The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  “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?

  “You are a member of the honourable Guild of Mercers?” continued Glokta, putting a sneering accent into the word “honourable”.

  “I was,” mumbled Rews.

  “What was your role within the Guild?” The shaven-headed Mercer stared desperately about him. “Your role?” demanded Glokta, his voice taking on a hard edge.

  “I conspired to defraud the King!” cried the merchant, wringing his hands. A wave of shock ran round the hall. Jezal swallowed sour spit. He saw Sult smirking across at High Justice Marovia. The old man’s face was stony blank, but his fists were clenched tight on the table before him. “I committed treason! For money! I smuggled, and I bribed, and I lied… we were all at it!”

  “All at it!” Glokta leered round at the assembly. “And if any of you should doubt it, we have ledgers, and we have documents, and we have numbers. There is a room in the House of Questions stuffed with them. A room full of secrets, and guilt, and lies.” He slowly shook his head. “Sorry reading, I can tell you.”

  “I had to do it!” screamed Rews. “They made me! I had no choice!”

  The crippled Inquisitor frowned at his audience. “Of course they made you. We realise you were but a single brick in this house of infamy. An attempt was made on your life recently, was it not?”

  “They tried to kill me!”

  “Who tried?”

  “It was this man!” wailed Rews, voice cracking, pointing a trembling finger at the prisoner next to him, pulling away as far as the chains that linked them would allow. “It was him! Him!” The manacles rattled as he waved his arm, spit flying from his mouth. There was another surge of angry voices, louder this time. Jezal watched the head of the middle prisoner sag and he slumped sideways, but the hulking albino grabbed him and hauled him back upright.

  “Wake up, Master Carpi!” shouted Glokta. The lolling head came slowly up. An unfamiliar face, strangely swollen and badly pocked with acne-scars. Jezal noticed with disgust that his four front teeth were missing. Just like Glokta’s.

  “You are from Talins, yes, in Styria?” The man nodded slowly, stupidly, like someone half asleep. “You are paid to kill people, yes?” He nodded again. “And you were hired to murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects, among them this confessed traitor, Salem Rews?” A trickle of blood ran slowly out from the man’s nose and his eyes started to roll back in his head. The albino shook him by the shoulder and he came round, nodding groggily. “What became of the other nine?” Silence. “You killed them, did you not?” Another nod, a strange clicking sound coming from the prisoner’s throat.

  Glokta frowned slowly around the rapt faces of the Council. “Villem dan Robb, customs official, throat cut ear to ear.” He slid a finger across his neck and a woman in the gallery squealed. “Solimo Scandi, Mercer, stabbed in the back four times.” He thrust up four fingers, then pressed them to his stomach as though sickened. “The bloody list goes on. All murdered, for nothing but a bigger profit. Who hired you?”

  “Him,” croaked the killer, turning his swollen face to look at the gaunt man with the glassy eyes, slumped on the bench next to him, heedless of his surroundings. Glokta limped over, cane tapping on the tiles.

  “What is your name?”

  The prisoner’s head snapped up, his eyes focusing on the twisted face of the Inquisitor above him. “Gofred Hornlach!” he answered instantly, voice shrill.

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

  “Yes!” he barked, blinking mindlessly up at Glokta.

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

  “Yes!”

  “Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “Why?”

  “We were worried they would tell what they knew… tell what they knew… tell…” Hornlach’s empty eyes stared off towards one of the coloured windows. His mouth slowly stopped moving.

  “Tell what they knew?” prompted the Inquisitor.

  “About the treasonous activities of the Guild!” the Mercer blurted, “about our treasons! About the activities of the guild… treasonous… act
ivities…”

  Glokta cut in sharply. “Were you acting alone?”

  “No! No!”

  The Inquisitor rapped his cane down before him and leaned forward. “Who gave the orders?” he hissed.

  “Magister Kault!” shouted Hornlach instantly, “he gave the orders!” The audience gasped. Arch Lector Sult smirked a little wider. “It was the Magister!” The quills scratched mercilessly. “It was Kault! He gave the orders! All the orders! Magister Kault!”

  “Thank you, Master Hornlach.”

  “The Magister! He gave the orders! Magister Kault! Kault! Kault!”

  “Enough!” snarled Glokta. His prisoner fell silent. The room was still.

  Arch Lector Sult lifted his arm and pointed towards the three prisoners. “There is your proof, my Lords!”

