“You can try it, but I’ve no mind to let you. You know my work. One step more and I’ll set to work on you, you fucking swollen pig.”
“Scale!” snapped Bethod. “There is nothing for us here, that much is plain. We are leaving.” The hulking prince locked his great lump of a jaw, his huge hands clenching and unclenching by his sides, glowering at Logen with the most bestial hatred imaginable. Then he sneered, and slowly backed away.
Bayaz leaned forward. “You said you would bring peace to the North, Bethod, and what have you done? You have piled war on war! The land is bled white with your pride and your brutality! King of the Northmen? Hah! You’re not worth the helping! And to think, I had such high hopes for you!”
Bethod only frowned, his eyes as cold as the diamond on his forehead. “You have made an enemy of me, Bayaz, and I am a bad enemy to have. The very worst. You will yet regret this day’s work.” He turned his scorn on Logen. “As for you, Ninefingers, you will have no more mercy from me! Every man in the North will be your enemy now! You will be hated, and hunted, and cursed, wherever you go! I will see to it!”
Logen shrugged. There was nothing new there. Bayaz stood up from his chair. “You’ve said your piece, now take your witch and get you gone!”
Caurib stumbled from the room first, still gasping for air. Scale gave Logen one last scowl, then he turned and lumbered away. The so-called King of the Northmen was the last to leave, nodding slowly and sweeping the room with a deadly glare. As their footsteps faded down the corridor Logen took a deep breath, steadied himself, and let his hand drop from the hilt of the sword.
“So,” said Bayaz brightly, “that went well.”
A Road Between Two Dentists
Past midnight, and it was dark in the Middleway. Dark and it smelled bad. It always smelled bad down by the docks: old salt water, rotten fish, tar and sweat and horse shit. In a few hours time this street would be thronging with noise and activity. Tradesmen shouting, labourers cursing under their loads, merchants hurrying to and fro, a hundred carts and wagons rumbling over the dirty cobbles. There would be an endless tide of people, thronging off the ships and thronging on, people from every part of the world, words shouted in every language under the sun. But at night it was still. Still and silent. Silent as the grave, and even worse smelling.
“It’s down here,” said Severard, strolling towards the shadowy mouth of a narrow alley, wedged in between two looming warehouses.
“Did he give you much trouble?” asked Glokta as he shuffled painfully after.
“Not too much.” The Practical adjusted his mask, letting some air in behind. Must get very clammy under there, all that breath and sweat. No wonder Practicals tend to have bad tempers. “He gave Rews’ mattress some trouble, stabbed it all to bits. Then Frost knocked him on the head. Funny thing. When that boy knocks a man on the head, the trouble all goes out of him.”
“What about Rews?”
“Still alive.” The light from Severard’s lamp passed over a pile of putrid rubbish. Glokta heard rats squeaking in the darkness as they scurried away.
“You know all the best neighbourhoods, don’t you Severard?”
“That’s what you pay me for, Inquisitor.” His dirty black boot squelched, heedless, into the stinking mush. Glokta limped gingerly around it, holding the hem of his coat up in his free hand. “I grew up round here,” continued the Practical. “Folk don’t ask questions.”
“Except for us.” We always have questions.
“Course.” Severard gave a muffled giggle. “We’re the Inquisition.” His lamp picked out a dented iron gate, the high wall above topped with rusty spikes. “This is it.” Indeed, and what an auspicious-looking address it is. The gate evidently didn’t see much use, its brown hinges squealed in protest as the Practical unlocked it and heaved it open. Glokta stepped awkwardly over a puddle that had built up in a rut in the ground, cursing as his coat trailed in the foul water.
The hinges screamed again as Severard wrestled the heavy gate shut, forehead creasing with the effort, then he lifted the hood on his lantern, lighting up a wide ornamental courtyard, choked with rubble and weeds and broken wood.
“And here we are,” said Severard.
