Free Red Country by Joe Abercrombie

occasionally and unenthusiastically kicked. ‘Might I ask why you’re here?’
    Lorsen stepped forward. ‘We are here to root out disloyalty, Master Clay. We are here to stamp out rebellion.’
    ‘You’re . . . from the Inquisition?’
    Lorsen said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
    Clay swallowed. ‘There’s no rebellion here, I assure you.’ Though Sworbreck sensed a falseness in his voice. Something more than understandable nervousness. ‘We’re
not interested in politics—’
    ‘Really?’ Lorsen’s profession evidently required a keen eye for deception also. ‘Roll up your sleeves!’
    ‘What?’ The merchant attempted to smile, hoping to defuse the situation with soft movements of his fleshy hands, perhaps, but Lorsen would not be defused. He jerked one hard finger
and two of his Practicals hastened forward: burly men, masked and hooded.
    ‘Strip him.’
    Clay tried to twist away. ‘Wait—’
    Sworbreck flinched as one of them punched the merchant soundlessly in his gut and doubled him up. The other ripped his sleeve off and wrenched his bare arm around. Bold script was tattooed from
his wrist to his elbow, written in the Old Tongue. Somewhat faded with age, but still legible.
    Lorsen turned his head slightly sideways so he could read. ‘
Freedom and justice
. Noble ideals, with which we could all agree. How do they sit with those innocent citizens of the
Union massacred by the rebels at Rostod, do you suppose?’
    The merchant was only just reclaiming his breath. ‘I never killed anyone in my life, I swear!’ His face was beaded with sweat. ‘The tattoo was a folly in my youth! Did it to
impress a woman! I haven’t spoken to a rebel for twenty years!’
    ‘And you supposed you could escape your crimes here, beyond the borders of the Union?’ Sworbreck had not seen Lorsen smile before, and he rather hoped he never did again. ‘His
Majesty’s Inquisition has a longer reach than you imagine. And a longer memory. Who else in this miserable collection of hovels has sympathies with the rebels?’
    ‘I daresay if they didn’t when we arrived,’ Sworbreck heard Temple mutter, ‘they’ll all have them by the time we leave . . .’
    ‘No one.’ Clay shook his head. ‘No one means any harm, me least of—’
    ‘Where in the Near Country are the rebels to be found?’
    ‘How would I know? I’d tell you if I knew!’
    ‘Where is the rebel leader Conthus?’
    ‘Who?’ The merchant could only stare. ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘We will see what you know. Take him inside. Fetch my instruments. Freedom I cannot promise you, but there will be some justice here today, at least.’
    The two Practicals dragged the unfortunate merchant towards his own store, now entirely plundered of anything of value. Lorsen stalked after, every bit as eager to begin his work as the
mercenaries had been to begin theirs. The last of the Practicals brought up the rear, the polished wooden case containing the instruments in one hand. With the other he swung the door quietly shut.
Sworbreck swallowed, and considered putting his notebook away. He was not sure he would have anything to write today.
    ‘Why do these rebels tattoo themselves?’ he muttered. ‘Makes them damned easy to identify.’
    Cosca was squinting up at the sky and fanning himself with his hat, making his sparse hairs flutter. ‘Ensures their commitment, though. Ensures there can be no turning back. They take
pride in them. The more they fight, the more tattoos they add. I saw a man hanged up near Rostod with a whole armful.’ The Old Man sighed. ‘But then men do all manner of things in the
heat of the moment that turn out, on sober reflection, to be not especially sensible.’
    Sworbreck raised his brows, licked his pencil and copied that down in his notebook. A faint cry echoed from behind the closed door, then another. It made it very difficult to concentrate.
Undoubtedly the man was guilty, but Sworbreck could not help placing