  “This is a sham!” bellowed Lord Brock, leaping to his feet. “This is an insult!” Few voices joined him in support however, and those that did were half-hearted. Lord Heugen was notable for his careful silence, keenly studying the fine leather of his shoes. Barezin had shrunk back into his seat, looking half the size he had been a minute before. Lord Isher was staring off at the wall, fingering his heavy, golden chain, looking bored, as though the fate of the Guild of Mercers was of interest to him no longer.

  Brock appealed to the High Justice himself, motionless in his tall chair at the high table. “Lord Marovia, I beg of you! You are a reasonable man! Do not allow this… travesty!”

  The hall fell silent, waiting for the old man’s reply. He frowned and stroked his long beard. He glanced across at the grinning Arch Lector. He cleared his throat. “I feel your pain, Lord Brock, indeed I do, but it seems that this is not a day for reasonable men. The Closed Council has examined the case and is well satisfied. My hands are tied.”

  Brock worked his mouth, tasting defeat. “This is not justice!” he shouted, turning round to address his peers. “These men have plainly been tortured!”

  Arch Lector Sult’s mouth twisted with scorn. “How would you have us deal with traitors and criminals?” he cried in a piercing voice. “Would you raise a shield, Lord Brock, for the disloyal to hide behind?” He thumped the table, as if it too might be guilty of high treason. “I for one will not see our great nation handed over to its enemies! Neither enemies without, nor enemies within!”

  “Down with the Mercers!” came a cry from the public balcony.

  “Hard justice for traitors!”

  “The King’s Justice!” bellowed a fat man near the back. There was a surge of anger and agreement from the floor, and calls for harsh measures and stiff penalties.

  Brock looked round for his allies on the front row, but found none. He bunched his fists. “This is no justice!” he shouted, pointing at the three prisoners. “This is no proof!”

  “His Majesty disagrees!” bellowed Hoff, “and does not require your permission!” He held up a large document. “The Guild of Mercers is hereby dissolved! Their licence revoked by Royal decree! His Majesty’s Commission for Trade and Commerce will, over the coming months, review applications for trade rights with the city of Westport. Until such time as suitable candidates are found, the routes will be managed by capable, loyal, hands. The hands of His Majesty’s Inquisition.”

  Arch Lector Sult humbly inclined his head, oblivious to the furious cries from representatives and public gallery alike.

  “Inquisitor Glokta!” continued the Lord Chamberlain, “the Open Council thanks you for your diligence, and asks that you perform one more service in this matter.” Hoff held out a smaller paper. “This is a warrant for the arrest of Magister Kault, bearing the King’s own signature. We would ask that you serve it forthwith.” Glokta bowed stiffly and took the paper from the Lord Chamberlain’s outstretched hand. “You,” said Hoff, turning his eye on Jalenhorm.

  “Lieutenant Jalenhorm, my Lord!” shouted the big man, stepping smartly forward.

  “Whatever,” snapped Hoff impatiently, “take twenty of the King’s Own and escort Inquisitor Glokta to the Mercers’ Guildhall. Ensure that nothing and no one leaves the building without his orders!”

  “At once, my Lord!” Jalenhorm crossed the floor and ran up the aisle toward the exit, holding the hilt of his sword in one hand to stop it knocking against his leg. Glokta limped after him, cane tapping on the steps, the warrant for the arrest of Magister Kault crumpled in his tightly clenched fist. The monstrous albino had pulled the prisoners to their feet meanwhile, and was leading them, rattling and lolling, off towards the door by which they had entered.

  “Lord Chamberlain!” shouted Brock, with one last effort. Jezal wondered how much money he must have made from the Mercers. How much he had hoped still to make. A very great deal, evidently.

  But Hoff was unmoved. “That concludes our business for today, my Lords!” Marovia was on his feet before the Lord Chamberlain had finished speaking, evidently keen to be away. The great ledgers were thumped shut. The fate of the honourable Guild of Mercers was sealed. Excited babbling filled the air once more, gradually rising in volume and soon joined by clattering and stamping as the representatives began to rise and leave the room. Arch Lector Sult remained seated, watching his beaten adversaries file reluctantly off the front row. Jezal met the desperate eyes of Salem Rews one last time as he was led towards the small door, then Practical Frost jerked at the chain and he was lost in the darkness beyond.

