The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  The Mercers’ Guildhall was an impressive building in a busy square not far from the Agriont. A substantial crowd of onlookers had already gathered around Glokta and his armed escort: curious, fearful, fascinated, growing all the time. They can smell blood, it seems. Glokta’s leg was throbbing from the effort of hurrying down here, but he doubted that the Mercers would be taken entirely by surprise. He glanced round impatiently at the armoured guardsmen, at the masked Practicals, at the hard eyes of Frost, at the young officer beating on the door.

  “Open the—”

  Enough of this foolishness. “I think they heard you, Lieutenant,” said Glokta crisply, “but are choosing not to answer. Would you be so kind as to break the door down?”

  “What?” Jalenhorm gawped at him, and then at the heavy double doors, firmly secured. “How will I—”

  Practical Frost hurtled past. There was a deafening crack and a tearing of wood as he crashed into one of the doors with his burly shoulder, tearing it off its hinges and sending it crashing onto the floor of the room beyond.

  “Like so,” muttered Glokta as he stepped through the archway, the splinters still settling. Jalenhorm followed him, looking dazed, a dozen armoured soldiers clattering behind.

  An outraged clerk blocked the corridor beyond. “You can’t just—oof!” he cried, as Frost flung him out of the way and his face crunched into the wall.

  “Arrest that man!” shouted Glokta, waving his cane at the dumbstruck clerk. One of the soldiers grabbed him roughly with gauntleted fists and shoved him tumbling out into the daylight. Practicals began to pour through the broken doors, heavy sticks in their hands, eyes fierce above their masks. “Arrest everyone!” shouted Glokta over his shoulder, limping down the corridor as fast as he could, following Frost’s broad back into the bowels of the building.

  Through an open door Glokta saw a merchant in colourful robes, face covered with a sheen of sweat as he desperately heaped documents onto a blazing fire. “Seize him!” screamed Glokta. A pair of Practicals leaped past into the room and began clubbing the man with their sticks. He fell with a cry, upsetting a table and kicking over a pile of ledgers. Loose papers and bits of burning ash fluttered through the air as the sticks rose and fell.

  Glokta hurried on, crashes and cries spreading out into the building around him. The place was full of the smell of smoke, and sweat, and fear. The doors are all guarded, but Kault might have a secret means of escape. He’s a slippery one. We must hope we are not too late. Curse this leg of mine! Not too late…

  Glokta gasped and winced in pain, tottering as someone clutched at his coat. “Help me!” shrieked the man, “I am innocent!” Blood on a plump face. Fingers clutched at Glokta’s clothes, threatening to drag him to the floor.

  “Get him off me!” shouted Glokta, beating at him weakly with his cane, clawing at the wall in his efforts to stay upright. One of the Practicals leaped forward and clubbed the man across the back.

  “I confess!” the merchant whimpered as the stick rose again, then it cracked down on his head. The Practical caught hold of his slumping body under the arms and dragged him back towards the door. Glokta hurried on, Lieutenant Jalenhorm wide-eyed at his shoulder. They reached a broad staircase, and Glokta eyed it with hatred. My old enemies, always here ahead of me. He laboured up as best he could, waving Practical Frost forward with his free hand. A baffled merchant was dragged past them and away, squawking something about his rights, heels kicking against the stairs.

  Glokta slipped and nearly fell on his face, but someone caught him by the elbow and kept him upright. It was Jalenhorm, a look of confusion still splattered across his heavy, honest face. So big men have their uses after all. The young officer helped him up the rest of the steps. Glokta did not have the energy to refuse him. Why bother? A man should know his limitations. There’s nothing noble in falling on your face. I should know that.

  There was a large ante-chamber at the top of the stairs, richly decorated with a thick carpet and colourful hangings on the walls. Two guards stood before a large door with their swords drawn, dressed in the livery of the Guild of Mercers. Frost was facing them, hands rolled into white fists. Jalenhorm pulled out his own sword as he reached the landing, stepping forward to stand next to the albino. Glokta had to smile. The tongueless torturer and the flower of chivalry. An unlikely alliance.

