The Blade Itself

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