The Blade Itself

Glokta stared at the painted corpse of Juvens behind his prisoner, bleeding bright red paint all over the wall. People die all the time. “Of course, but not quite so violently. I have a notion that someone wanted them dead, that someone ordered them dead. I have a notion it was you.”

“You’ve got no proof! No proof! You won’t get away with this!”

“Proof means nothing, Hornlach, but I’ll indulge you. Rews survived. He’s just down the hall, as it goes, no friends left, blubbering away, naming every Mercer he can think of, or that we can think of, for that matter.” Narrowed eyes, but no reply. “We used him to catch Carpi.”

“Carpi?” asked the merchant, trying to look nonchalant.

“Surely you remember your assassin? Slightly flabby Styrian? Acne scars? Swears a lot? We have him too. He told us the whole story. How you hired him, how much you paid him, what you asked him to do. The whole story.” Glokta smiled. “He has an excellent memory, for a killer, very detailed.”

The fear was showing now, just a trace of it, but Hornlach rallied well. “This is an affront to my Guild!” he shouted, with as much authority as he could muster, naked and tied to a chair. “My master, Coster dan Kault, will never allow this, and he’s a close friend of Superior Kalyne!”

“Shit on Kalyne, he’s finished. Besides, Kault thinks you’re tucked up safe aboard that ship, bound for Westport and far beyond our reach. I don’t think you’ll be missed for several weeks.” The merchant’s face had gone slack. “A great deal could happen in that time… a very great deal.”

Hornlach’s tongue darted over his lips. He glanced furtively up at Frost and Severard, leaned slightly forward. So. Now comes the bargaining. “Inquisitor,” he said in a wheedling tone, “if I’ve learned one thing from life, it’s that every man wants something. Every man has his price, yes? And we have deep pockets. You have only to name it. Only name it! What do you want?”

“What do I want?” asked Glokta, leaning in to a more conspiratorial distance.

“Yes. What’s this all about? What do you want?” Hornlach was smiling now, a coy, clever little smile. How quaint, but you won’t buy your way out of this.

“I want my teeth back.”

The merchant’s smile began to fade.

“I want my leg back.”

Hornlach swallowed.

“I want my life back.”

The prisoner had turned very pale.

“No? Then perhaps I’ll settle for your head on a stick. You’ve nothing else I want, no matter how deep your pockets are.” Hornlach was trembling slightly now. No more bluster? No more deals? Then we can begin. Glokta picked up the paper in front of him, and read the first question. “What is your name?”

“Look, Inquisitor, I…” Frost smashed the table with his fist and Hornlach cowered in his chair.

“Answer his fucking question!” screamed Severard in his face.

“Gofred Hornlach,” squealed the merchant.

Glokta nodded. “Good. You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes, yes!”

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“You know I am!”

“Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to wilfully murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects? Were you ordered so to do by Magister Coster dan Kault, the head of the Guild of Mercers?”

“No!” shouted Hornlach, voice squeaky with panic. That is not the answer we need. Glokta glanced up at Practical Frost. The big white fist sank into the merchants gut, and he gave a gentle sigh and slid sideways.

“My mother keeps dogs, you know,” said Glokta.

“Dogs,” hissed Severard in the gasping merchant’s ear, as he shoved him back into the chair.

“She loves them. Trains them to do all manner of tricks.” Glokta pursed his lips. “Do you know how dogs are trained?”

Hornlach was still winded, lolling in his chair with watering eyes, some way from being able to speak. Still at that stage of a fish pulled suddenly from the water. Mouth opening and closing, but no sound.

“Repetition,” said Glokta. “Repeat, repeat, repeat. You must have that dog perform his tricks one hundred times the same, and then you must do it all again. It’s all about repetition. And if you want that dog to bark on cue, you mustn’t be shy with the whip. You’re going to bark for me, Hornlach, in front of the Open Council.”

“You’re mad,” cried the Mercer, staring around at them, “you’re all mad!”

Glokta flashed his empty smile. “If you like. If it helps.” He glanced back at the paper in his hand. “What is your name?”

The prisoner swallowed. “Gofred Hornlach.”

“You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes.”

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“Yes!”