The Blade Itself

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!”

Better than Death

“We’re looking for a woman,” said the officer, staring at them suspiciously. “An escaped slave, a killer. Very dangerous.”

“A woman, master?” asked Yulwei, his brow wrinkled with confusion. “Dangerous, master?”

“Yes, a woman!” The officer waved his hand impatiently. “Tall, with a scar, hair cropped short. Well-armed, most likely, with a bow.” Ferro stood there, tall and scarred, hair cropped short, bow over her shoulder, and looked down at the dusty ground. “She is wanted, by the highest of authorities! A thief and a murderer, many times over!”