The Blade Itself Read online

The Under-Secretary stared back, spectacles askew. ‘Now!’ roared Hoff. Morrow leapt to his feet, stumbled on the hem of his gown, then hurried out through a side door. West swallowed, his mouth very dry.

  Hoff stared long and hard at each man in the room. ‘As for the rest of you, not a word to anyone about any of this, or the consequences for all of you will be most severe! Now out, everyone out!’ The soldiers clanked from the room immediately. West needed no further encouragement and he hurried after them, leaving the brooding Lord Chamberlain alone in his high chair.

  West’s thoughts were dark and confused as he pulled the door shut behind him. Fragments of old stories of the Magi, fears about war in the North, images of a hooded giant, towering up near the ceiling. There had been some strange and some sinister visitors to the Agriont that day, and he felt quite weighed down by worries. He tried to shrug them off, told himself it was all foolishness, but then all he could think of was his sister, cavorting about the Agriont like a fool.

  He groaned to himself. She was probably with Luthar right now. Why the hell had he introduced the two of them? For some reason he had been expecting the same awkward, sickly, sharp-tongued girl he remembered from years ago. He had got quite a shock when this woman had turned up at his quarters. He had barely recognised her. Undoubtedly a woman, and a fine-looking one too. Meanwhile, Luthar was arrogant and rich and handsome and had all the self-restraint of a six-year old. He knew they had seen each other since, and more than once. Just as friends, of course. Ardee had no other friends here. Just friends.

  ‘Shit!’ he cursed. It was like putting a cat by the cream and trusting it not to stick its tongue in. Why the hell hadn’t he thought it through? It was a damn disaster in the making! But what could he do about it now? He stared off miserably down the hallway.

  There’s nothing like seeing another’s misery to make you forget your own, and Goodman Heath was a sorry sight indeed. He was sitting alone on a long bench, face deathly pale, staring off into space. He must have been sitting there all this time, while the Mercers and the Northmen and the Magus came and went, waiting for nothing but with nowhere left to go. West glanced up and down the hallway. There was no one else nearby. Heath was oblivious to him, mouth open, eyes glassy, battered hat forgotten on his knees.

  West couldn’t simply leave the man like this, he didn’t have it in him.

  ‘Goodman Heath,’ he said as he approached, and the peasant looked up at him, surprised. He fumbled for his hat and made to rise, muttering apologies.

  ‘No, please, don’t get up.’ West sat down on the bench. He stared at his feet, unable to look the man in the eye. There was an awkward silence. ‘I have a friend who sits on the Commission for Land and Agriculture. There might be something he can do for you . . .’ He trailed off, embarrassed, squinting up the corridor.

  The farmer gave a sad smile. ‘I’d be right grateful for anything you could do.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, I’ll do what I can.’ It would do no good whatsoever, and they both knew it. West grimaced and bit his lip. ‘You’d better take this,’ and he pressed his purse into the peasant’s limp, calloused fingers. Heath looked at him, mouth slightly open. West gave a quick, awkward smile then got to his feet. He was very keen to be off.

  ‘Sir!’ called Goodman Heath after him, but West was already hurrying down the corridor, and he didn’t look back.

  On the List

  Why do I do this?

  The outline of Villem dan Robb’s townhouse was cut out in black against the clear night sky. It was an unremarkable building, a two-storey-dwelling with a low wall and a gate in front, just like a hundred others in this street. Our old friend Rews used to live in a palatial great villa near the market. Robb really should have asked him for some more ambitious bribes. Still. Lucky for us he didn’t. Elsewhere in the city the fashionable avenues would be brightly lit and busy with drunken revellers right through until dawn. But this secluded side street was far from the bright lights and the prying eyes.

  We can work undisturbed.

  Round the side of the building, on the upper floor, a lamp was burning in a narrow window. Good. Our friend is at home. But still awake—we must tread gently. He turned to Practical Frost and pointed down the side of the house. The albino nodded and slipped away silently across the street.

  Glokta waited for him to reach the wall and disappear into the shadows beside the building, then he turned to Severard and pointed at the front door. The eyes of the lanky Practical smiled at him for a moment, then he scuttled quickly away, staying low, rolled over the low wall and dropped without a sound onto the other side.

