The Blade Itself

Sult had a look of mild curiosity on his face as he took it and unrolled it on the table, stared down at the meaningless symbols. “What is it?”

Hah. So you don’t know everything. “I suppose you could say that it’s a piece of history. An account of how Bayaz defeated the Master Maker.”

“A piece of history.” Sult tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table top. “And how does it help us?” How does it help you, you mean?

“According to this, it was our friend Bayaz who sealed up the House of the Maker.” Glokta nodded towards the looming shape beyond the window. “Sealed it up… and took the key.”

“Key? That tower has always been sealed. Always. As far as I am aware there is not even a keyhole.”

“Those were precisely my thoughts, your Eminence.”

“Hmm.” Slowly, Sult began to smile. “Stories are all in how you tell them, eh? Our friend Bayaz knows that well enough, I dare say. He would use our own stories against us, but now we switch cups with him. I enjoy the irony.” He picked up the scroll again. “Is it authentic?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” Sult rose gracefully from his chair and paced slowly over to the window, tapping the rolled-up scroll against his fingers. He stood there for some time, staring out. When he turned, he had developed a look of the deepest self-satisfaction.

“It occurs to me that there will be a feast tomorrow evening, a celebration for our new champion swordsman, Captain Luthar.” That cheating little worm. “The great and the good will be in attendance: the Queen, both Princes, most of the Closed Council, several leading noblemen.” Not forgetting the King himself. It has come to something when his presence at dinner is not even worth mentioning. “That would be the ideal audience for our little unmasking, don’t you think?”

Glokta cautiously bowed his head. “Of course, Arch Lector. The ideal audience.” Providing it works. It might be an embarrassing audience to fail in front of.

But Sult was already anticipating his triumph. “The perfect gathering, and just enough time to make the necessary arrangements. Send a messenger to our friend the First of the Magi, and let him know that he and his companions are cordially invited to a dinner tomorrow evening. I trust that you will attend yourself?”

Me? Glokta bowed again. “I would not miss it for anything, your Eminence.”

“Good. Bring your Practicals with you. Our friends might become violent when they realise the game is up. Barbarians of this sort, who can tell what they might be capable of?” A barely perceptible motion of the Arch Lector’s gloved hand indicated that the interview was finished. All those stairs, just for this?

Sult was looking down his nose at the scroll as Glokta finally reached the threshold. “The ideal audience,” he was muttering, as the heavy doors clicked shut.

In the North, a chieftain’s own Carls ate with him every night in his hall. The women brought the food in wooden bowls. You’d stab the lumps of meat out with a knife and with a knife you’d cut them up, then you’d stuff the bits in your mouth with your fingers. If you found some bone or gristle you’d toss it down on the straw for the dogs. The table, if there was one, was a few slabs of ill-fitting wood, stained and gouged and scarred from having knives stuck in it. The Carls sat on long benches, with maybe a chair or two for the Named Men. It’d be dark, especially in the long winters, and smoky from the fire-pit and the chagga pipes. There’d often be singing of songs, usually shouting of good-natured insults, sometimes screaming of bad-natured ones, and always a lot of drink. The only rule was that you waited for the chief to begin.

Logen had no idea what the rules might be here, but he guessed there were a lot.

The guests were sat round three long tables set out in a horseshoe, sixty people or more. Everyone had their own chair, and the dark wood of the table tops was polished to a high sheen, made bright enough for Logen to see the blurry outline of his face in by hundreds of candles scattered round the walls and down the tables. Every guest had at least three blunt knives, and several other things scattered about in front of them that Logen had no idea of the use for, including a big flat circle of shiny metal.

There was no shouting and certainly no singing, just a low murmur like a beehive as people muttered between themselves, leaning towards each other as if they were swapping secrets. The clothes were stranger than ever. Old men wore heavy robes of black, red and gold, trimmed with shining fur, even in the heat.