The Blade Itself (27 page)

“You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes!” he barked, blinking mindlessly up at Glokta.

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“Yes!”

“Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Why?”

“We were worried they would tell what they knew… tell what they knew… tell…” Hornlach’s empty eyes stared off towards one of the coloured windows. His mouth slowly stopped moving.

“Tell what they knew?” prompted the Inquisitor.

“About the treasonous activities of the Guild!” the Mercer blurted, “about our treasons! About the activities of the guild… treasonous… activities…”

Glokta cut in sharply. “Were you acting alone?”

“No! No!”

The Inquisitor rapped his cane down before him and leaned forward. “Who gave the orders?” he hissed.

“Magister Kault!” shouted Hornlach instantly, “he gave the orders!” The audience gasped. Arch Lector Sult smirked a little wider. “It was the Magister!” The quills scratched mercilessly. “It was Kault! He gave the orders! All the orders! Magister Kault!”

“Thank you, Master Hornlach.”

“The Magister! He gave the orders! Magister Kault! Kault! Kault!”

“Enough!” snarled Glokta. His prisoner fell silent. The room was still.

Arch Lector Sult lifted his arm and pointed towards the three prisoners. “There is your proof, my Lords!”

“This is a sham!” bellowed Lord Brock, leaping to his feet. “This is an insult!” Few voices joined him in support however, and those that did were half-hearted. Lord Heugen was notable for his careful silence, keenly studying the fine leather of his shoes. Barezin had shrunk back into his seat, looking half the size he had been a minute before. Lord Isher was staring off at the wall, fingering his heavy, golden chain, looking bored, as though the fate of the Guild of Mercers was of interest to him no longer.

Brock appealed to the High Justice himself, motionless in his tall chair at the high table. “Lord Marovia, I beg of you! You are a reasonable man! Do not allow this… travesty!”

The hall fell silent, waiting for the old man’s reply. He frowned and stroked his long beard. He glanced across at the grinning Arch Lector. He cleared his throat. “I feel your pain, Lord Brock, indeed I do, but it seems that this is not a day for reasonable men. The Closed Council has examined the case and is well satisfied. My hands are tied.”

Brock worked his mouth, tasting defeat. “This is not justice!” he shouted, turning round to address his peers. “These men have plainly been tortured!”

Arch Lector Sult’s mouth twisted with scorn. “How would you have us deal with traitors and criminals?” he cried in a piercing voice. “Would you raise a shield, Lord Brock, for the disloyal to hide behind?” He thumped the table, as if it too might be guilty of high treason. “I for one will not see our great nation handed over to its enemies! Neither enemies without, nor enemies within!”

“Down with the Mercers!” came a cry from the public balcony.

“Hard justice for traitors!”

“The King’s Justice!” bellowed a fat man near the back. There was a surge of anger and agreement from the floor, and calls for harsh measures and stiff penalties.

Brock looked round for his allies on the front row, but found none. He bunched his fists. “This is no justice!” he shouted, pointing at the three prisoners. “This is no proof!”

“His Majesty disagrees!” bellowed Hoff, “and does not require your permission!” He held up a large document. “The Guild of Mercers is hereby dissolved! Their licence revoked by Royal decree! His Majesty’s Commission for Trade and Commerce will, over the coming months, review applications for trade rights with the city of Westport. Until such time as suitable candidates are found, the routes will be managed by capable,
loyal
, hands. The hands of His Majesty’s Inquisition.”

Arch Lector Sult humbly inclined his head, oblivious to the furious cries from representatives and public gallery alike.

“Inquisitor Glokta!” continued the Lord Chamberlain, “the Open Council thanks you for your diligence, and asks that you perform one more service in this matter.” Hoff held out a smaller paper. “This is a warrant for the arrest of Magister Kault, bearing the King’s own signature. We would ask that you serve it forthwith.” Glokta bowed stiffly and took the paper from the Lord Chamberlain’s outstretched hand. “You,” said Hoff, turning his eye on Jalenhorm.

