The Blade Itself (31 page)

Kaspa and the usual complement of armoured soldiers were clustered around the outer gates, where the old bridge across the moat passed between the two massive, white rendered towers of the gatehouse. As Jezal marched down to the end of the long tunnel he saw that there was someone with them. A small, harassed-looking fellow wearing spectacles. Jezal recognised him vaguely. Morrow he was called, some crony of the Lord Chamberlain. He had no reason to be here.

“Captain Luthar, what a happy chance!” Jezal jumped. It was that lunatic, Sulfur, sitting cross-legged on the ground behind him, his back against the sheer wall of the gatehouse.

“What the hell’s he doing here?” snapped Jezal. Kaspa opened his mouth to speak, but Sulfur got in first.

“Don’t mind me, Captain, I’m simply waiting for my master.”

“Your master?” He dreaded to think what manner of an idiot this idiot might serve.

“Indeed. He should be here very shortly.” Sulfur frowned up at the sun. “He is already somewhat tardy, if the truth be told.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” The madman broke into a friendly smile once more. “But he’ll be along, Jezal, you can depend on it.”

First-name terms was too much to take. He hardly knew the man, and what he knew he didn’t like. He opened his mouth to give him a piece of his mind, but Sulfur suddenly jumped up, grabbing his stick from the wall and brushing himself down.

“Here they are!” he said, looking out across the moat. Jezal followed the idiot’s eyes with his own.

A magnificent old man was striding purposefully across the bridge, bald head held high, a fabulous gown of shimmering red and silver flowing about him in the breeze. At his heels came a sickly-looking youth, head a little bowed as if in awe of the older man, holding a long staff out before him in upturned palms. A great brute of a man in a heavy fur cloak followed behind them, a good half head taller than the other two.

“What the…” Jezal trailed off. He seemed to recognise the old man from somewhere. Some lord perhaps, from the Open Council? Some foreign ambassador? Certainly he had an air of majesty. Jezal racked his brains as they approached, but could not place him.

The old man stopped before the gatehouse, swept Jezal, Kaspa, Morrow and the guards imperiously with glittering green eyes. “Yoru,” he said.

Sulfur stepped forward, bowing low. “Master Bayaz,” he murmured, in hushed tones of deep respect.

And that was it. That was why Jezal knew the man. He bore a definite resemblance to the statue of Bayaz in the Kingsway. The statue Jezal had run past so many times. A little fatter perhaps, but that expression: stern, wise, effortlessly commanding, was just the same. Jezal frowned. For the old man to be called by that name? He didn’t like it. He didn’t like the look of the lanky young man with the staff either. He liked the look of the old man’s other companion even less.

West had often told Jezal that the Northmen found in Adua, usually skulking dishevelled by the docks or dirty drunk in gutters, were by no means typical of their people. Those that lived free in the far North, fighting, feuding, feasting, and doing whatever Northmen did, were of quite a different kind. A tall, fierce, handsome people, Jezal had always imagined, with a touch of romance about them. Strong, yet graceful. Wild, yet noble. Savage, yet cunning. The kind of men whose eyes are fixed always on the far horizon.

This was not one of those.

Never in his life had Jezal seen a more brutish-looking man. Even Fenris the Feared had seemed civilised by comparison. His face was like a whipped back, criss-crossed with ragged scars.

His nose was bent, pointing off a little sideways. One ear had a big notch out of it, one eye seemed a touch higher than the other, surrounded by a crescent-shaped wound. His whole face, in fact, was slightly beaten, broken, lop-sided, like that of a prize fighter who has fought a few bouts too many. His expression too, was that of one punch-drunk. He gawped up at the gatehouse, forehead furrowed, mouth hanging open, staring about him with a look of near animal stupidity.

He wore a long fur cloak, and a leather tunic set with gold, but this height of barbaric splendour only made him look more savage, and there was no missing the long, heavy sword at his belt. The Northman scratched at a big pink scar through the stubble on his cheek as he peered up at the sheer walls above, and Jezal noticed one of his fingers was missing. As though any further evidence of a life of violence and savagery was necessary.