  “I have a warrant for Kault, signed by the King himself.” Glokta held out the paper so the guards could see it. “The Mercers are finished. You have nothing to gain by getting in our way. Put up your swords! You have my word, you will not be harmed!”

  The two guards glanced at each other uncertainly. “Put them up!” shouted Jalenhorm, edging a little closer.

  “Alright!” One of the men bent down and slid his sword along the boards. Frost caught it under one foot.

  “And you!” shouted Glokta to the other one. “Now!” The guard obeyed, throwing his sword to the floor and putting up his hands. A moment later Frost’s fist crunched into the point of his jaw, knocking him cold and sending him crashing into the wall.

  “But—” shouted the first guard. Frost grabbed him by the shirt and flung him down the stairs. He turned over and over, banging on the steps, flopping to the bottom, lying still. I know what that feels like.

  Jalenhorm was standing motionless and blinking, his sword still raised. “I thought you said—”

  “Never mind about that. Frost, look for another way in.”

  “Thhh.” The albino padded away down the corridor. Glokta gave him a moment, then he edged forward and tried the door. The handle turned, much to his surprise, and the door swung open.

  The room was opulence itself, near as big as a barn. The carving on the high ceiling was caked in gold leaf, the spines of the books on the shelves were studded with precious stones, the monstrous furniture was polished to a mirror shine. All was over-sized, over-embellished, over-expensive. But who needs taste when you have money? There were several big windows of the new design, large panes with little lead between them, offering a splendid view of the city, the bay, the ships within it. Magister Kault sat smiling at his vast gilt desk before the middle window in his fabulous robes of office, partly overshadowed by an enormous cabinet, the arms of the honourable Guild of Mercers etched into its doors.

  Then he has not got away. I have him. I… Tied around the thick leg of the cabinet was a rope. Glokta followed it with his eyes as it snaked across the floor. The other end was tied around the Magister’s neck. Ah. So he does have a means of escape, after all.

  “Inquisitor Glokta!” Kault gave a squeaky, nervous laugh. “What a pleasure to finally meet you! I’ve been hearing all about your investigations!” His fingers twitched at the knot on the rope, making sure it was tied securely.

  “Is your collar too tight, Magister? Perhaps you should remove it?”

  Another squeak of merriment. “Oh, I don’t think so! I don’t intend to be answering any of your questions, thank you!” Out of the corner of his eye, Glokta saw a side door edging open. A big white hand appeared, fingers curling slowly round the door frame. Frost. There is still hope of catching him, then. I must keep him talking.

  “There are no questions left to answer. We know it all.”

  “Do you indeed?” giggled the Magister. The albino edged silently into the room, keeping to the shadows near the wall, hidden from Kault by the bulk of the cabinet.

  “We know about Kalyne. About your little arrangement.”

  “Imbecile! We had no arrangement! He was far too honourable to be bought! He would never take a mark from me!” Then how… Kault smiled a sick little smile. “Sult’s secretary,” he said, giggling again. “Right under his nose, and yours too, cripple!” Fool, fool—the secretary carried the messages, he saw the confession, he knew everything! I never trusted that smarmy shit. Kalyne was loyal, then.

  Glokta shrugged. “We all make mistakes.”

  The Magister gave a withering sneer. “Mistakes? That’s all you’ve made
, dolt! The world is nothing like you think it is! You don’t even know what side you’re on! You don’t even know what the sides are!”

  “I am on the side of the King, and you are not. That is all I need to know.” Frost had made it to the cabinet and was pressed against it, pink eyes staring intently, trying to see round the corner without being seen. Just a little longer, just a little further…

  “You know nothing, cripple! Some small business with tax, some petty bribery, that’s all we were guilty of!”

  “And the trifling matter of nine murders.”

  “We had no choice!” screamed Kault. “We never had any choices! We had to pay the bankers! They loaned us the money, and we had to pay! We’ve been paying them for years! Valint and Balk, the bloodsuckers! We gave them everything, but they always wanted more!”

  Valint and Balk? Bankers? Glokta threw an eye over the ridiculous opulence. “You seem to be keeping your head above water.”