“Lieutenant Jalenhorm, my Lord!” shouted the big man, stepping smartly forward.

“Whatever,” snapped Hoff impatiently, “take twenty of the King’s Own and escort Inquisitor Glokta to the Mercers’ Guildhall. Ensure that nothing and no one leaves the building without his orders!”

“At once, my Lord!” Jalenhorm crossed the floor and ran up the aisle toward the exit, holding the hilt of his sword in one hand to stop it knocking against his leg. Glokta limped after him, cane tapping on the steps, the warrant for the arrest of Magister Kault crumpled in his tightly clenched fist. The monstrous albino had pulled the prisoners to their feet meanwhile, and was leading them, rattling and lolling, off towards the door by which they had entered.

“Lord Chamberlain!” shouted Brock, with one last effort. Jezal wondered how much money he must have made from the Mercers. How much he had hoped still to make. A very great deal, evidently.

But Hoff was unmoved. “That concludes our business for today, my Lords!” Marovia was on his feet before the Lord Chamberlain had finished speaking, evidently keen to be away. The great ledgers were thumped shut. The fate of the honourable Guild of Mercers was sealed. Excited babbling filled the air once more, gradually rising in volume and soon joined by clattering and stamping as the representatives began to rise and leave the room. Arch Lector Sult remained seated, watching his beaten adversaries file reluctantly off the front row. Jezal met the desperate eyes of Salem Rews one last time as he was led towards the small door, then Practical Frost jerked at the chain and he was lost in the darkness beyond.

Outside, the square was even busier than before, the dense throng growing ever more excited as the news of the dissolution of the Guild of Mercers spread to those who had not been within. People stood, disbelieving, or hurried here and there: scared, surprised, confused. Jezal saw one man staring at him, staring at anyone, face pale, hands trembling. A Mercer perhaps, or a man in too deep with the Mercers, deep enough to be ruined along with them. There would be many such men.

Jezal felt a sudden tingling. Ardee West was leaning casually against the stones a little further on. They had not met in some time, not since that drunken outburst of hers, and he was surprised how pleased he was to see her. Probably she had been punished long enough, he told himself. Everyone deserved the chance to apologise. He hastened towards her with a broad smile on his lips. Then he noticed who she was with.

“That little bastard!” he muttered under his breath.

Lieutenant Brint was chatting freely in his cheap uniform, leaning closer to Ardee than Jezal thought was appropriate, underlining his tedious points with flamboyant gestures of his arms. She was nodding, smiling, then she tipped her head back and laughed, slapping the Lieutenant playfully on the chest. Brint laughed as well, the ugly little shit. They laughed together. For some reason Jezal felt a sharp pang of fury.

“Jezal, how are you!” shouted Brint, still giggling.

He stepped up close. “That’s Captain Luthar!” he spat, “and how I am is none of your concern! Don’t you have a job to do?”

Brint’s mouth hung stupidly open for a moment, then his brows drew into a surly frown. “Yes, sir,” he muttered, turning and stalking off. Jezal watched him go with a contempt even more intense than usual.

“Well that was charming,” said Ardee. “Are those the manners you should use before a lady?”

“I really couldn’t say. Why? Was there one watching?”

He turned to look at her and caught, just for a moment, a self-satisfied smirk. Quite a nasty expression, as though she had enjoyed his outburst. He wondered for a silly instant whether she might have arranged the meeting, have placed herself and that idiot where Jezal would see them, hoping to arouse his jealousy… then she smiled at him, and laughed, and Jezal felt his anger fading. She looked very fine, he thought, tanned and vibrant in the sunlight, laughing out loud, not caring who heard. Very fine. Better than ever, in fact. A chance meeting was all, what else could it be? She fixed him with those dark eyes and his suspicions vanished. “Did you have to be so hard on him?” she asked.

Jezal fixed his jaw. “Jumped-up, arrogant nobody, he’s probably nothing more than some rich man’s bastard. No blood, no money, no manners—”

“More than me, of all three.”

