Glokta watched Lestek take a few last bows as the curtains closed on him, the golden key still shining in his hand. Arch Lector Sult rose from his chair as the applause died.
“I am so glad you enjoyed our little diversion,” he said, smiling smoothly round at the appreciative gathering. “I do not doubt that many of you have seen this piece before, but it has a special significance this evening. Captain Luthar is not the only celebrated figure in our midst, there is a second guest of honour here tonight. None other than the subject of our play—Bayaz himself, the First of the Magi!” Sult smiled and held out his arm towards the old fake on the other side of the room. There was a gentle rustling as every guest turned from the Arch Lector to look at him.
Bayaz smiled back. “Good evening,” he said. A few of the worthies laughed, suspecting some further little game perhaps, but Sult did not laugh with them and their merriment was short lived. An uneasy silence descended on the hall. A deadly silence, perhaps.
“The First of the Magi. He has been with us in the Agriont now for several weeks. He and a few… companions.” Sult glanced down his nose at the scarred Northman, and then back to the self-styled Magus. “Bayaz.” He rolled the word around his mouth, allowing it to sink into his listeners’ ears. “The first letter in the alphabet of the old tongue. First apprentice of Juvens, first letter of the alphabet, is that not so, Master Bayaz?”
“Why, Arch Lector,” asked the old man, still smirking, “have you been checking up on me?” Impressive. Even now, when he must sense the game will soon be over, he sticks to his role.
Sult was unmoved however. “It is my duty thoroughly to investigate anyone who might pose a threat to my King or country,” he intoned stiffly.
“How fearsomely patriotic of you. Your investigations no doubt revealed that I am still a member of the Closed Council, even if my chair stands empty for the time being. I believe Lord Bayaz would be the proper term of address.”
Sult’s cold smile did not slip even a hair’s breath. “And when exactly was your last visit, Lord Bayaz? It would seem that someone so deeply involved in our history would have taken more of an interest over the years. Why, if I may ask, in the centuries since the birth of the Union, since the time of Harod the Great, have you not been back to visit us?” A good question. I wish it had occurred to me.
“Oh, but I have been. During the reign of King Morlic the Mad, and in the civil war which followed, I was tutor to a young man called Arnault. Later, when Morlic was murdered and Arnault was raised to the throne by the Open Council, I served as his Lord Chamberlain. I called myself Bialoveld in those days. I visited again in King Casamir’s reign. He called me Zoller, and I had your job, Arch Lector.”
Glokta could barely contain a gasp of indignation, and heard others from the chairs around him. He has no shame, I’ll give him that. Bialoveld, and Zoller, two of the Unions most respected servants. How dare he? And yet… He pictured the painting of Zoller in the Arch Lectors study, and the statue of Bialoveld in the Kingsway. Both bald, both stern, both bearded… but what am I thinking? Major West is thinning out on top. Does that make him a legendary wizard? Most likely this charlatan merely picked the two baldest figures he could find.
Sult, meanwhile, was trying a different tack. “Tell me this, then, Bayaz: it is a story well known that Harod himself doubted you when you first came to his hall, all those long years ago. As proof of your power, you broke his long table in two. It may be that there are some sceptics among us here tonight. Would you consider such a demonstration for us, now?”
The colder Sult’s tone became, the less the old fraud seemed to care. He dismissed this latest effort with a lazy wave of his hand. “What you speak of is not juggling, Arch Lector, or playing on the stage. There are always dangers, and costs. Besides, it would be a great shame to spoil Captain Luthar’s feast simply so I could show off, don’t you think? Not to mention the waste of a fine old piece of furniture. I, unlike so many others these days, have a healthy respect for the past.”
Some were smiling uncertainly as they watched the two old men fencing with each other, perhaps still suspecting an elaborate joke. Others knew better and were frowning hard, trying to work out what was going on, and who had the upper hand. High Justice Marovia, Glokta noticed, looked to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Almost as if he knows something we don’t. Glokta shifted uncomfortably in his chair, eyes fixed on the bald actor. Things are not going as well as they should be. When will he begin to sweat? When?
