His grotesque, toeless left leg twitched to itself, still beyond his control. He glared down at it with a burning hatred. Fucking horrible thing. Revolting, useless lump of flesh. Why didn’t they just cut you off? Why don’t I still? But he knew why not. With his leg still on he could at least pretend to be half a man. He punched his withered thigh, then immediately regretted it. Stupid, stupid. The pain crept up his back, a little more intense than before, and growing with every second. Come now, come now, let’s not fight. He started to rub gently at the wasted flesh. We are stuck with each other, so why torment me?
“Can you get to the door, sir?” Glokta wrinkled his nose at the smell then took hold of his cane and slowly, agonisingly, pushed himself to his feet. He hobbled across the room, almost slipping halfway there but righting himself with a searing twinge. He turned the key in the lock, leaning against the wall for balance, and hauled the door open.
Barnam was standing on the other side, his arms outstretched, ready to catch him. The ignominy of it. To think that I, Sand dan Glokta, the greatest swordsman the Union has ever seen, must be carried to my bath by an old man so that I can wash my own shit off. They must be laughing loud now, all those fools I beat, if they still remember me. I’d be laughing too, if it didn’t hurt so much. But he let the weight off his left leg and put his arm round Barnam’s shoulders without complaint. What’s the use after all? Might as well make it easy for myself. As easy as it can be.
Glokta took a deep breath. “Go gently, the leg hasn’t woken up yet.” They hopped and stumbled down the corridor, slightly too narrow for both of them together. The bathroom seemed a mile away. Or more. I’d rather walk a hundred miles as I used to be, than to the bathroom as I am. But that’s my bad luck isn’t it? You can’t go back. Not ever.
The steam felt deliciously warm on Glokta’s clammy skin. With Barnam holding him under the arms he slowly lifted his right leg and put it gingerly into the water. Damn it, that’s hot. The old servant helped him get the other leg in, then, taking him under the armpits, lowered him like a child, until he was immersed up to his neck.
“Ahhh.” Glokta cracked a toothless smile. “Hot as the Maker’s forge, Barnam, just the way I like it.” The heat was getting into the leg now, and the pain was subsiding. Not gone. Never gone. But better. A lot better. Glokta began to feel almost as if he could face another day. You have to learn to love the small things in life, like a hot bath. You have to love the small things, when you’ve nothing else.
Practical Frost was waiting for him downstairs in the tiny dining room, his bulk wedged into a low chair against the wall. Glokta sagged into the other chair and caught a whiff from the steaming porridge bowl, wooden spoon sticking up at an angle without even touching the side. His stomach rumbled and his mouth began watering fiercely. All the symptoms, in fact, of extreme nausea.
“Hurray!” shouted Glokta. “Porridge again!” He looked over at the motionless Practical. “Porridge and honey, better than money, everything’s funny, with porridge and honey!”
The pink eyes did not blink.
“It’s a rhyme for children. My mother used to sing it to me. Never actually got me to eat this slop though. But now,” and he dug the spoon in, “I can’t get enough of it.”
Frost stared back at him.
“Healthy,” said Glokta, forcing down a mouthful of sweet mush and spooning up another, “delicious,” choking down some more, “and here’s the real clincher,” he gagged slightly on the next swallow, “no chewing required.” He shoved the mostly full bowl away and tossed the spoon after it. “Mmmmm,” he hummed. “A good breakfast makes for a good day, don’t you find?”
It was like staring at a whitewashed wall, but without all the emotion.
“So the Arch Lector wants me again, does he?”
The albino nodded.
“And what might our illustrious leader desire with the likes of us, do you think?”
A shrug.
“Hmmm.” Glokta licked bits of porridge out of his empty gums. “Does he seem in a good mood, do you know?”
Another shrug.
“Come, come, Practical Frost, don’t tell me everything at once, I can’t take it in.”
Silence. Barnam entered the room and cleared away the bowl. “Do you want anything else, sir?”
“Absolutely. A big half-raw slab of meat and a nice crunchy apple.” He looked over at Practical Frost. “I used to love apples when I was a child.”