Jezal cursed his big mouth. Rather than dragging an apology from her he was now in need of giving one himself. He sought desperately for some way out of this self-made trap. “Oh, but he’s an absolute moron!” he whined.

“Well,” and Jezal was relieved to see one corner of Ardee’s mouth curl up in a sly smile, “he is at that. Shall we walk?” She slipped her hand through his arm before he had the chance to answer, and started to lead him off towards the Kingsway. Jezal allowed himself to be guided between the frightened, the angry, the excited people.

“So is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?”

“That the Mercers are finished?”

“So it seems. Your old friend Sand dan Glokta was in the thick of it. He gave quite the performance, for a cripple.”

Ardee looked down at the floor. “You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, crippled or no.”

“No.” Jezal’s mind went back to Salem Rews’ terrified eyes, staring desperately at him as he vanished into the darkness of the archway. “No, you wouldn’t.”

A silence descended on them as they strolled down the avenue, but it was a comfortable one. He liked walking with her. It no longer seemed important whether anyone apologised. Perhaps she had been right about the fencing anyway, just a little. Ardee seemed to read his thoughts. “How’s the swordplay going?” she asked.

“Not bad. How’s the drinking going?”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Excellent well. If only there was a Contest for that every year, I’d soon come to the attention of the public.” Jezal laughed, looking down at her as she walked beside him, and she smiled back. So clever, so sharp, so fearless. So damn fine looking. Jezal wondered if there had ever been a woman quite like her. If only she had the right blood, he thought to himself, and some money. A lot of money.

Means of Escape

“Open the door, in the name of His Majesty!” thundered Lieutenant Jalenhorm for the third time, hammering at the wood with his meaty fist.
The great oaf. Why do big men tend to have such little brains? Perhaps they get by on brawn too often, and their minds dry up like plums in the sun.

The Mercers’ Guildhall was an impressive building in a busy square not far from the Agriont. A substantial crowd of onlookers had already gathered around Glokta and his armed escort: curious, fearful, fascinated, growing all the time.
They can smell blood, it seems.
Glokta’s leg was throbbing from the effort of hurrying down here, but he doubted that the Mercers would be taken entirely by surprise. He glanced round impatiently at the armoured guardsmen, at the masked Practicals, at the hard eyes of Frost, at the young officer beating on the door.

“Open the—”

Enough of this foolishness.
“I think they heard you, Lieutenant,” said Glokta crisply, “but are choosing not to answer. Would you be so kind as to break the door down?”

“What?” Jalenhorm gawped at him, and then at the heavy double doors, firmly secured. “How will I—”

Practical Frost hurtled past. There was a deafening crack and a tearing of wood as he crashed into one of the doors with his burly shoulder, tearing it off its hinges and sending it crashing onto the floor of the room beyond.

“Like so,” muttered Glokta as he stepped through the archway, the splinters still settling. Jalenhorm followed him, looking dazed, a dozen armoured soldiers clattering behind.

An outraged clerk blocked the-corridor beyond. “You can’t just—oof!” he cried, as Frost flung him out of the way and his face crunched into the wall.

“Arrest that man!” shouted Glokta, waving his cane at the dumbstruck clerk. One of the soldiers grabbed him roughly with gauntleted fists and shoved him tumbling out into the daylight. Practicals began to pour through the broken doors, heavy sticks in their hands, eyes fierce above their masks. “Arrest everyone!” shouted Glokta over his shoulder, limping down the corridor as fast as he could, following Frost’s broad back into the bowels of the building.

Through an open door Glokta saw a merchant in colourful robes, face covered with a sheen of sweat as he desperately heaped documents onto a blazing fire. “Seize him!” screamed Glokta. A pair of Practicals leaped past into the room and began clubbing the man with their sticks. He fell with a cry, upsetting a table and kicking over a pile of ledgers. Loose papers and bits of burning ash fluttered through the air as the sticks rose and fell.

