The Blade Itself

The Arch Lector nodded as he waited for the noise to fade. “Indeed they have,” he said, pacing across the tiles like a dancer, his words scratching their way across the pages of the books. “I would be the last to deny it. A fine job.” He spun suddenly around, the tails of his white coat snapping, his face twisted into a brutal snarl. “A fine job of dodging the Kings taxes!” he screamed. There was a collective gasp.

“A fine job of slighting the King’s law!” Another gasp, louder. “A fine job of high treason!” There was a storm of protest, of fists shaken in the air and papers thrown to the floor. Livid faces stared down from the public gallery, florid ones ranted and bellowed from the benches before the high table. Jezal stared about him, unsure if he could have heard correctly.

“How dare you, Sult!” Lord Brock roared at the Arch Lector as he swished back up the steps of the dais, a faint smile clinging to his lips.

“We demand proof!” bellowed Lord Heugen. “We demand justice!”

“The King’s Justice!” came cries from the back.

“You must supply us with proof!” shouted Isher, as the noise began to fade.

The Arch Lector twitched out his white gown, the fine material billowing around him as he swung himself smoothly back into his chair. “Oh but that is our intention, Lord Isher!”

The heavy bolt of a small side door was flung back with an echoing bang. There was a rustling as Lords and proxies twisted round, stood up, squinted over to see what was happening. People in the public gallery peered out over the parapet, leaning dangerously far in their eagerness to see. The hall fell quiet. Jezal swallowed. There was a scraping, tapping, clinking sound beyond the doorway, then a strange and sinister procession emerged from the darkness.

Sand dan Glokta came first, limping as always and leaning heavily on his cane, but with his head held high and a twisted, toothless grin on his hollow face. Three men shuffled behind him, chained together by their hands and bare feet, clinking and rattling their way towards the high table. Their heads were shaved bare and they were dressed in brown sackcloth. The clothing of the penitent. Confessed traitors.

The first of the prisoners was licking his lips, eyes darting here and there, pale with terror. The second, shorter and thicker-set, was stumbling, dragging his left leg behind him, hunched over with his mouth hanging open. As Jezal watched, a thin line of pink drool dangled from his lip and spattered on the tiles. The third man, painfully thin and with huge dark rings round his eyes, stared slowly around, blinking, eyes wide but apparently taking nothing in. Jezal recognised the man behind the three prisoners straight away: the big albino from that night in the street. Jezal rocked his weight from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly cold and uncomfortable.

The purpose of the bench was now made clear. The three prisoners slumped down on it, the albino knelt and snapped their manacles shut around the rail along its base. The chamber was entirely silent. Every eye was fixed on the crippled Inquisitor, and his three prisoners.

“Our investigation began some months ago,” said Arch Lector Sult, immensely smug at having the assembly so completely under his control. “A simple matter of some irregular accounting, I won’t bore you with the details.” He smiled at Brock, at Isher, at Barezin. “I know you all are very busy men. Who could have thought then, that such a little matter would lead us here? Who would suppose that the roots of treason could run so very deep?”

“Indeed,” said the Lord Chamberlain impatiently, looking up from his goblet. “Inquisitor Glokta, the floor is yours.”

The Announcer struck his staff on the tiles. “The Open Council of the Union recognises Sand dan Glokta, Inquisitor Exempt!”

The cripple waited politely for the scratching of the clerk’s quills to finish, leaning on his cane in the centre of the floor, seemingly unmoved by the importance of the occasion. “Rise and face the Open Council,” he said, turning to the first of his prisoners.

The terrified man sprang up, his chains rattling, licking his pale lips, goggling at the faces of the Lords in the front row. “Your name?” demanded Glokta.

“Salem Rews.”

Jezal felt a catch in his throat. Salem Rews? He knew the man! His father had had dealings with him in the past, at one time he had been a regular visitor to their estate! Jezal studied the terrified, shaven-headed traitor with increasing horror. He cast his mind back to the plump, well-dressed merchant, always ready with a joke. It was him, no doubt. Their eyes met for an instant and Jezal looked anxiously away. His father had talked with that man in their hallway! Had shaken hands with him! Accusations of treason are like illnesses—you can catch them just by being in the same room! His eyes were drawn inevitably back to that unfamiliar, yet horribly familiar face. How dare he be a traitor, the bastard?