The Blade Itself

Some were smiling uncertainly as they watched the two old men fencing with each other, perhaps still suspecting an elaborate joke. Others knew better and were frowning hard, trying to work out what was going on, and who had the upper hand. High Justice Marovia, Glokta noticed, looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Almost as if he knows something we don’t. Glokta shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes fixed on the bald actor. Things are not going as well as they should be. When will he begin to sweat? When?

Someone placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of Logen. No doubt it was meant to be eaten, but now his appetite was gone. Logen might be no courtier, but he could spot folk working up to violence when he saw them. With each exchange between the two old men their smiles slipped further, their voices became harder, the hall seemed to grow closer and more oppressive. Everyone in the room was looking worried now—West, the proud lad who’d won that sword game because of Bayaz’ cheating, the feverish cripple who’d asked all the questions…

Logen felt the hairs on his neck rising. There were two figures lurking in the nearest doorway. Black-clothed figures, black-masked. His eyes flicked across to the other entrances. Each held two of those masked figures, two at least, and he didn’t reckon they were here to collect the plates.

They were here for him. For him and Bayaz, he could feel it. A man doesn’t put on a mask unless he’s got some dark work in mind. There was no way that he could deal with half that many, but he slid a knife from beside his plate and hid it behind his arm anyway. If they tried to take him, he’d fight. That didn’t need thinking about.

Bayaz was starting to sound angry. “I have supplied you with all the proofs you’ve asked for, Arch Lector!”

“Proofs!” The tall man they called Sult gave a cold sneer. “You deal in words and dusty papers! More the business of a snivelling clerk than the stuff of legend! Some would say that a Magus without magic is simply a meddling old man! We are at war, and can take no chances! You mentioned Arch Lector Zoller. His diligence in the cause of truth is well documented. You, I am sure, must understand mine.” He leaned forward, planting his fists firmly on the table before him. “Show us magic, Bayaz, or show us the key!”

Logen swallowed. He didn’t like the way that things were going, but then he didn’t understand the rules of this game. He had put his trust in Bayaz, for some reason, and there it would have to stay. It was a little late to be changing sides.

“Have you nothing left to say?” demanded Sult. He slowly lowered himself into his chair, smiling once more. His eyes slid over to the archways and Logen felt the masked figures moving forward, straining to be released. “Have you no more words? Have you no more tricks?”

“Only one.” Bayaz reached into his collar. He took hold of something there, and drew it out—a long, thin chain. One of the black-masked figures stepped forward a pace, expecting a weapon, and Logen’s hand gripped tighter on the handle of the knife, but when the chain came all the way out there was only a rod of dark metal dangling on the end of it.

“The key,” said Bayaz, holding it up to the candlelight. It barely shone at all. “Less lustre than the one in your play, perhaps, but the real thing, I assure you. Kanedias never worked with gold. He did not like pretty things. He liked things that worked.”

The Arch Lector’s lip curled. “Do you simply expect us to take your word for it?”

“Of course not. It is your job to be suspicious of everyone, and I must say you do it exceptionally well. It does grow rather late however, so I will wait until tomorrow morning to open the House of the Maker.” Someone dropped a spoon on the floor, and it clattered against the tiles. “There will need to be some witnesses present, of course, to make sure that I don’t try any sleight of hand. How about…” Bayaz’ cool green eyes swept down the table. “Inquisitor Glokta, and… your new fencing champion, Captain Luthar?”

The cripple frowned as he was named. Luthar looked utterly bewildered. The Arch Lector sat, his scorn swapped for a stony blankness. He gazed from Bayaz’ smiling face to that gently swinging rod of dark metal, then back again. His eyes moved over to one of the doorways, and he give a tiny shake of his head. The dark figures faded back into the shadows. Logen unclenched his aching teeth, then quietly slipped the knife back on to the table.

Bayaz grinned. “Dear me, Master Sult, you really are a hard man to please.”

“I believe your Eminence is the proper term of address,” hissed the Arch Lector.