehow. Gales was not sure why he ended up at the Twisted Wrench. Probably because the place was a haunt for garrison troops off duty. Even if he was recognized his presence ought not to be resented.
He staked out a shadowy corner and brushed off those who tried to socialize. By not talking he would not betray his accent. Without thinking about it, though, he slipped into a character he once played undercover.
He became the quirky Sergeant Gales. That meant a shift in the set of his shoulders, in the way he held his head, a more expansive set of gestures even while being sullenly unsocial, and a lower class accent when he did have to speak.
The tavern never became crowded. The owner longed for the time when Bragi was king and there were soldiers everywhere.
There was a lot of nostalgia in the Twisted Wrench. And a lot of resentment, too.
Inger had gotten her chance. She had wasted it.
The blame was not all hers, though. The other Itaskian gang enjoyed a fouler reputation. Some folks, in fact, believed the Queen would have done a decent job if her cousin had not been undercutting.
Kristen executed a brilliant strategic maneuver by sliding out of the light when she did. She had taken no blame, only sympathy, with her. The death of Credence Abaca, which had thrilled Inger so back when, now looked like a curse. It, too, conspired to make those still visible look bad.
The Marena Dimura were no longer in a state of insurrection. They had become invisible. They could not now be blamed for all the ills of the kingdom.
Gales was well up the early slope of alcohol consumption. He was pleased to be learning so much. It might be too late to use the information to any advantage but he now had his finger on the pulse of the kingdom.
He should have made expeditions like this before. The knowledge could have kept Inger in much better odor.
It had not occurred to anyone to care what ordinary people thought. Their attitudes did not matter in Itaskia. But this was Kavelin. The monarchs here had been listening for decades. Inger might have, too. She had a mild case of the Kavelin fever.
Josiah Gales had a slight case of that disease himself. He signaled for a refill, then began to brood on that.
Then he began to worry about the time. He should have been back by now. Inger would give him bloody hell when he turned up drunk.
And now he could not leave.
Men he knew had come and gone, none paying him any heed because he timed his piss runs to avoid being noticed. The strategy had worked till an entire squad of archers stumbled in. The Wrench was not their first stop of the evening. Gales wondered how they could afford so much drink. Their pay was in arrears.
The archers settled where Gales would have to pass on his way to the jakes. And they would not move on.
The ache in the Colonel’s bladder reached a point where he had to make a decision. He chose to piss on the floor, sitting where he was, not a choice he would have made when sober.
He got urine all over himself. What made it to the floor drained through gaps in the floorboards. The odor did not stand out amongst the other stinks of the Wrench.
Then a shaggy mass of a man materialized. He headed a trio of thoroughly drenched gentlemen. In fluent drunkenese, he bellowed, “Holy fuckin’ shit! Will ya lookit! Sarge Gales, you ole cocksucker! How da fuck are you? Hey! You look like shit, man. You been eatin’ right? You got pushed out too, huh? Guess you’re lookin’ good enough for dat. Hey! Tell dese jack-offs ’bout dat time. You know. Durin’ da El Murid Wars when you got off a dat ship in Hellin Daimiel or wherever da fuck. Wit’ all da women. You guys gotta hear dis. Funniest fuckin’ story I ever heard.”
Gales began to shake. He did not recognize the man blasting dense wine breath into his face. The story he wanted had been the signature bullshit story that Sergeant Gales of the Queen’s own bodyguard had retailed back in the day.
“Come