The Blade Itself

Now footsteps came from the opposite direction, hurried footsteps. Two more men appeared, walking quickly down the street. One, a very tall, thin fellow in an expensive-looking fur coat was glancing suspiciously around him. That must be Gofred Hornlach, senior Mercer. Our man. His companion had a sword at his hip, and was struggling with a big wooden trunk over one shoulder. Servant, or bodyguard, or both. He is of no interest. Glokta felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as they neared the bridge. Hornlach exchanged a few quick words with one of the sailors, a man with a big brown beard.

“Ready?” he whispered to Frost. The Practical nodded.

“Hold!” shouted Glokta at the top of his voice, “in the name of his Majesty!” Hornlach’s servant spun round, dropping the trunk onto the bridge with a bang, hand moving toward his sword. There was a soft twang from the shadows on the other side of the road. The servant looked surprised, gave a snort, then toppled onto his face. Practical Frost strode swiftly out of the shadows, feet padding on the road.

Hornlach stared down, wide-eyed, at the corpse of his bodyguard, then across at the hulking albino. He turned to the sailors. “Help me!” he cried. “Stop him!”

Their leader smiled back. “I don’t think so.” His two companions moved without hurry to block the bridge. The Mercer stumbled away, took a faltering step toward the shadows by the canal on the other side. Severard appeared from a doorway before him, flatbow rested across his shoulder. Replace the bow with a bunch of flowers and he’d look as if he was on his way to a wedding. You’d never think that he just killed a man.

Surrounded, Hornlach could only look around dumbly, eyes wide with fear and surprise, as the two Practicals approached, Glokta limping up behind them. “But I paid you!” Hornlach shouted desperately at the sailors.

“You paid me for a berth,” said their Captain. “Loyalty is extra.”

Practical Frost’s big white hand slapped down on the merchant’s shoulder, forced him onto his knees. Severard strolled over to the bodyguard, wedged the dirty toe of his boot under the body and rolled it over. The corpse stared up at the night sky, eyes glassy, the feathers of the flatbow bolt sticking out from his neck. The blood round his mouth looked black in the moonlight.

“Dead,” grunted Severard, most unnecessarily.

“A bolt through the neck will do that,” said Glokta. “Clean him up, would you?”

“Right you are.” Severard grabbed the bodyguard’s feet and hauled them over the parapet of the bridge, then he took him under the armpits and heaved the body straight over the side with a grunt. So smooth, so clean, so practised. You can tell he’s done it before. There was a splash as the corpse hit the slimy water below. Frost had Hornlach’s hands tied firmly behind him now, and the bag on. The prisoner squawked through the canvas as he was dragged to his feet. Glokta himself shuffled over to the three sailors, his legs numb after all that time spent standing still in the alley.

“And here we are,” he said, pulling a heavy purse from his inside coat pocket. He held it swinging just above the Captain’s waiting palm. “Tell me, what happened tonight?”

The old sailor smiled, weathered face crinkling up like boot leather. “My cargo was spoiling and we had to be away on the first tide, I told him that. We waited and waited, half the night down by that stinking canal, but would you believe it? The bastard never showed.”

“Very good. That’s the story I’d tell in Westport, if anyone should ask.”

The Captain looked hurt. “That’s how it happened, Inquisitor. What other story could there be?”

Glokta let the purse drop and the money jingled inside. “With the compliments of his Majesty.”

The Captain weighed the purse in his hand. “Always pleased to do his Majesty a favour!” And he and his two companions turned, all yellow smiles, and made off toward the quay.

“Right then,” said Glokta, “let’s get on with it.”

“Where are my clothes?” shouted Hornlach, wriggling in his chair.

“I do apologise for that. I know it’s quite uncomfortable, but clothes can hide things. Leave a man his clothes and you leave him pride, and dignity, and all kinds of things it’s better not to have in here. I never question a prisoner with their clothes on. Do you remember Salem Rews?”

“Who?”

“Salem Rews. One of your people. A Mercer. We caught him dodging the King’s taxes. He made a confession, named a few people. I wanted to talk to them, but they all died.”

The merchants eyes flickered left and right. Thinking about his options, trying to guess what we might know. “People die all the time.”