The Blade Itself

“I am so glad you enjoyed our little diversion,” he said, smiling smoothly round at the appreciative gathering. “I do not doubt that many of you have seen this piece before, but it has a special significance this evening. Captain Luthar is not the only celebrated figure in our midst, there is a second guest of honour here tonight. None other than the subject of our play—Bayaz himself, the First of the Magi!” Sult smiled and held out his arm towards the old fake on the other side of the room. There was a gentle rustling as every guest turned from the Arch Lector to look at him.

Bayaz smiled back. “Good evening,” he said. A few of the worthies laughed, suspecting some further little game perhaps, but Sult did not laugh with them and their merriment was short lived. An uneasy silence descended on the hall. A deadly silence, perhaps.

“The First of the Magi. He has been with us in the Agriont now for several weeks. He and a few… companions.” Sult glanced down his nose at the scarred Northman, and then back to the self-styled Magus. “Bayaz.” He rolled the word around his mouth, allowing it to sink into his listeners’ ears. “The first letter in the alphabet of the old tongue. First apprentice of Juvens, first letter of the alphabet, is that not so, Master Bayaz?”

“Why, Arch Lector,” asked the old man, still smirking, “have you been checking up on me?” Impressive. Even now, when he must sense the game will soon be over, he sticks to his role.

Sult was unmoved however. “It is my duty thoroughly to investigate anyone who might pose a threat to my King or country,” he intoned stiffly.

“How fearsomely patriotic of you. Your investigations no doubt revealed that I am still a member of the Closed Council, even if my chair stands empty for the time being. I believe Lord Bayaz would be the proper term of address.”

Sult’s cold smile did not slip even a hair’s breath. “And when exactly was your last visit, Lord Bayaz? It would seem that someone so deeply involved in our history would have taken more of an interest over the years. Why, if I may ask, in the centuries since the birth of the Union, since the time of Harod the Great, have you not been back to visit us?” A good question. I wish it had occurred to me.

“Oh, but I have been. During the reign of King Morlic the Mad, and in the civil war which followed, I was tutor to a young man called Arnault. Later, when Morlic was murdered and Arnault was raised to the throne by the Open Council, I served as his Lord Chamberlain. I called myself Bialoveld in those days. I visited again in King Casamir’s reign. He called me Zoller, and I had your job, Arch Lector.”

Glokta could barely contain a gasp of indignation, and heard others from the chairs around him. He has no shame, I’ll give him that. Bialoveld, and Zoller, two of the Unions most respected servants. How dare he? And yet… He pictured the painting of Zoller in the Arch Lectors study, and the statue of Bialoveld in the Kingsway. Both bald, both stern, both bearded… but what am I thinking? Major West is thinning out on top. Does that make him a legendary wizard? Most likely this charlatan merely picked the two baldest figures he could find.

Sult, meanwhile, was trying a different tack. “Tell me this, then, Bayaz: it is a story well known that Harod himself doubted you when you first came to his hall, all those long years ago. As proof of your power, you broke his long table in two. It may be that there are some sceptics among us here tonight. Would you consider such a demonstration for us, now?”

The colder Sult’s tone became, the less the old fraud seemed to care. He dismissed this latest effort with a lazy wave of his hand. “What you speak of is not juggling, Arch Lector, or playing on the stage. There are always dangers, and costs. Besides, it would be a great shame to spoil Captain Luthar’s feast simply so I could show off, don’t you think? Not to mention the waste of a fine old piece of furniture. I, unlike so many others these days, have a healthy respect for the past.”