How many times have I made that joke? Frost looked back impassively, there was no laughter there. Glokta turned to Barnam, and the old man gave a tired smile.
“Oh well,” sighed Glokta. “A man has to have hope, doesn’t he?”
“Of course sir,” muttered the servant, heading for the door.
Does he?
The Arch Lector’s office was on the top floor of the House of Questions, and it was a long way up. Worse still, the corridors were busy with people. Practicals, clerks, Inquisitors, crawling like ants through a crumbling dung-hill. Whenever he felt their eyes on him Glokta would limp along, smiling, head held high. Whenever he felt himself alone he would pause and gasp, sweat and curse, and rub and slap the tenuous life back into his leg.
Why does it have to be so high? he asked himself as he shuffled up the dim halls and winding stairs of the labyrinthine building. By the time he reached the antechamber he was exhausted and blowing hard, left hand sore on the handle of his cane.
The Arch Lector’s secretary examined him suspiciously from behind a big dark desk that took up half the room. There were some chairs placed opposite for people to get nervous waiting in, and two huge Practicals flanked the great double doors to the office, so still and grim as to appear a part of the furniture.
“Do you have an appointment?” demanded the secretary in a shrill voice. You know who I am, you self-important little shit.
“Of course,” snapped Glokta, “do you think I limped all the way up here to admire your desk?”
The secretary looked down his nose at him. He was a pale, handsome young man with a mop of yellow hair. The puffed up fifth son of some minor nobleman with over-active loins, and he thinks he can patronise me? “And your name is?” he asked with a sneer.
Glokta’s patience was worn out by the climb. He smashed his cane down on the top of the desk and the secretary near jumped out of his chair. “What are you? A fucking idiot? How many crippled Inquisitors do you have here?”
“Er…” said the secretary, mouth working nervously.
“Er? Er? Is that a number? Speak up!”
“Well I—”
“I’m Glokta, you dolt! Inquisitor Glokta!”
“Yes, sir, I—”
“Get your fat arse out of that chair, fool! Don’t keep me waiting!” The secretary sprang up, hurried to the doors, pushed one open and stood aside respectfully. “That’s better,” growled Glokta, shuffling after him. He looked up at the Practicals as he hobbled past. He was almost sure one of them had a slight smile on his face.
The room had hardly changed since he was last there, six years before. It was a cavernous, round space, domed ceiling carved with gargoyle faces, its one enormous window offering a spectacular view over the spires of the University, a great section of the outer wall of the Agriont, and the looming outline of the House of the Maker beyond.
The chamber was mostly lined with shelves and cabinets, stacked high with neatly ordered files and papers. A few dark portraits peered down from the sparse white walls, including a huge one of the current King of the Union as a young man, looking wise and stern. No doubt painted before he became a senile joke. These days there’s usually a bit less authority and a bit more stray drool about him. There was a heavy round table in the centre of the room, its surface painted with a map of the Union in exquisite detail. Every city in which there was a department of the Inquisition was marked with a precious stone, and a tiny silver replica of Adua rose out of the table at its hub.
The Arch Lector was sitting in an ancient high
chair at this table, deep in conversation with another man: a gaunt, balding, sour-faced old fellow in dark robes. Sult beamed up as Glokta shuffled towards them, the other man’s expression hardly changed.
“Why, Inquisitor Glokta, delighted you could join us. Do you know Surveyor General Halleck?”
“I have not had the pleasure,” said Glokta. Not that it looks like much of a pleasure, though. The old bureaucrat stood and shook Glokta’s hand without enthusiasm.
“And this is one of my Inquisitors, Sand dan Glokta.”
“Yes indeed,” murmured Halleck. “You used to be in the army, I believe. I saw you fence once.”
Glokta tapped his leg with his cane. “That can’t have been any time recently.”
“No.” There was a silence.
“The Surveyor General is likely soon to receive a most significant promotion,” said Sult. “To a chair on the Closed Council itself.” The Closed Council? Indeed? A most significant promotion.
Halleck seemed less than delighted, however. “I will consider it done when it is his Majesty’s pleasure to invite me,” he snapped, “and not before.”
