The Blade Itself

of great importance, “for it comes from the Other Side, and to touch the world below is fraught with peril. The Magus tempers magic with knowledge, and thus produces High Art, but like the smith or the—”

“The Other Side?” snapped Glokta, putting a sharp end to the young moron’s stream of drivel. “The world below? Hell, do you mean? Magic? Do you know any magic, Master Ninefingers?”

“Me?” The Northman chuckled. “No.” He thought about it for a moment and then added, almost as an afterthought, “I can speak to the spirits though.”

“The spirits, is that so?” For pity’s sake. “Perhaps they could tell us who this intruder was?”

“I’m afraid not.” Ninefingers shook his head sadly, either missing Glokta’s sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. “There are none left awake in this place. They are sleeping here. They have been for a long time.”

“Ah, of course.” Well past spirits’ bedtime. I tire of this nonsense. “You come from Bethod?”

“You could say that.” It was Glokta who was surprised. He had expected at best a sharp intake of breath, a hurried effort at concealment, not a frank admission. Ninefingers did not even blink however. “I was once his champion.”

“Champion?”

“I fought ten duels for him.”

Glokta groped for words. “Did you win?”

“I was lucky.”

“You realise, of course, that Bethod has invaded the Union?”

“I do.” Ninefingers sighed. “I should have killed that bastard long ago, but I was young then, and stupid. Now I doubt I’ll get another chance, but that’s the way of things. You have to be… what’s the word for it?”

“Realistic,” said Quai.

Glokta frowned. A moment ago, he had teetered on the brink of making sense of all this nonsense, but the moment had slipped away and things made less sense than ever. He stared at Ninefingers, but that scarred face held no answers, only more questions. Talking with spirits? Bethod’s champion but his enemy? Assaulted by a mysterious woman in the dead of night? And he doesn’t even know why he’s here? A clever liar tells as much truth as he can, but this one tells so many lies I hardly know where to begin.

“Ah, we have a guest!” An old man stepped into the room, thickset and stocky with a short grey beard, vigorously rubbing his bald head with a cloth. So this is Bayaz. He threw himself down in the one intact chair, moving with none of the grace one would expect from an important historical figure. “I must apologise. I was taking advantage of the bath. A very fine bath. I have been bathing every day since we arrived here at the Agriont. I grew so besmirched with the dirt of the road that I have positively seized upon the opportunity to be clean again.” The old man rubbed his hand over his hairless scalp with a faint hissing sound.

Glokta mentally compared his features to those of Bayaz’ statue in the Kingsway. There is hardly anything uncanny about the resemblance. Half as commanding and a great deal shorter. Given an hour I could find five old men who looked more convincing. If I took a razor to Arch Lector Sult, I could do better. Glokta glanced at his shiny pate. I wonder if he takes a razor to that every morning?

“And you are?” asked the supposed Bayaz.

“Inquisitor Glokta.”

“Ah, one of His Majesty’s Inquisitors. We are honoured!”

“Oh no, the honour is mine. You, after all, are the legendary Bayaz, First of the Magi.”

The old man glared back at him, his green eyes prickly hard. “Legendary is perhaps a shade too much, but I am Bayaz.”

“Your companion, Master Ninefingers, was just describing last night’s events to me. A colourful tale. He claims that you caused… all this.”

The old man snorted. “I am not in the habit of welcoming uninvited guests.”

“So I see.”

“Alas, there was some damage to the suite. In my experience one should act quickly and decisively. The pieces can always be picked up afterward.”

“Of course. Forgive my ignorance, Master Bayaz, but how, precisely, was the damage caused?”

The old man smiled. “You can understand that we do not share the secrets of our order with just anyone, and I am afraid that I already have an apprentice.” He indicated the unconvincing youth.

“We met. In simple terms then, perhaps, that I might understand?”

“You would call it magic.”

“Magic. I see.”

“Indeed. It is, after all, what we Magi are best known for.”

“Mmm. I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to demonstrate, for my benefit?”

“Oh no!” The so-called wizard gave a comfortable laugh. “I don’t do tricks.”

This old fool is as hard to fathom as the Northman. The one barely speaks, while the other talks and talks but says nothing. “I must admit to being somewhat at a loss as to how this intruder got in.” Glokta glanced round the room, examining the possible means of entrance. “The guard saw nothing, which leaves the window.”

He shuffled cautiously to the hole and peered out. There had been a small balcony, but a few stubby splinters of stone were all that remained. Otherwise the wall fell smooth and sheer all the way to the glittering water far, far below. “That’s quite a climb to make, especially in a dress. An impossible one, wouldn’t you say? How do you think this woman made it?”

The old man snorted. “Do you want me to do your job for you? Perhaps she clambered up the latrine chute!” The Northman looked deeply troubled by that suggestion. “Why don’t you catch her and ask her? Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

Touchy, touchy, and consummately acted. An air of injured innocence so convincing, he almost has me believing this garbage. Almost, but not quite. “Therein lies the problem. There is no sign of your mysterious intruder. No body has been recovered. Some wood, small pieces of furniture, the stones from the wall, they were scattered widely in the streets below. But nothing of any intruder, of either sex.”

The old man stared back at him, a hard frown beginning to form on his face. “Perhaps the body burned to nothing. Perhaps it was torn apart, into pieces too small to see, or boiled away into the air. Magic is not always precise, or predictable, even in the hands of a master. Such things can happen. Easily. Particularly when I become annoyed.”

“I fear I must risk your annoyance, though. It has occurred to me that you might not, in fact, be Bayaz, the First of the Magi.”

“Indeed?” The old man’s bushy eyebrows drew together.

“I must at least entertain the possibility…” a tense stillness had settled on the room “…that you are an impostor.”

“A fraud?” snapped the so-called Magus. The pale young man lowered his head and backed quietly away towards the wall. Glokta felt suddenly very alone in the midst of that rubble strewn circle, alone and increasingly unsure of himself, but he soldiered on.

“It had occurred to me that this whole event might have been staged for our benefit. A convenient demonstration of your magical powers.”

“Convenient?” Hissed the bald old man, his voice unnaturally loud. “Convenient, say you? It would be convenient if I was left to enjoy a night’s sleep uninterrupted. Convenient if I was now sitting in my old chair on the Closed Council. Convenient if people took my word as law, the way they used to, without asking a lot of damn fool questions!”

The resemblance to the statue on the Kingsway was suddenly much increased. There, now, was the frown of command, the sneer of contempt, the threat of terrible anger. The old man’s words seemed to press on Glokta like a great weight, driving the breath from his body, threatening to crush him to his knees, cutting into his skull, and leaving behind a creeping shred of doubt. He glanced up at the yawning hole in the wall. Powder? Catapults? Labourers? Is there not a simpler explanation? The world seemed to shift around him, as it had in the Arch Lector’s study a few days before, his mind turned the pieces, pulling them apart, putting them