To let this hulking primitive into the Agriont? While they were at war with the Northmen? It was unthinkable! But Morrow was already sidling forward. “The Lord Chamberlain is expecting you, gentlemen,” he gushed as he bowed and scraped his way towards the old man, “if you would care to follow me—”

“One moment.” Jezal grabbed the under-secretary by the elbow and pulled him aside. “Him too?” he asked incredulously, nodding over at the primitive in the cloak. “We are at war, you know!”

“Lord Hoff was most specific!” Morrow shook his arm free, spectacles flashing. “Keep him here if you wish, but you can explain it to the Lord Chamberlain!”

Jezal swallowed. That idea was not at all appealing. He glanced up at the old man, but could not look him in the eye for long. He had a mysterious air, an air of knowing something no one else could guess, and it was most unsettling.

“You… must… leave… your… weapons… here!” he shouted, speaking as slowly and clearly as possible.

“Happy to.” The Northman pulled the sword from his belt and held it out. It weighed heavily in Jezal’s hands: a big, plain, brutal-looking weapon. He followed it with a long knife, then knelt and pulled another from his boot. He took a third from the small of his back, and then produced a thin blade from inside his sleeve, heaping them into Jezal’s outstretched arms. The Northman smiled broadly. It was truly a hideous sight, the ragged scars twisting and puckering, making his face more lopsided than ever.

“You can never have too many knives,” he growled in a deep, grinding voice. Nobody laughed, but he did not seem to care.

“Shall we go?” asked the old man.

“Without delay,” said Morrow, turning to leave.

“I’ll come with you.” Jezal dumped his armload of weapons into Kaspa’s hands.

“That really isn’t necessary, Captain,” whined Morrow.

“I insist.” Once he was delivered to the Lord Chamberlain, the Northman could murder whomever he pleased: it would be someone else’s problem. But until he got there Jezal might be blamed for whatever mischief he got up to, and he was damned if he was going to let that happen.

The guards stood aside, the strange procession passed through the gate. Morrow was first, whispering obsequious nothings over his shoulder to the old man in the splendid robe. The pale youth was next, followed by Sulfur. The nine-fingered Northman lumbered along at the back.

Jezal followed with his thumb in his belt, close to the hilt of his sword so he could get to it quickly, watching the savage intently for any sudden moves. After following him for a short while though, Jezal had to admit, the man gave no appearance of having murder in mind. If anything he looked curious, bemused, and somewhat embarrassed. He kept slowing, staring up at the buildings around him, shaking his head, scratching his face, muttering under his breath. He would occasionally horrify passers-by by smiling at them, but he seemed to present no greater threat and Jezal began to relax, at least until they reached the Square of Marshals.

The Northman stopped suddenly. Jezal fumbled for his sword, but the primitive’s eyes were locked ahead, gazing at a fountain nearby. He moved slowly towards it, then cautiously raised a thick finger and poked at the glittering jet. Water splashed into his face and he blundered away, almost knocking Jezal down. “A spring?” he whispered. “But how?”

Mercy. The man was like a child. A six and a half foot child with a face like a butcher’s block. “There are pipes!” Jezal stamped on the paving. “Beneath… the… ground!”

“Pipes,” echoed the primitive quietly, staring at the frothing water.

The others had moved some way ahead, close to the grand building in which Hoff had his offices. Jezal began to step away from the fountain, hoping to draw the witless savage with him. To Jezal’s relief he followed, shaking his head and muttering “pipes” to himself, over and over.

They entered the cool darkness of the Lord Chamberlain’s ante-room. There were people seated on the benches around the walls, some of them giving the impression of having been waiting a very long time. They all stared as Morrow ushered the peculiar group straight into Hoffs offices. The spectacled secretary opened the heavy double doors and stood by while first the old bald man, then his crony with the stick, then the madman Sulfur, and finally the nine-fingered primitive walked in past him.

Jezal made to follow them, but Morrow stood in the doorway and blocked his path. “Thank you so much for your help, Captain,” he said with a thin smile. “You may return to the gate.” Jezal peered over his shoulder into the room beyond. He saw the Lord Chamberlain frowning behind a long table. Arch Lector Sult was beside him, grim and suspicious. High Justice Marovia was there too, a smile on his wrinkled face. Three members of the Closed Council.

Then Morrow shut the door in his face.

Next

“I notice you have a new secretary,” said Glokta, as though just in passing.