Sult floated smoothly over this rocky ground. “I am sure the Council feels that you are the only candidate worth recommending, now that Sepp dan Teufel is no longer being considered.” Our old friend Teufel? No longer considered for what?
Halleck frowned and shook his head. “Teufel. I worked with the man for ten years. I never liked him,” or anyone else, by the look of you, “but I would never have thought him a traitor.”
Sult shook his head sadly. “We all feel it keenly, but here is his confession in black and white.” He held up the folded paper with a doleful frown. “I fear the roots of corruption can run very deep. Who would know that better than I, whose sorry task it is to weed the garden?”
“Indeed, indeed,” muttered Halleck, nodding grimly. “You deserve all of our thanks for that. You also, Inquisitor.”
“Oh no, not I,” said Glokta humbly. The three men looked at each other in a sham of mutual respect.
Halleck pushed back his chair. “Well, taxes do not collect themselves. I must return to my work.”
“Enjoy your last few days in the job,” said Sult. “I give you my word that the King will send for you soon!”
Halleck allowed himself the thinnest of smiles, then nodded stiffly to them and stalked away. The secretary ushered him out and pulled the heavy door shut. There was silence. But I’m damned if I’ll be the one to break it.
“I expect you’re wondering what this was all about, eh, Glokta?”
“The thought had crossed my mind, your Eminence.”
“I bet it had.” Sult swept from his chair and strode across to the window, his white-gloved hands clasped behind his back. “The world changes, Glokta, the world changes. The old order crumbles. Loyalty, duty, pride, honour. Notions that have fallen far from fashion. What has replaced them?” He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, and his lip curled. “Greed. Merchants have become the new power in the land. Bankers, shopkeepers, salesmen. Little men, with little minds and little ambitions. Men whose only loyalty is to themselves, whose only duty is to their own purses, whose only pride is in swindling their betters, whose only honour is weighed out in silver coin.” No need to ask where you stand on the merchant class.
Sult scowled out at the view, then turned back into the room. “Now it seems anyone’s son can get an education, and a business, and become rich. The merchant guilds: the Mercers, the Spicers and their like, grow steadily in wealth and influence. Jumped-up, posturing commoners dictating to their natural betters. Their fat and greedy fingers, fumbling at the strings of power. It is almost too much to stand.” He gave a shudder as he paced across the floor.
“I will speak honestly with you, Inquisitor.” The Arch Lector waved his graceful hand as though his honesty were a priceless gift. “The Union has never seemed more powerful, has never controlled more land, but beneath the façade we are weak. It is hardly a secret that the King has become entirely unable to make his own decisions. Crown Prince Ladisla is a fop, surrounded by flatterers and fools, caring for nothing but gambling and clothes. Prince Raynault is far better fitted to rule, but he is the younger brother. The Closed Council, whose task it should be to steer this leaking vessel, is packed with frauds and schemers. Some may be loyal, some are definitely not, each intent on pulling the King his own way.” How frustrating, when I suppose they should all be pulling him in yours?
“Meanwhile, the Union is beset with enemies, dangers outside our borders, and dangers within. Gurkhul has a new and vigorous Emperor, fitting his country for another war. The Northmen are up in arms as well, skulking on the borders of Angland. In the Open Council the noblemen clamour for ancient rights, while in the villages the peasants clamour for new ones.” He gave a deep sigh. “Yes, the old order crumbles, and no one has the heart or the stomach to support it.”
Sult paused, staring up at one of the portraits: a hefty, bald man dressed all in white. Glokta recognised him well enough. Zoller, the greatest of all Arch Lectors. Tireless champion of the Inquisition, hero to the torturer, scourge of the disloyal. He glared down balefully from the wall, as though even beyond death he could burn traitors with a glance.
“Zoller,” growled Sult. “Things were different in his day, I can tell you. No whinging peasants then, no swindling merchants, no sulking noblemen. If men forgot their place they were reminded with hot iron, and any carping judge who dared to whine about it was never heard from again. The Inquisition was a noble institution, filled with the best and the brightest. To serve their King and to root out disloyalty were their only desires, and their only rewards.” Oh, things were grand in the old days.