  Outside, the square was even busier than before, the dense throng growing ever more excited as the news of the dissolution of the Guild of Mercers spread to those who had not been within. People stood, disbelieving, or hurried here and there: scared, surprised, confused. Jezal saw one man staring at him, staring at anyone, face pale, hands trembling. A Mercer perhaps, or a man in too deep with the Mercers, deep enough to be ruined along with them. There would be many such men.

  Jezal felt a sudden tingling. Ardee West was leaning casually against the stones a little further on. They had not met in some time, not since that drunken outburst of hers, and he was surprised how pleased he was to see her. Probably she had been punished long enough, he told himself. Everyone deserved the chance to apologise. He hastened towards her with a broad smile on his lips. Then he noticed who she was with.

  “That little bastard!” he muttered under his breath.

  Lieutenant Brint was chatting freely in his cheap uniform, leaning closer to Ardee than Jezal thought was appropriate, underlining his tedious points with flamboyant gestures of his arms. She was nodding, smiling, then she tipped her head back and laughed, slapping the Lieutenant playfully on the chest. Brint laughed as well, the ugly little shit. They laughed together. For some reason Jezal felt a sharp pang of fury.

  “Jezal, how are you!” shouted Brint, still giggling.

  He stepped up close. “That’s Captain Luthar!” he spat, “and how I am is none of your concern! Don’t you have a job to do?”

  Brint’s mouth hung stupidly open for a moment, then his brows drew into a surly frown. “Yes, sir,” he muttered, turning and stalking off. Jezal watched him go with a contempt even more intense than usual.

  “Well that was charming,” said Ardee. “Are those the manners you should use before a lady?”

  “I really couldn’t say. Why? Was there one watching?”

  He turned to look at her and caught, just for a moment, a self-satisfied smirk. Quite a nasty expression, as though she had enjoyed his outburst. He wondered for a silly instant whether she might have arranged the meeting, have placed herself and that idiot where Jezal would see them, hoping to arouse his jealousy… then she smiled at him, and laughed, and Jezal felt his anger fading. She looked very fine, he thought, tanned and vibrant in the sunlight, laughing out loud, not caring who heard. Very fine. Better than ever, in fact. A chance meeting was all, what else could it be? She fixed him with those dark eyes and his suspicions vanished. “Did you have to be so hard on him?” she asked.

  Jezal fixed his jaw. “Jumped-up, arrogant nobody, he’s probably nothing more th
an some rich man’s bastard. No blood, no money, no manners—”

  “More than me, of all three.”

  Jezal cursed his big mouth. Rather than dragging an apology from her he was now in need of giving one himself. He sought desperately for some way out of this self-made trap. “Oh, but he’s an absolute moron!” he whined.

  “Well,” and Jezal was relieved to see one corner of Ardee’s mouth curl up in a sly smile, “he is at that. Shall we walk?” She slipped her hand through his arm before he had the chance to answer, and started to lead him off towards the Kingsway. Jezal allowed himself to be guided between the frightened, the angry, the excited people.

  “So is it true?” she asked.

  “Is what true?”

  “That the Mercers are finished?”

  “So it seems. Your old friend Sand dan Glokta was in the thick of it. He gave quite the performance, for a cripple.”

  Ardee looked down at the floor. “You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, crippled or no.”

  “No.” Jezal’s mind went back to Salem Rews’ terrified eyes, staring desperately at him as he vanished into the darkness of the archway. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  A silence descended on them as they strolled down the avenue, but it was a comfortable one. He liked walking with her. It no longer seemed important whether anyone apologised. Perhaps she had been right about the fencing anyway, just a little. Ardee seemed to read his thoughts. “How’s the swordplay going?” she asked.

  “Not bad. How’s the drinking going?”

  She raised a dark eyebrow. “Excellent well. If only there was a Contest for that every year, I’d soon come to the attention of the public.” Jezal laughed, looking down at her as she walked beside him, and she smiled back. So clever, so sharp, so fearless. So damn fine looking. Jezal wondered if there had ever been a woman quite like her. If only she had the right blood, he thought to himself, and some money. A lot of money.

  Means of Escape

  “Open the door, in the name of His Majesty!” thundered Lieutenant Jalenhorm for the third time, hammering at the wood with his meaty fist. The great oaf. Why do big men tend to have such little brains? Perhaps they get by on brawn too often, and their minds dry up like plums in the sun.