  Perfect so far, but now I must move. Glokta wondered why he had come. Frost and Severard were more than capable of dealing with Robb by themselves, and he would only slow them down. I might even fall on my arse and alert the idiot to our presence. So why did I come? But Glokta knew why. The feeling of excitement was already building in his throat. It felt almost like being alive.

  He had muffled the end of his cane with a bit of rag, so he was able to limp to the wall, ever so delicately, without making too much noise. By that time Severard had swung the gate open, holding the hinge with one gloved hand so that it didn’t make a noise. Nice and neat. That little wall might as well be a hundred feet high for all my chances of getting over it.

  Severard was kneeling on the step against the front door, picking the lock. His ear was close to the wood, his eyes squinting with concentration, gloved hands moving deftly. Glokta’s heart was beating fast, his skin prickly with tension. Ah, the thrill of the hunt.

  There was a soft click, then another. Severard slipped his glittering picks into a pocket, then reached out and slowly, carefully turned the doorknob. The door swung silently open. What a useful fellow he is. Without him and Frost I am just a cripple. They are my hands, my arms, my legs. But I am their brains. Severard slipped inside and Glokta followed him, wincing with pain every time he put his weight on his left leg.

  The hallway was dark, but there was a shaft of light spilling down the stairs from above and the banisters cast strange, distorted shadows on the wooden floor. Glokta pointed up the steps, and Severard nodded and began to tiptoe toward them, keeping his feet close to the wall. It seemed to take him an age to get there.

  The third step made a quiet creaking sound as he put his weight on it. Glokta winced, Severard froze in place. They waited, still as statues. There was no sound from upstairs. Glokta began to breathe again. Severard moved ever so slowly upwards, step by gentle step. As he got towards the top he peered cautiously round the corner, back pressed against the wall, then he took the last step and disappeared from view without a sound.

  Practical Frost emerged from the shadows at the far end of the corridor. Glokta raised an eyebrow at him but he shook his head. Nobody downstairs. He turned to the front door and started to close it, ever so gently. Only when it was shut did he slowly, slowly release the doorknob, so the latch slid silently into place.

  ‘You’ll want to see this.’

  Glokta gave a start at the sudden sound, turning round quickly and causing a jolt of pain to shoot through his back. Severard was standing, hands on hips, at the head of the stairs. He turned and made off towards the light, and Frost bounded up the steps after him, no longer making any pretence at stealth.

  Why can no one ever stay on the ground floor? Always upstairs. At least he didn’t have to try to be quiet as he struggled up the steps after his Practicals, right foot creaking, left foot scraping on the boards. Bright lamplight was flooding out into the upstairs corridor from an open door at the far end, and Glokta limped toward it. He paused as he crossed the threshold, catching his breath after the climb.

  Oh dear me, what a mess. A big bookcase had been torn away from the wall, and books were scattered, open and closed, all about the floor. A glass of wine had been knocked over on the desk, making sodden red rags of the crumpled papers strewn across it. The bed was in disarray, the covers pulled half off, the pill
ows and the mattress slashed and spilling feathers. A wardrobe had its doors open, one of them dangling half off. A few tattered garments were hanging inside, but most were lying torn in a heap below.

  A handsome young man lay on his back under the window, staring up, pale-faced and open mouthed at the ceiling. It would have been an understatement to say that his throat had been cut. It had been hacked so savagely that his head was only just still attached. There was blood splattered everywhere, on the torn clothes, on the slashed mattress, all over the body itself. There were a couple of smeared, bloody palm-prints on the wall, a great pool of blood across a good part of the floor, still wet. He was killed tonight. Perhaps only a few hours ago. Perhaps only a few minutes.

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be answering our questions,’ said Severard.

  ‘No.’ Glokta’s eyes drifted over the wreckage. ‘I think he might be dead. But how did it happen?’

  Frost fixed him with a pink eye and raised a white eyebrow. ‘Poithon?’

  Severard spluttered with shrill laughter under his mask. Even Glokta allowed himself a chuckle. ‘Clearly. But how did our poison get in?’