Glokta hurried on, crashes and cries spreading out into the building around him. The place was full of the smell of smoke, and sweat, and fear.
The doors are all guarded, but Kault might have a secret means of escape. He’s a slippery one. We must hope we are not too late. Curse this leg of mine! Not too late…

Glokta gasped and winced in pain, tottering as someone clutched at his coat. “Help me!” shrieked the man, “I am innocent!” Blood on a plump face. Fingers clutched at Glokta’s clothes, threatening to drag him to the floor.

“Get him off me!” shouted Glokta, beating at him weakly with his cane, clawing at the wall in his efforts to stay upright. One of the Practicals leaped forward and clubbed the man across the back.

“I confess!” the merchant whimpered as the stick rose again, then it cracked down on his head. The Practical caught hold of his slumping body under the arms and dragged him back towards the door. Glokta hurried on, Lieutenant Jalenhorm wide-eyed at his shoulder. They reached a broad staircase, and Glokta eyed it with hatred.
My old enemies, always here ahead of me.
He laboured up as best he could, waving Practical Frost forward with his free hand. A baffled merchant was dragged past them and away, squawking something about his rights, heels kicking against the stairs.

Glokta slipped and nearly fell on his face, but someone caught him by the elbow and kept him upright. It was Jalenhorm, a look of confusion still splattered across his heavy, honest face.
So big men have their uses after all.
The young officer helped him up the rest of the steps. Glokta did not have the energy to refuse him.
Why bother? A man should know his limitations. There’s nothing noble in falling on your face. I should know that.

There was a large ante-chamber at the top of the stairs, richly decorated with a thick carpet and colourful hangings on the walls. Two guards stood before a large door with their swords drawn, dressed in the livery of the Guild of Mercers. Frost was facing them, hands rolled into white fists. Jalenhorm pulled out his own sword as he reached the landing, stepping forward to stand next to the albino. Glokta had to smile.
The tongueless torturer and the flower of chivalry. An unlikely alliance.

“I have a warrant for Kault, signed by the King himself.” Glokta held out the paper so the guards could see it. “The Mercers are finished. You have nothing to gain by getting in our way. Put up your swords! You have my word, you will not be harmed!”

The two guards glanced at each other uncertainly. “Put them up!” shouted Jalenhorm, edging a little closer.

“Alright!” One of the men bent down and slid his sword along the boards. Frost caught it under one foot.

“And you!” shouted Glokta to the other one. “Now!” The guard obeyed, throwing his sword to the floor and putting up his hands. A moment later Frost’s fist crunched into the point of his jaw, knocking him cold and sending him crashing into the wall.

“But—” shouted the first guard. Frost grabbed him by the shirt and flung him down the stairs. He turned over and over, banging on the steps, flopping to the bottom, lying still.
I know what that feels like.

Jalenhorm was standing motionless and blinking, his sword still raised. “I thought you said—”

“Never mind about that. Frost, look for another way in.”

“Thhh.” The albino padded away down the corridor. Glokta gave him a moment, then he edged forward and tried the door. The handle turned, much to his surprise, and the door swung open.

The room was opulence itself, near as big as a barn. The carving on the high ceiling was caked in gold leaf, the spines of the books on the shelves were studded with precious stones, the monstrous furniture was polished to a mirror shine. All was over-sized, over-embellished, over-expensive.
But who needs taste when you have money?
There were several big windows of the new design, large panes with little lead between them, offering a splendid view of the city, the bay, the ships within it. Magister Kault sat smiling at his vast gilt desk before the middle window in his fabulous robes of office, partly overshadowed by an enormous cabinet, the arms of the honourable Guild of Mercers etched into its doors.

Then he has not got away. I have him. I…
Tied around the thick leg of the cabinet was a rope. Glokta followed it with his eyes as it snaked across the floor. The other end was tied around the Magister’s neck.
Ah. So he does have a means of escape, after all.

“Inquisitor Glokta!” Kault gave a squeaky, nervous laugh. “What a pleasure to finally meet you! I’ve been hearing all about your investigations!” His fingers twitched at the knot on the rope, making sure it was tied securely.

“Is your collar too tight, Magister? Perhaps you should remove it?”