Someone placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of Logen. No doubt it was meant to be eaten, but now his appetite was gone. Logen might be no courtier, but he could spot folk working up to violence when he saw them. With each exchange between the two old men their smiles slipped further, their voices became harder, the hall seemed to grow closer and more oppressive. Everyone in the room was looking worried now—West, the proud lad who’d won that sword game because of Bayaz’ cheating, the feverish cripple who’d asked all the questions…
Logen felt the hairs on his neck rising. There were two figures lurking in the nearest doorway. Black-clothed figures, black-masked. His eyes flicked across to the other entrances. Each held two of those masked figures, two at least, and he didn’t reckon they were here to collect the plates.
They were here for him. For him and Bayaz, he could feel it. A man doesn’t put on a mask unless he’s got some dark work in mind. There was no way that he could deal with half that many, but he slid a knife from beside his plate and hid it behind his arm anyway. If they tried to take him, he’d fight. That didn’t need thinking about.
Bayaz was starting to sound angry. “I have supplied you with all the proofs you’ve asked for, Arch Lector!”
“Proofs!” The tall man they called Sult gave a cold sneer. “You deal in words and dusty papers! More the business of a snivelling clerk than the stuff of legend! Some would say that a Magus without magic is simply a meddling old man! We are at war, and can take no chances! You mentioned Arch Lector Zoller. His diligence in the cause of truth is well documented. You, I am sure, must understand mine.” He leaned forward, planting his fists firmly on the table before him. “Show us magic, Bayaz, or show us the key!”
Logen swallowed. He didn’t like the way that things were going, but then he didn’t understand the rules of this game. He had put his trust in Bayaz, for some reason, and there it would have to stay. It was a little late to be changing sides.
“Have you nothing left to say?” demanded Sult. He slowly lowered himself into his chair, smiling once more. His eyes slid over to the archways and Logen felt the masked figures moving forward, straining to be released. “Have you no more words? Have you no more tricks?”
“Only one.” Bayaz reached into his collar. He took hold of something there, and drew it out—a long, thin chain. One of the black-masked figures stepped forward a pace, expecting a weapon, and Logen’s hand gripped tighter on the handle of the knife, but when the chain came all the way out there was only a rod of dark metal dangling on the end of it.
“The key,” said Bayaz, holding it up to the candlelight. It barely shone at all. “Less lustre than the one in your play, perhaps, but the real thing, I assure you. Kanedias never worked with gold. He did not like pretty things. He liked things that worked.”
The Arch Lector’s lip curled. “Do you simply expect us to take your word for it?”
“Of course not. It is your job to be suspicious of everyone, and I must say you do it exceptionally well. It does grow rather late however, so I will wait until tomorrow morning to open the House of the Maker.” Someone dropped a spoon on the floor, and it clattered against the tiles. “There will need to be some witnesses present, of course, to make sure that I don’t try any sleight of hand. How about…” Bayaz’ cool green eyes swept down the table. “Inquisitor Glokta, and… your new fencing champion, Captain Luthar?”
The cripple frowned as he was named. Luthar looked utterly bewildered. The Arch Lector sat, his scorn swapped for a stony blankness
. He gazed from Bayaz’ smiling face to that gently swinging rod of dark metal, then back again. His eyes moved over to one of the doorways, and he give a tiny shake of his head. The dark figures faded back into the shadows. Logen unclenched his aching teeth, then quietly slipped the knife back on to the table.
Bayaz grinned. “Dear me, Master Sult, you really are a hard man to please.”
“I believe your Eminence is the proper term of address,” hissed the Arch Lector.
“So it is, so it is. I do declare, you really won’t be happy until I’ve broken some furniture. I would hate to spill everyone’s soup though, so…” With a sudden bang, the Arch Lector’s chair collapsed. His hand shot out and grabbed at the table cloth as he plunged to the floor in a clattering mess of loose firewood, and sprawled in the wreckage with a groan. The King started awake, his guests blinked, and gasped, and stared. Bayaz ignored them.