  ‘Open wi’ow,’ mumbled Frost, pointing at the floor.

  Glokta limped into the room, careful not to let his feet or his cane touch the sticky mess of blood and feathers. ‘So, our poison saw the lamp burning, just as we did. He entered via the downstairs window. He climbed silently up the stairs.’ Glokta turned the corpse’s hands over with the tip of his cane. A few specks of blood from the neck, but no damage to the knuckles or the fingers. He did not struggle. He was taken by surprise. He craned forward and peered at the gaping wound.

  ‘A single, powerful cut. Probably with a knife.’

  ‘And Villem dan Robb has sprung a most serious leak,’ said Severard.

  ‘And we are short one informant,’ mused Glokta. There had been no blood in the corridor. Our man took pains not to get his feet wet while searching the room, however messy it may look. He was not angry or afraid. It was just a job.

  ‘The killer was a professional,’ murmured Glokta, ‘he came here with murder in mind. Then perhaps he made this little effort to give the appearance of a burglary, who can say? Either way, the Arch Lector won’t be satisfied with a corpse.’ He looked up at his two Practicals. ‘Who’s next on the list?’

  This time there had been a struggle, without a doubt. If a one-sided one. Solimo Scandi was sprawled on his side, facing the wall, as though embarrassed by the state of his slashed and tattered nightshirt. There were deep cuts in his forearms. Where he struggled vainly to ward off the blade. He had crawled across the floor, leaving a bloody trail across the highly polished wood. Where he struggled vainly to get away. He had failed. The four gaping knife wounds in his back had been the end of him.

  Glokta felt his face twitching as he looked down at the bloody corpse. One body might just be a coincidence. Two make a conspiracy. His eyelid fluttered. Whoever did this knew we were coming, and when, and precisely who for. They are one step ahead of us. More than likely, our list of accomplices has already become a list of corpses. There was a creaking sound behind Glokta and his head whipped round, sending shooting pains down his stiff neck. Nothing but the open window swinging in the breeze. Calm, now. Calm, and think it out.

  ‘It would seem the honourable Guild of Mercers have been doing a little housekeeping.’

  ‘How could they know?’ muttered Severard.

  How indeed? ‘They must have seen Rews’ list, or been told who was on it.’ And that means . . . Glokta licked at his empty gums. ‘Someone inside the Inquisition has been talking.’

  For once, Severard’s eyes were not smiling. ‘If they know who’s on the list, they know who wrote it. They know who we are.’

  Three more names on the list, perhaps? Down at the bottom? Glokta grinned. How very exciting. ‘You scared?’

  ‘I’m not happy, I’ll tell you that.’ He nodded down at the corpse. ‘A knife in the back isn’t part of my plan.’

  ‘Nor mine, Severard, believe me.’ No indeed. If I die, I’ll never know who betrayed us.

  And I want to know.

  A bright, cloudless spring day, and the park was busy with fops and idlers of every variety. Glokta sat very still on his bench, in the merciful shade of a spreading tree, and stared out at the shimmering greenery, the sparkling water, the happy, the drunken, the colourful revellers. There were people wedged together on the benches around the lake, pairs and groups scattered around the grass, drinking and talking and basking in the sun. There seemed no space for any more.

  But no one came and sat next to Glokta. Occasionally somebody would hurry up, hardly able to believe their luck in finding such a spot, then they would see him sitting there. Their faces would fall and they would swerve away, or walk right past as though they had never meant to sit. I drive them away as surely as the plague, but perhaps that’s just as well. I don’t need their company.

  He watched a group of young soldiers rowing a boat on the lake. One of them stood up, wobbling around, holding forth with a bottle in his hand. The boat rocked alarmingly, and his companions shouted at him to get down. Vague gales of good-natured laughter came wafting through the air, delayed a little by the distance. Children. How young they look. How innocent. And such was I, not long ago. It seems a thousand years, though. Longer. It seems a different world.

  ‘Glokta.’

  He looked up, shading his eyes with his hand. It was Arch Lector Sult, arrived at last, a tall dark shape against the blue sky. Glokta thought he looked a little more tired, more lined, more drawn than usual as he stared coldly down.