It must once have been a magnificent building, in its way. How much would all those windows have cost? How much all that decorative stonework? Visitors must have been awed by its owners wealth, if not his good taste. But no more. The windows were blinded with rotting boards, the swirls of masonry were choked with moss and caked with bird droppings. The thin layer of green marble on the pillars was cracked and flaking, exposing the rotten plaster underneath. All was crumbled, broken and decayed. Fallen lumps of the façade were strewn everywhere, casting long shadows on the high walls of the yard. Half the head of a broken cherub stared mournfully up at Glokta as he limped past.
He had been expecting some dingy warehouse, some dank cellar near the water. “What is this place?” he asked, staring up at the rotting palace.
“Some merchant built it, years ago.” Severard kicked a lump of broken sculpture out of his way and it clattered off into the darkness. “A rich man, very rich. Wanted to live near his warehouses and his wharves, keep one eye on business.” He strolled up the cracked and mossy steps to the huge, flaking front door. “He thought the idea might catch on, but how could it? Who’d want to live round here if they didn’t have to? Then he lost all his money, as merchants do. His creditors have had trouble finding a buyer.”
Glokta stared at a broken fountain, leaning at an angle and half filled with stagnant water. “Hardly surprising.”
Severard’s lamp barely lit the cavernous space of the entrance lull. Two enormous, curved, slumping staircases loomed out of the gloom opposite them. A wide balcony ran around the walls at first floor level, but a great section of it had collapsed and crashed through the damp floorboards below, so that one of the stairways ended, amputated, hanging in the empty air. The damp floor was strewn with lumps of broken plaster, fallen roofing slates, shattered timbers and a spattering of grey bird droppings. The night sky peered in through several yawning holes in the roof. Glokta could hear the vague sound of pigeons cooing in amongst the shadowy rafters, and somewhere the slow dripping of water.
What a place. Glokta stifled a smile. It reminds me of myself, in a way. We both were magnificent once, and we both have our best days far behind us.
“It’s big enough, wouldn’t you say?” asked Severard, picking his way in amongst the rubble towards a yawning doorway under the broken staircase, his lamp casting strange, slanting shadows as he moved.
“Oh, I’d have thought so, unless we get more than a thousand prisoners at once.” Glokta shuffled after him, leaning heavily on his cane, worried about his footing on the slimy floor. I’ll slip and fall right on my arse, right here in all this bird shit. That would be perfect.
The arch opened into a crumbling hall, rotten plaster falling away in sheets, showing the damp bricks beneath. Gloomy doorways passed by on either side. The sort of place that would make a man nervous, if he was prone to nervousness. He might imagine unpleasant things in these chambers, just beyond the lamp light, and horrible acts taking place in the darkness. He looked up at Severard, ambling jauntily along in front, tuneless whistling vaguely audible from behind his mask, and frowned. But we are not prone to nervousness. Perhaps we are the unpleasant things. Perhaps the acts are ours.
“How big is this place?” asked Glokta as he hobbled along.
“Thirty-five rooms, not counting the servant’s quarters.”
“A palace. How the hell did you find it?”
“I used to sleep here, some nights. After my mother died. I found a way in. The roof was still mostly on back then, and it was a dry place to sleep. Dry and safe. More or less.” Ah, what a hard life it’s been. Thug and torturer is a real step up for you, isn’t it? Every man has his excuses, and the more vile the man becomes, the more touching the story has to be. What is my story now, I wonder?
“Ever resourceful, eh, Severard?”
“That’s what you pay me for, Inquisitor.”
They passed into a wide space: a drawing room, a study, a ball-room even, it was big enough. Once beautiful panels were sagging from the walls, covered in mould and flaking gilt paint. Severard moved over to one, still attached, and pushed it firmly at one side. There was a soft click as it swung open, revealing a dark archway beyond. A hidden door? How delightful. How sinister. How very appropriate.
“This place is as full of surprises as you are,” said Glokta, limping painfully towards the opening.
“And you wouldn’t believe the price I got.”
“We bought this?”
“Oh no. I did. With Rews’ money. And now I’m renting it to you.” Severard’s eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “It’s a gold mine!”