  “Seem! Seem! All dust! All lies! The bankers own it all! They own us all! We owe them thousands! Millions!” Kault giggled to himself. “But I don’t suppose they’ll ever get it now, will they?”

  “No. I don’t suppose they will.”

  Kault leaned across the desk, the rope hanging down and brushing the leather top. “You want criminals, Glokta? You want traitors? Enemies of King and state? Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!” He saw Frost, edging round the cabinet no more than four strides away. His eyes went wide and he started up from his chair.

  “Get him!” screamed Glokta. Frost sprang forward, lunged across the desk, caught hold of the flicking hem of Kault’s robe of office as the Magister span round and hurled himself at the window. We have him!

  There was a sickening rip as the robe tore in Frost’s white fist. Kault seemed frozen in space for a moment as all that expensive glass shattered around him, shards and splinters glittering through the air, then he was gone. The rope snapped taut.

  “Thhhhh!” hissed Frost, glaring at the broken window.

  “He jumped!” gasped Jalenhorm, his mouth hanging open.

  “Clearly.” Glokta limped over to the desk and took the ripped strip of cloth from Frost’s hands. Close up it scarcely seemed magnificent at all: brightly coloured but badly woven.

  “Who would have thought?” muttered Glokta to himself. “Poor quality.” He limped to the window and peered through the shattered hole. The head of the honourable Guild of Mercers was swinging slowly back and forth, twenty feet below, his torn, gold-embroidered gown flapping around him in the breeze. Cheap clothes and expensive windows. If the cloth had been stronger we would have got him. If the window had more lead, we would have got him. Lives hinge on such chances. Beneath him in the street a horrified crowd was already gathering: pointing, babbling, staring up at the hanging body. A woman screamed. Fear, or excitement? They sound the same.

  “Lieutenant, would you be so good as to go down and disperse that crowd? Then we can cut our friend loose and take him back with us.” Jalenhorm looked at him blankly. “Dead or alive, the King’s warrant must be served.”

  “Yes, of course.” The burly officer wiped sweat from his forehead and made, somewhat unsteadily, for the door.

  Glokta turned back to the window and peered down at the slowly swinging corpse. Magister Kault’s last words echoed in his mind.

  Look in the Closed Council. Look in the House of Questions. Look in the University. Look in the banks, Glokta!

  Three Signs

  West crashed onto his arse, one of his steels skittering out of his hands and across the cobbles. “That’s a touch!” shouted Marshal Varuz, “A definite touch! Well fought, Jezal, well fought!”

  West was starting to tire of losing. He was stronger than Jezal, and taller, with a better reach, but the cocky little bastard was quick. Damn quick, and getting quicker. He knew all of West’s tricks now, more or less, and if he kept improving at this rate he’d soon be beating him every time. Jezal knew it too. He had a smile of infuriating smugness on his face as he offered his hand to West and helped him up from the ground.

  “We’re getting somewhere now!” Varuz slapped his stick against his leg in delight. “We may even have ourselves a champion, eh, Major?”

  “Very likely, sir,” said West, rubbing at his elbow, bruised and throbbing from his fall. He looked sidelong at Jezal, basking in the warmth of the Marshal’s praise.

  “But we must not grow complacent!”

  “No, sir!” said Jezal emphatically.

  “No indeed,” said Varuz, “Major West is a capable fencer, of course, and you are privileged to have him as a partner but, well,” and he grinned at West, “fencing is a young man’s game, eh, Major?”

  “Of course it is, sir,” muttered West. “A young man’s game.”

  “Bremer dan Gorst, I expect, will be a different sort of opponent, as will the others at this year’s Contest. Less of the veteran’s cunning, perhaps, but more of the vigour of youth, eh West?” West, at thirty, was still feeling somewhat vigorous, but there was no purpose in arguing. He knew he’d never been the most gifted swordsman in the world. “We have made great progress this past month, great progress. You have a chance, if you can maintain your focus. A definite chance! Well done! I will see you both tomorrow.” And the old Marshal strutted from the sunny courtyard.