The Arch Lector smiled. “Of course. The old one was not to my liking. He had a loose tongue, you know.” Glokta paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. “He had been passing our secrets on to the Mercers,” continued Sult carelessly, as if it was common knowledge. “I had been aware of it for some time. You needn’t worry though, he never learned anything I didn’t want him to know.”

Then… you knew who our traitor was. You knew all along.
Glokta’s mind turned the events of the last few weeks around, pulled them apart and put them back together in this new light, trying them different ways until they fit, all the while struggling to conceal his surprise.
You left Rews confession where you knew your secretary would see it. You knew the Mercers would find out who was on the list, and you guessed what they would do, knowing it would only play into your hands and give you the shovel with which to bury them. Meanwhile, you steered my suspicions towards Kalyne when you knew who the leak was all along. The whole business unfolded precisely according to your plan.
The Arch Lector was looking back at him with a knowing smile.
And I bet you guess what I’m thinking right now. I have been almost as much a piece in this game as that snivelling worm of a secretary.
Glokta stifled a giggle.
How fortunate for me that I was a piece on the right side. I never suspected a thing.

“He betrayed us for a disappointingly small sum of money,” continued Sult, his lip curling with distaste. “I daresay Kault would have given him ten times as much, if he had only had the wit to ask. The younger generation really have no ambition. They think they are a great deal cleverer than they are.” He studied Glokta with his cool blue eyes.
I am part of the younger generation, more or less. I am justly humbled.

“Your secretary has been disciplined?”

The Arch Lector placed his glass carefully down on the table top, the base barely making a sound on the wood. “Oh yes. Most severely. It really isn’t necessary to spare him any further thought.”
I bet it isn’t. Body found floating by the docks…
“I must say, I was greatly surprised when you fixed on Superior Kalyne as the source of our leak. The man was from the old guard. A few indulgences to look the other way over trifling matters, of course, but to betray the Inquisition? To sell our secrets to the Mercers?” Sult snorted. “Never. You allowed your personal dislike for the man to cloud your judgement.”

“He seemed the only possibility,” muttered Glokta, but immediately regretted it.
Foolish, foolish. The mistake is made. Better just to keep your mouth shut.

“Seemed?” The Arch Lector clicked his tongue in profound disapproval. “No, no, no, Inquisitor. Seemed is not good enough for us. In future, we’ll have just the facts, if you please. But don’t feel too badly about it—I allowed you to follow your instincts and, as things have turned out, your blunder has left our position much the stronger. Kalyne has been removed from office,”
Body found floating…
“and Superior Goyle is on his way from Angland to assume the role of Superior of Adua.”

Goyle? Coming here? That bastard, the new Superior of Adua?
Glokta could not prevent his lip from curling.

“The two of you are not the greatest of friends, eh, Glokta?”

“He is a jailer, not an investigator. He is not interested in guilt or innocence. He is not interested in truth. He tortures for the thrill of it.”

“Oh, come now, Glokta. Are you telling me you feel no thrill when your prisoners spill their secrets? When they name the names? When they sign the confession?”

“I take no pleasure in it.”
I take no pleasure in anything.

“And yet you do it so very well. In any case, Goyle is coming, and whatever you may think of him, he is one of us. A most capable and trustworthy man, dedicated to the service of crown and state. He was once a pupil of mine, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He had your job… so there is some future in it after all!” The Arch Lector giggled at his own joke. Glokta gave a thin smile of his own. “All in all, things have worked out very nicely, and you are to be congratulated on your part in it. A job well done.”
Well enough done that I am still alive, at least.
Sult raised his glass and they drank a joyless toast together, eyeing each other suspiciously over the rims of their glasses.

Glokta cleared his throat. “Magister Kault mentioned something interesting before his unfortunate demise.”

“Go on.”

“The Mercers had a partner in their schemes. A senior partner, perhaps. A bank.”

“Huh. Turn a merchant over and there’s always a banker underneath. What of it?”

“I believe these bankers knew about it all. The smuggling, the fraud, the murders even. I believe they encouraged it, maybe ordered it, so that they could get a good return on their loans. May I begin an investigation, your Eminence?”

“Which bank?”

“Valint and Balk.”