“Hah!” laughed Glokta, as he shuffled carefully down the steps. All this, and a head for business too. Perhaps I’ll be working for Arch Lector Severard one of these days. Stranger things have happened. Glokta’s shadow loomed out ahead of him into the darkness as he laboured crab-like down the steps, his right hand feeling out the gaps between the rough stone blocks to lend him some support.
“The cellars go on for miles,” muttered Severard from behind. “We have our own private access to the canals, and to the sewers too, if you’re interested in sewers.” They passed a dark opening on their left, then another on their right, always going slowly downwards. “Frost tells me you can get all the way from here to the Agriont, without once coming up for air.”
“That could be useful.”
“I’d say so, if you can stand the smell.”
Severard’s lamp found a heavy door with a small, barred opening. “Home again,” he said, and gave four quick knocks. A moment later Practical Frost’s masked face loomed abruptly out of the darkness at the little window. “Only us.” The albino’s eyes showed no sign of warmth or recognition. But then they never do. Heavy bolts slid back on the other side of the door, and it swung smoothly open.
There was a table and chair, and fresh torches on the walls, but they were unlit. It must have been pitch black in here until our little lamp arrived. Glokta looked over at the albino. “Have you just been sitting here in the dark?” The hulking Practical shrugged, and Glokta shook his head. “Sometimes I worry about you, Practical Frost, I really do.”
“He’s down here,” said Severard, ambling off down the hall, heels making clicking echoes on the stone flags of the floor. This must once have been a wine cellar: there were several barrel-vaulted chambers leading off to either side, sealed with heavy gratings.
“Glokta!” Salem Rews’ fingers were gripped tightly round the bars, his face pressed up between them.
Glokta stopped in front of the cell and rested his throbbing leg. “Rews, how are you? I hardly expected to see you again so soon.” He had lost weight already, his skin was slack and pale, still marked with fading bruises. He does not look well, not well at all.
“What’s happening, Glokta? Please, why am I here?”
Well, where’s the harm? “It seems the Arch Lector still has a use for you. He wants you to give evidence.” Glokta leaned towards the bars. “Before the Open Council,” he whispered.
Rews grew paler still. “Then what?”
“We’ll see.” Angland, Rews, Angland.
“What if I refuse?”
“Refuse the Arch Lector?” Glokta chuckled. “No, no, no, Rews. You don’t want to do a thing like that.” He turned away and shuffled after Severard.
“For pity’s sake! It’s dark down here!”
“You’ll get used to it!” Glokta called over his shoulder. Amazing, what one can get used to.
The last of the chambers held their latest prisoner. Chained up to a bracket in the wall, naked and bagged of course. He was short and stocky, tending slightly to fat, with fresh grazes on his knees, no doubt from being flung into the rough stone cell.
“So this is our killer, eh?” The man rolled himself up onto his knees when he heard Glokta’s voice, straining forward against his chains. A little blood had soaked through the front of the bag and dried there, making a brown stain on the canvas.
“A very unsavoury character indeed,” said Severard. “Doesn’t look too fearsome now, though, does he?”
“They never do, once they’re brought to this. Where do we work?”
Severard’s eyes smiled even more. “Oh, you’re going to like this, Inquisitor.”
“It’s a touch theatrical,” said Glokta, “but none the worse for that.”
The room was large and circular with a domed ceiling, painted with a curious mural that ran all the way round the curved walls. The body of a man lay on the grass, bleeding from many wounds, with a forest behind him. Eleven other figures walked away, six on one side, five on the other, painted in profile, awkwardly posed, dressed in white but their features indistinct. They faced another man, arms stretched out, all in black and with a sea of colourfully daubed fire behind him. The harsh light from six bright lamps didn’t make the work look any better. Hardly of the highest quality, more decoration than art, but the effect is quite striking, nonetheless.
“No idea what it’s supposed to be,” said Severard.
“The Mather Ma’er,” mumbled Practical Frost.