  West walked over to his fumbled steel, lying on the cobbles by the wall. His side was still aching from the fall, and he had to bend awkwardly to get it. “I have to be going, myself,” he grunted as he straightened up, trying to hide his discomfort as best he could.

  “Important business?”

  “Marshal Burr has asked to see me.”

  “Is it to be war then?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know.” West looked Jezal up and down. He was avoiding West’s eye for some reason. “And you? What have you got in mind for today?”

  Jezal fiddled with his steels. “Er, nothing planned… not really.” He glanced up furtively. For such a good card player, the man was a useless liar.

  West felt a niggling of worry. “Ardee wouldn’t be involved in your lack of plans, would she?”

  “Erm…”

  The niggling became a cold throbbing. “Well?”

  “Maybe,” snapped Jezal, “well… yes.”

  West stepped right up to the younger man. “Jezal,” he heard himself saying, slowly through gritted teeth, “I hope you’re not planning to fuck my sister.”

  “Now look here—”

  The throbbing boiled over. West’s hands gripped hold of Jezal by his shoulders. “No, you look!” he snarled. “I’ll not have her trifled with, you understand? She’s been hurt before, and I’ll not see her hurt any more! Not by you, not by anyone! I won’t stand for it! She’s not one of your games, you hear me?”

  “Alright,” said Jezal, face suddenly pale. “Alright! I’ve no designs on her! We’re just friends is all. I like her! She doesn’t know anyone here and… you can trust me… there’s no harm in it! Ah! Get off me!”

  West realised he was squeezing Jezal’s arms with all his strength. How had that happened? He’d only meant to have a quiet word, and now he’d gone way too far. Hurt before… damn it! He should never have said that! He let go suddenly, drew back, swallowing his fury. “I don’t want you seeing her any more, do you hear me?”

  “Now hold on West, who are you to—”

  West’s anger began to pulse again. “Jezal,” he growled, “I’m your friend, so I’m asking you.” He stepped forward again, closer than ever. “And I’m her brother, so I’m warning you. Stay away! No good can come of it!”

  Jezal shrank back against the wall. “Alright… alright! She’s your sister!”

  West turned and stalked towards the archway, rubbing the back of his neck, his head thumping.

  Lord Marshal Burr was sitting and staring out of the window when West arrived at his offices. A big, grim, beefy man with a thick b
rown beard and a simple uniform. West wondered how bad the news would be. If the Marshal’s face was anything to go by it was very bad indeed.

  “Major West,” he said, glaring up from under his heavy brows. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course, sir.” West noticed three roughly-made wooden boxes on a table by the wall. Burr saw him looking at them.

  “Gifts,” he said sourly, “from our friend in the north, Bethod.”

  “Gifts?”

  “For the King, it seems.” The Marshal scowled and sucked at his teeth. “Why don’t you have a look at what he sent us, Major?”

  West walked over to the table, reached out and cautiously opened the lid of one of the boxes. An unpleasant smell flowed out, like well-rotted meat, but there was nothing inside but some brown dirt. He opened the next box. The smell was worse. More brown dirt, caked around the inside, and some hair, some strands of yellow hair. West swallowed, looked up at the frowning Lord Marshal. “Is this all, sir?”

  Burr snorted. “If only. The rest we had to bury.”

  “Bury?”

  The Marshal picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “Captain Silber, Captain Hoss, Colonel Arinhorm. Those names mean anything to you?”

  West felt sick. That smell. It reminded him of Gurkhul somehow, of the battlefield. “Colonel Arinhorm, I know,” he mumbled, staring at the three boxes, “by reputation. He’s commander of the garrison at Dunbrec.”

  “Was,” corrected Burr, “and the other two commanded small outposts nearby, on the frontier.”

  “The frontier?” mumbled West, but he already guessed what was coming.

  “Their heads, Major. The Northmen sent us their heads.” West swallowed, looking at the yellow hairs stuck to the inside of the box. “Three signs, they said, when it was time.” Burr got up from his chair and stood, looking out of the window. “The outposts were nothing: wooden buildings mostly, a palisade wall, ditches and so on, lightly manned. Little strategic importance. Dunbrec is another matter.”