The Arch Lector slid back into his seat and leaned forward across the table. “Now we have become a place where third sons of impoverished noblemen can line their pockets with bribes, or where near-criminal scum can indulge a passion for torture. Our influence with the King has been steadily eroded, our budgets have been steadily cut. Once we were feared and respected, Glokta, but now…” We’re a miserable sham. Sult frowned, “Well, less so. Intrigues and treasons abound, and I fear that the Inquisition is no longer equal to its task. Too many of the Superiors can no longer be trusted. They are no longer concerned with the interests of the King, or of the state, or of anybody’s interests beyond their own.” The Superiors? Not to be trusted? I swoon with the shock. Sult’s frown grew still deeper. “And now Feekt is dead.”
Glokta looked up. Now that is news. “The Lord Chancellor?”
“It will become public knowledge tomorrow morning. He died suddenly a few nights ago, while you were busy with your friend Rews. There are still some questions surrounding his death, but the man was nearly ninety. The surprise is that he lasted this long. The golden Chancellor they called him, the greatest politician of his day. Even now they are setting his likeness in stone, for a statue on the Kingsway.” Sult snorted to himself. “The greatest gift that any of us can hope for.”
The Arch Lector’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “If you have any childish notions that the Union is controlled by its King, or by those prating blue-blood fools on the Open Council, you can let them wilt now. The Closed Council is where the power lies. More than ever since the King’s illness. Twelve men, in twelve big, uncomfortable chairs, myself among them. Twelve men with very different ideas, and for twenty years, war and peace, Feekt held us in balance. He played off the Inquisition against the judges, the bankers against the military. He was the axle on which the Kingdom turned, the foundation on which it rested, and his death has left a hole. All kinds of gaping holes, and people will be rushing to fill them. I have a feeling that whining ass Marovia, that bleeding heart of a High Justice, that self-appointed champion of the common man, will be first in the queue. It is a fluid, and a dangerous, situation.” The Arch Lector planted his fists firmly on the table before him. “We must ensure that the wrong people do not take advantage of it.”
“It need hardly be said that the post of Lord Chancellor is one of the most powerful in the realm. The gathering of taxes, the treasury, the King’s mints, all come under his auspices. Money, Glokta, money. And money is power, I need hardly tell you. A new Chancellor will be appointed tomorrow. The foremost candidate was our erstwhile Master of the Mints, Sepp dan Teufel.” I see. Something tells me he will no longer be under consideration.
Sult’s lip curled. “Teufel was closely linked with the merchant guilds, and the Mercers in particular.” His sneer became a scowl. “In addition to which he was an associate of High Justice Marovia. So, you see, he would hardly have made a suitable Lord Chancellor.” No indeed. Hardly suitable. “Surveyor General Halleck is a far better choice, in my opinion.”
Glokta looked towards the door. “Him? Lord Chancellor?”
Sult got up smiling and moved over to a cabinet against the wall. “There really is no one else. Everyone hates him, and he hates everyone, except me. Furthermore, he is a hard-nosed conservative, who despises the merchant class and everything they stand for.” He opened the cabinet and took out two glasses and an ornate decanter. “If not exactly a friendly face on the Council, he will at least be a sympathetic one, and damned hostile toward everyone else. I can hardly think of a more suitable candidate.”
Glokta nodded. “He seems honest.” But not so honest that I’d trust him to put me in the bath. Would you, your Eminence?
“Yes,” said Sult, “he will be very valuable to us.” He poured out two glasses of rich red wine. “And just as a bonus, I was able to arrange for a sympathetic new Master of the Mints as well. I hear that the Mercers are absolutely biting their tongues off with fury. Marovia’s none too happy either, the bastard.” Sult chuckled to himself. “All good news, and we have you to thank.” He held out one of the glasses.
Poison? A slow death twitching and puking on the Arch Lectors lovely mosaic floor? Or just pitching onto my face on his table? But there was really no option but to grasp the glass and take a hearty swig. The wine was unfamiliar but delicious. Probably from somewhere very beautiful and far away. At least if I die up here I won’t have to make it back down all those steps. But the Arch Lector was drinking too, all smiles and good grace. So I suppose I will last out the afternoon, after all.
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