“Of course,” said Glokta, staring up at the dark figure on the wall, and the flames behind. “You should study your history, Practical Severard. This is the Master Maker, Kanedias.” He turned and pointed to the dying man on the opposite wall. “And this is great Juvens, whom he has killed.” He swept his hand over the figures in white. “And these are Juvens’ apprentices, the Magi, marching to avenge him.” Ghost stories, fit to scare children with.
“What kind of man pays to have shit like this on the walls of his cellar?” asked Severard, shaking his head.
“Oh, this sort of thing was quite popular at one time. There’s a room painted like this in the palace. This is a copy, and a cheap one.” Glokta looked up at the shadowed face of Kanedias, staring grimly down into the room, and the bleeding corpse on the opposite wall. “Still, there’s something quite unsettling about it, isn’t there?” Or there would be, if I gave a damn. “Blood, fire, death, vengeance. No idea why you’d want it in the cellar. Perhaps there was something dark about our friend the merchant.”
“There’s always something dark about a man with money,” said Severard. “Who are these two?”
Glokta frowned, peering forward. Two small, vague figures could be seen under the arms of the Maker, one on each side. “Who knows?” asked Glokta, “maybe they’re his Practicals.”
Severard laughed. A vague exhalation of air even came from behind Frost’s mask, though his eyes showed no sign of amusement. My, my, he must be thoroughly tickled.
Glokta shuffled toward the table in the centre of the room. Two chairs faced each other across the smooth, polished surface. One was a spare, hard affair of the sort you found in the cellars of the House of Questions, but the other was altogether more impressive, throne-like almost, with sweeping arms and a high back, upholstered in brown leather.
Glokta placed his cane against the table and lowered himself carefully, back aching. “Oh, this is an excellent chair,” he breathed, sinking slowly back into the soft leather, stretching out his leg, throbbing from the long walk here. There was a slight resistance. He looked beneath the table. There was a matching footstool there.
Glokta tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh this is fine! You shouldn’t have!” He settled his leg down on the stool with a comfortable sigh.
“It was the least we could do,” said Severard, folding his arms and leaning against the wall next to the bleeding body of Juvens. “We did well from your friend Rews, very well. You’ve always seen us right, and we don’t forget that.”
“Unhhh,” said Frost, nodding his head.
“You spoil me.” Glokta stroked the polished wood on the arm of the chair. My boys. Where woul
d I be without you? Back home in bed with mother fussing over me, I suppose, wondering how she’ll ever find a nice girl to marry me now. He glanced over the instruments on the table. His case was there, of course, and a few other things, well-used, but still highly serviceable. A pair of long-handled tongs particularly caught his eye. He glanced up at Severard. “Teeth?”
“Seemed a good place to start.”
“Fair enough.” Glokta licked at his own empty gums then cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Teeth, it is.”
As soon as the gag was off the assassin started screaming at them in Styrian, spitting and cursing, struggling pointlessly at his chains. Glokta didn’t understand a word of it. But I think I catch the meaning, more or less. Something very offensive indeed, I imagine. Something about our mothers, and so on. But I am not easily offended. He was a rough looking sort, face pockmarked with acne scars, nose broken more than once and bent out of shape. How disappointing. I was hoping the Mercers might have gone up-market on this occasion at least, but that’s merchants for you. Always looking for the bargain.
Practical Frost ended the torrent of unintelligible abuse by punching the man heavily in the stomach. That’ll take his breath away for a moment. Long enough to get the first word in.
“Now then,” said Glokta, “we’ll have none of that nonsense here. We know you’re a professional, sent to blend in and do a job. You wouldn’t blend in too well if you couldn’t even speak the language, now would you?”
The prisoner had got his breath back. “Pox on all of you, you bastards!” he gasped.
“Excellent! The common tongue will do nicely for our little chats. I have a feeling we may end up having several. Is there anything you would like to know about us before we begin? Or shall we get straight to it?”
The prisoner stared up suspiciously at the painted figure of the Master Maker, looming over Glokta’s head. “Where am I?”
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