Another squeak of merriment. “Oh, I don’t think so! I don’t intend to be answering any of your questions, thank you!” Out of the corner of his eye, Glokta saw a side door edging open. A big white hand appeared, fingers curling slowly round the door frame.
Frost. There is still hope of catching him, then. I must keep him talking.

“There are no questions left to answer. We know it all.”

“Do you indeed?” giggled the Magister. The albino edged silently into the room, keeping to the shadows near the wall, hidden from Kault by the bulk of the cabinet.

“We know about Kalyne. About your little arrangement.”

“Imbecile! We had no arrangement! He was far too honourable to be bought! He would never take a mark from me!”
Then how…
Kault smiled a sick little smile. “Sult’s secretary,” he said, giggling again. “Right under his nose, and yours too, cripple!”
Fool, fool—the secretary carried the messages, he saw the confession, he knew everything! I never trusted that smarmy shit. Kalyne was loyal, then.

Glokta shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”

The Magister gave a withering sneer. “Mistakes? That’s all you’ve made, dolt! The world is nothing like you think it is! You don’t even know what side you’re on! You don’t even know what the sides are!”

“I am on the side of the King, and you are not. That is all I need to know.” Frost had made it to the cabinet and was pressed against it, pink eyes staring intently, trying to see round the corner without being seen.
Just a little longer, just a little further…

“You know nothing, cripple! Some small business with tax, some petty bribery, that’s all we were guilty of!”

“And the trifling matter of nine murders.”

“We had no choice!” screamed Kault. “We never had any choices! We had to pay the bankers! They loaned us the money, and we had to pay! We’ve been paying them for years! Valint and Balk, the bloodsuckers! We gave them everything, but they always wanted more!”

Valint and Balk? Bankers?
Glokta threw an eye over the ridiculous opulence. “You seem to be keeping your head above water.”

“Seem! Seem! All dust! All lies! The bankers own it all! They own us all! We owe them thousands! Millions!” Kault giggled to himself. “But I don’t suppose they’ll ever get it now, will they?”

“No. I don’t suppose they will.”

Kault leaned across the desk, the rope hanging down and brushing the leather top. “You want criminals, Glokta? You want traitors? Enemies of King and state? Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!” He saw Frost, edging round the cabinet no more than four strides away. His eyes went wide and he started up from his chair.

“Get him!” screamed Glokta. Frost sprang forward, lunged across the desk, caught hold of the flicking hem of Kault’s robe of office as the Magister span round and hurled himself at the window.
We have him!

There was a sickening rip as the robe tore in Frost’s white fist. Kault seemed frozen in space for a moment as all that expensive glass shattered around him, shards and splinters glittering through the air, then he was gone. The rope snapped taut.

“Thhhhh!” hissed Frost, glaring at the broken window.

“He jumped!” gasped Jalenhorm, his mouth hanging open.

“Clearly.” Glokta limped over to the desk and took the ripped strip of cloth from Frost’s hands. Close up it scarcely seemed magnificent at all: brightly coloured but badly woven.

“Who would have thought?” muttered Glokta to himself. “Poor quality.” He limped to the window and peered through the shattered hole. The head of the honourable Guild of Mercers was swinging slowly back and forth, twenty feet below, his torn, gold-embroidered gown flapping around him in the breeze.
Cheap clothes and expensive windows. If the cloth had been stronger we would have got him. If the window had more lead, we would have got him. Lives hinge on such chances.
Beneath him in the street a horrified crowd was already gathering: pointing, babbling, staring up at the hanging body. A woman screamed.
Fear, or excitement? They sound the same.

“Lieutenant, would you be so good as to go down and disperse that crowd? Then we can cut our friend loose and take him back with us.” Jalenhorm looked at him blankly. “Dead or alive, the King’s warrant must be served.”

“Yes, of course.” The burly officer wiped sweat from his forehead and made, somewhat unsteadily, for the door.

Glokta turned back to the window and peered down at the slowly swinging corpse. Magister Kault’s last words echoed in his mind.

Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!