“This really is an excellent soup,” he said, slurping noisily from his spoon.
The House of the Maker
It was a stormy day, and the House of the Maker stood stark and grim, a huge dark shape against the ragged clouds. A cold wind whipped between the buildings and through the squares of the Agriont, making the tails of Glokta’s black coat flap around him as he shuffled after Captain Luthar and the would-be Magus, the scarred Northman at his side. He knew they were watched. Watched the whole way. Behind the windows, in the doorways, on the roofs. The Practicals were everywhere, he could feel their eyes.
Glokta had half expected, half hoped, that Bayaz and his companions would have disappeared in the night, but they had not. The bald old man seemed as relaxed as if he had undertaken to open a fruit cellar, and Glokta did not like it. When does the bluff end? When does he throw his hands up and admit it’s all a game? When we reach the University? When we cross the bridge? When we stand before the very gate of the Maker’s House and his key does not fit? But somewhere in the back of his mind the thought lurked: What if it does not end? What if the door opens? What if he truly is as he claims to be?
Bayaz chattered to Luthar as they strolled across the empty courtyard towards the University. Every bit as much at ease as a grandfather with his favourite grandson, and every bit as boring. “…of course, the city is so much larger than when I last visited. That district you call the Three Farms, all teeming bustle and activity. I remember when that whole borough was three farms! Indeed I do! And far beyond the city walls!”
“Erm…” said Luthar.
“And as for the Spicers’ new guildhall, I never saw such ostentation…”
Glokta’s mind raced as he limped after the two of them, trawling for hidden meanings in the sea of blather, grasping for order in the chaos. The questions tumbled over each other. Why pick me as a witness? Why not the Arch Lector himself? Does this Bayaz suppose that I can be easily fooled? And why Luthar? Because he won the Contest? And how did he win? Is he a part of this deception? But if Luthar was party to some sinister plan, he was giving no sign. Glokta had never seen the slightest hint that he was anything other than the self-obsessed young fool he appeared to be.
And then we come to this puzzle. Glokta glanced sidelong at the big Northman. There were no signs of deadly intent on his scarred face, little sign that anything was going on in there at all. Is he very stupid or very clever? Is he to be ignored, or feared? Is he the servant, or the master? There were no answers to any of it. Yet.
“Well, this place is a shadow of its former self,” said Bayaz as they halted outside the door to the University, raising an eyebrow at the grimy, tilting statues. He rapped briskly on the weathered wood and the door swayed on its hinges. To Glokta’s surprise, it opened almost immediately.
“You’re expected,” croaked the ancient porter. They stepped around him into the gloom. “I will show you to—” began the old man as he wrestled the creaking door shut.
“No need,” called Bayaz over his shoulder, already striding briskly off down the dusty corridor, “I know the way!” Glokta struggled to keep up, sweating despite the cold weather, leg burning all the way. The effort of maintaining the pace scarcely gave him time to consider how the bald bastard might be so familiar with the building. But familiar he certainly is. He swept down the corridors as though he had spent every day of his life there, clicking his tongue in disgust at the state of the place and prattling all the while.
“…I’ve never seen such dust, eh, Captain Luthar? I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn place hadn’t been cleaned since I was last here! I’ve no idea how a man can think under such conditions! No idea at all…” Centuries of dead and justly forgotten Adepti stared gloomily down from their canvases, as though upset by all the noise.
The corridors of the University rolled past, an ancient, dusty, forsaken-seeming place, with nothing in it but grimy old paintings and musty old books. Jezal had precious little use for books.
He had read a few about fencing and riding, a couple about famous military campaigns, once opened the covers on a great big history of the Union he found in his father’s study, and got bored after three or four pages.
Bayaz droned on. “Here we fought with the Maker’s servants. I remember it well. They cried out to Kanedias to save them, but he would not come down. These halls ran with blood, rang with screams, rolled with smoke that day.”
Jezal had no idea why the old fool would single him out to tell his tall stories to, and still less how to reply. “That sounds… violent.”