The Arch Lector seemed to consider a moment, staring at Glokta through his hard, blue eyes.
Does he already know about these particular bankers? Does he already know much more than me? What did Kault say? You want traitors, Glokta? Look in the House of Questions
—

“No,” snapped Sult. “Those particular bankers are well connected. They are owed too many favours, and without Kault it will be difficult to prove anything. We got what we needed from the Mercers, and I have a more pressing task for you.”

Glokta looked up.
Another task?
“I was looking forward to interviewing the prisoners we took at the Guildhall, your Eminence, it may be that—”

“No.” The Arch Lector swatted Glokta’s words away with his gloved hand. “That business could drag on for months. I will have Goyle handle it.” He frowned. “Unless you object?”

So I plough the field, sow the seed, water the crop, then Goyle reaps the harvest? Some justice.
He humbly bowed his head. “Of course not, your Eminence.”

“Good. You are probably aware of the unusual visitors we received yesterday.”

Visitors?
For the past week Glokta had been in agony with his back. Yesterday he had struggled out of bed to watch that cretin Luthar fence, but otherwise he had been confined to his tiny room, virtually unable to move. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said simply.

“Bayaz, the First of the Magi.” Glokta gave his thin smile again, but the Arch Lector was not laughing.

“You’re joking, of course.”

“If only.”

“A charlatan, your Eminence?”

“What else? But a most extraordinary one. Lucid, reasonable, clever. The deception is elaborate in the extreme.”

“You have spoken with him?”

“I have. He is remarkably convincing. He knows things, things he shouldn’t know. He cannot be simply dismissed. Whoever he is, he has funding, and good sources of information.” The Arch Lector frowned deep. “He has some renegade brute of a Northman with him.”

Glokta frowned. “A Northman? It hardly seems their style. They strike me as most direct.”

“My very thoughts.”

“A spy for the Emperor then? The Gurkish?”

“Perhaps. The Kantics love a good intrigue, but they tend to stick to the shadows. These theatricals don’t seem to have their mark. I suspect our answer may lie closer to home.”

“The nobles, your Eminence? Brock? Isher? Heugen?”

“Perhaps,” mused Sult, “perhaps. They’re annoyed enough. Or there’s our old friend, the High Justice. He seemed a little too pleased about it all. He’s plotting something, I can tell.”

The nobles, the High Justice, the Northmen, the Gurkish—it could be any one of them, or none—but why?
“I don’t understand, Arch Lector. If they are simply spies, why go to all this trouble? Surely there are easier ways to get into the Agriont?”

“This is the thing.” Sult gave as bitter a grimace as Glokta had ever seen. “There is an empty seat on the Closed Council, there always has been. A pointless tradition, a matter of etiquette, a chair reserved for a mythical figure, in any case dead for hundreds of years. Nobody ever supposed that anyone would come forward to claim it.”

“But he has?”

“He has! He has demanded it!” The Arch Lector got to his feet and strode around the table. “I know! Unthinkable! Some spy, some liar from who knows where, privy to the workings of the very heart of our government! But he has some dusty papers, so it falls to
us
to discredit
him
! Can you believe it?”

Glokta could not.
But there hardly seems any purpose to saying so.

“I have asked for time to investigate,” continued Sult, “but the Closed Council will not be put off indefinitely. We have only a week or two to expose this so-called Magus for the fraud he is. In the mean time, he and his companions are making themselves at home in an excellent suite of rooms in the Tower of Chains, and there is nothing we can do to prevent them wandering the Agriont, causing whatever mischief they please!”
There is something we could do…

“The Tower of Chains is very high. If somebody were to fall—”

“No. Not yet. We have already pushed our luck as far as it will go in certain circles. For the time being at least, we must tread carefully.”

“There is always the possibility of an interrogation. If we were to arrest them, I could soon find out who they are working for—”

“Tread carefully, I said! I want you to look into this Magus, Glokta, and his companions. Find out who they are, where they come from, what they are after. Above all, find out who is behind them, and why. We must discredit this would-be Bayaz before he can do any damage. After that you can use whatever means you please.” Sult turned and moved away to the window.

Glokta got up awkwardly, painfully from his chair. “How shall I begin?”

“Follow them!” shouted the Arch Lector impatiently. “Watch them! See who they speak to, what they are about. You’re the Inquisitor, Glokta!” he snapped, without even looking round. “Ask some questions!”