  ‘This had better be interesting.’ Sult flicked out the tails of his long white coat and lowered himself gracefully onto the bench. ‘The commoners are up in arms again near Keln. Some idiot of a landowner hangs a few peasants and now we have a mess to deal with! How hard can it be to manage a field full of dirt and a couple of farmers? You don’t have to treat them well, just as long as you don’t hang them!’ His mouth was a straight, hard line as he glared out across the lawns. ‘This had better be damned interesting.’

  Then I’ll try not to disappoint you. ‘Villem dan Robb is dead.’ As though to add emphasis to Glokta’s statement, the drunken soldier slipped and toppled over the side of the boat, splashing into the water. His friends’ screams of laughter reached Glokta a moment later. ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘Huh. It happens. Pick up the next man on the list.’ Sult got to his feet, frowning. ‘I didn’t think you’d need my approval for every little thing. That’s why I picked you for this job. Just get on with it!’ he snapped as he turned away.

  There’s no need to rush, Arch Lector. That’s the trouble with good legs, you tend to run around too much. If you have trouble moving, on the other hand, you don’t move until you damn well know it’s time. ‘The next man on the list also suffered a mishap.’

  Sult turned back, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘He did?’

  ‘They all did.’

  The Arch Lector pursed his lips, sat back down on the bench. ‘All of them?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Sult. ‘That is interesting. The Mercers are cleaning up, are they? I hardly expected such ruthlessness. Times have changed, alright, times have certainly . . .’ He trailed off, slowly starting to frown. ‘You think someone gave them Rews’ list, don’t you? You think one of ours has been talking. That’s why you asked me to come here, isn’t it?’

  Did you think I was just avoiding the stairs? ‘Each one of them killed? Each and every name on our list? The very night we go to arrest them? I am not a great believer in coincidences.’ Are you, Arch Lector?

  He was evidently not. His face had turned very grim. ‘Who saw the confession?’

  ‘Me, and my two Practicals, of course.’

  ‘You have absolute confidence in them?’

  ‘Absolute.’ There was a pause. The boat was drifting, rudderless, as the soldiers scrambled abo
ut, oars sticking up in the air, the man in the water splashing and laughing, spraying water over his friends.

  ‘The confession was in my office for some time,’ murmured the Arch Lector. ‘Some members of my staff could have seen it. Could have.’

  ‘You have absolute confidence in them, your Eminence?’

  Sult stared at Glokta for a long, icy moment. ‘They wouldn’t dare. They know me better than that.’

  ‘That leaves Superior Kalyne,’ said Glokta quietly.

  The Arch Lector’s lips hardly moved as he spoke. ‘You must tread carefully, Inquisitor, very carefully. The ground is not at all safe where you are walking. Fools do not become Superiors of the Inquisition, despite appearances. Kalyne has many friends, both within the House of Questions and outside it. Powerful friends. Any accusation against him must be backed up by the very strongest of proof.’ Sult stopped suddenly, waiting for a small group of ladies to pass out of earshot. ‘The very strongest of proof,’ he hissed, once they had moved away. ‘You must find me this assassin.’

  Easier said than done. ‘Of course, your Eminence, but my investigation has reached something of a dead end.’

  ‘Not quite. We still have one card left to play. Rews himself.’

  Rews? ‘But, Arch Lector, he will be in Angland by now.’ Sweating down a mine or some such. If he has even lasted this long.

  ‘No. He is here in the Agriont, under lock and key. I thought it best to hold on to him.’ Glokta did his utmost to contain his surprise. Clever. Very clever. Fools do not become Arch Lectors either, it seems. ‘Rews will be your bait. I will have my secretary carry a message to Kalyne, letting him know that I have relented. That I am prepared to let the Mercers continue to operate, but under tighter control. That as a gesture of goodwill I have let Rews go. If Kalyne is the source of our leak, I daresay he will let the Mercers know that Rews is free. I daresay they will send this assassin to punish him for his loose tongue. I daresay you could take him while he is trying. If the killer doesn’t come, well, we might have to look for our traitor elsewhere, and we have lost nothing.’