Bayaz nodded. “It was. I am not proud of it. But good men must sometimes do violent things.”
“Uh,” said the Northman suddenly. Jezal had not been aware that he was even listening.
“Besides, that was a different age. A violent age. Only in the Old Empire were people advanced beyond the primitive. Midderland, the heart of the Union, believe it or not, was a sty. A wasteland of warring, barbaric tribes. The luckiest among them were taken into the Maker’s service. The rest were painted-face savages, without writing, without science, with barely anything to separate them from the beasts.”
Jezal glanced furtively up at Ninefingers. It was not at all difficult to picture a barbaric state with that big brute beside him, but it was ridiculous to suppose that his beautiful home had once been a wasteland, that he was descended from primitives. This bald old man was a blathering liar, or a madman, but some important people seemed to take him seriously.
And Jezal thought it best always to do what the important people said.
Logen followed the others into a broken-down courtyard, bounded on three sides by the crumbling buildings of the University, on the fourth by the inner face of the sheer wall of the Agriont. All was covered in old moss, thick ivy, dry brambles. A man sat on a rickety chair among the weeds, watching them come closer.
“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, pushing himself up with some difficulty. “Damn knees, I’m not what I used to be.” An unremarkable man past middle-age, in a threadbare shirt with stains down the front.
Bayaz frowned at him. “You are the Chief Warden?”
“I am.”
“And where are the rest of your company?”
“My wife is getting the breakfast ready, but not counting her, well, I am the whole company. It’s eggs,” he said happily, patting his stomach.
“What?”
“For breakfast. I like eggs.”
“Good for you,” muttered Bayaz, looking slightly put out. “In King Casamir’s reign, the bravest fifty men of the King’s Own were appointed Wardens of the House, to guard this gate. There was considered to be no higher honour.”
“That was a long time ago,” said the one and only Warden, plucking at his dirty shirt. “There were nine of us when I was a lad, but they went on to other things, or died, and were never replaced. Don’t know who’ll take over when I’m gone. There haven’t been too many applicants.”
“You surprise me.” Bayaz cleared his throat. “Oh, Chief Warden! I, Bayaz, First of the Magi, seek your leave to pass up the stair to t
he fifth gate, beyond the fifth gate and onto the bridge, across the bridge and to the door of the Maker’s House.”
The Chief Warden squinted back. “You sure?”
Bayaz was growing impatient. “Yes, why?”
“I remember the last fellow who tried it, way back when I was a lad. Some big man, I reckon, some thinker. He went up those steps with ten strong workmen, chisels and hammers and picks and what-have-you, telling us how he was going to open up the House, bring out its treasures and all. Five minutes and they were back, saying nothing, looking like they saw the dead walk.”
“What happened?” murmured Luthar.
“Don’t know, but they had no treasures with them, I can tell you that.”
“Without doubt a daunting story,” said Bayaz, “but we’re going.”
“Your business, I suppose.” And the old man turned and slouched across the miserable courtyard. Up a narrow stair they went, the steps worn down in the middle, up to a tunnel through the high wall of the Agriont, on to a narrow gate in the darkness.
Logen felt an odd sense of worry as the bolts slid back. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to get rid of it, and the Warden grinned at him. “You can feel it already, eh?”
“Feel what?”
“The Maker’s breath, they call it.” He gave the doors the gentlest shove. They swung open together, light spilling through into the darkness. “The Maker’s breath.”
Glokta tottered across the bridge, teeth clenched tight on gums, painfully aware of the volume of empty air beneath his feet. It was a single, delicate arch, leaping from high up on the wall of the Agriont to the gate of the Maker’s House. He had often admired it from down in the city, on the other side of the lake, wondering how it had stayed up all these years. A spectacular, remarkable, beautiful thing. It does not seem so beautiful now. Not much wider than a man lying down, too narrow by far for comfort, and with a terrifying drop to the water below. Worse still, it had no parapet. Not so much as a wooden handrail. And the breeze is rather fresh today.
The Blade Itself tfl-1 Page 47
