Questions

Glokta heaped porridge into his mouth as fast as he could, hoping to get half a meal’s worth down before his gorge began to rise. He swallowed, coughed, shuddered. He shoved the bowl away, as though its very presence offended him. Which, in fact, it does. “This had better be important, Severard,” he grumbled.

The Practical scraped his greasy hair back with one hand. “Depends what you mean by important. It’s about our magical friends.”

“Ah, the First of the Magi and his bold companions. What about them?”

“There was some manner of a disturbance at their chambers last night. Someone broke in, they say. There was a fight of some sort. Seems as if some damage was done.”

“Someone? Some sort? Some damage?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Seems? Seems isn’t good enough for us, Severard.”

“Well it’ll have to be, this time. The guard was a little thin on the details. Looked damn worried, if you ask me.” Severard sprawled a little deeper into his chair, shoulders hunching up around his ears. “Someone needs to go and look into it, might as well be us. You can get a good look at them, close up. Ask them some questions, maybe.”

“Where are they?”

“You’ll love this. The Tower of Chains.”

Glokta scowled as he sucked a few bits of porridge from his empty gums. Of course. And right at the top, I bet. Lots of steps. “Anything else?”

“The Northman went for a stroll yesterday, walked in circles round half the Agriont. We watched him, of course.” The Practical sniffed and adjusted his mask. “Ugly bastard.”

“Ah, the infamous Northman. Did he commit any outrages? Rape and murder, buildings aflame, that type of thing?”

“Not much, being honest. A tedious morning for everyone. Wandered around and gawped at things. He spoke to a couple of people.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No one important. One of the carpenters working on the stands for the Contest. A clerk on the Kingsway. There was some girl near the University. He spoke to her for a while.”

“A girl?”

Severard’s eyes grinned. “That’s right, and a nice-looking one too. What was her name?” He snapped his fingers. “I made sure I found it out. Her brother’s with the King’s Own… West, something West…”

“Ardee.”

“That’s the one! You know her?”

“Hmm.” Glokta licked at his empty gums. She asked me how I was. I remember. “What did they have to talk about?”

The Practical raised his eyebrows. “Probably nothing. She’s from Angland though, not been in the city long. Might be some connection. You want me to bring her in? We could soon find out.”

“No!” snapped Glokta. “No. No need. Her brother used to be a friend of mine.”

“Used to be.”

“No one touches her, Severard, you hear?”

The Practical shrugged. “If you say so, Inquisitor. If you say so.”

“I do.”

There was a pause. “So we’re done with the Mercers then, are we?” Severard sounded almost wistful.

“It would seem so. They’re finished. Nothing but some cleaning up to do.”

“Some lucrative cleaning up, I daresay.”

“I daresay,” said Glokta sourly. “But his Eminence feels our talents will be better used elsewhere.” Like watching fake wizards. “Hope you didn’t lose out on your little property by the docks.”

Severard shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you need somewhere away from prying eyes again, before too long. It’ll still be there. At the right price. Shame to leave a job half done is all.”

True. Glokta paused for a moment, considering. Dangerous. The Arch Lector said go no further. Very dangerous, to disobey, and yet I smell something. It niggles, to leave a loose end, whatever his Eminence might say. “There might be one more thing.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but keep it subtle. Do you know anything about banks?”

“Big buildings. They lend people money.”

Glokta gave a thin smile. “I had no idea you were such an expert. There’s one in particular I’m interested in. Name of Valint and Balk.”

“Never heard of them, but I can ask around.”

“Just keep it discreet, Severard, do you understand me? No one can know about this. I mean it.”

“Discretion is what I’m all about, chief, ask anyone. Discreet. That’s me. Known for it.”

“You’d better be, Severard. You had better be.” Or it could be both our heads.

Glokta sat, wedged into the embrasure with his back against the stones and his left leg stretched out in front of him—a searing, pulsing furnace of pain. He expected pain of course, every moment of every day. But this is something just a bit special.

Every breath was a rattling moan through rigid jaws. Every tiniest movement was a mighty task. He remembered how Marshal Varuz had made him run up and down these steps when he was training for the Contest, years ago. I took them three at a time, up and down without a second thought. Now look at me. Who would have thought it could come to this?

His trembling body ran with sweat, his stinging eyes ran with tears, his burning nose dripped watery snot. All this water flowing out of me, and yet I’m thirsty as hell. Where’s the sense in that? Where was the sense in any of it? What if someone should come past, and see me like this? The terrifying scourge of the Inquisition, flopped on his arse in a window, barely able to move? Will I force a nonchalant smile onto this rigid mask of agony? Will I pretend that all is well? That I often come here, to sprawl beside the stairs? Or will I weep and scream and beg for help?

But no one passed. He lay there, wedged in that narrow space, three-quarters of the way up the Tower of Chains, the back of his head resting on the cool stones, his trembling knees drawn up in front of him. Sand dan Glokta, master swordsman, dashing cavalry officer, what glorious future might he have in front of him? There was a time when I could run for hours. Run and run and never tire. He could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back. Why do I do this? Why the hell would anyone do this? I could stop today. I could go home to mother. But then what? Then what?

“Inquisitor, I’m glad you’re here.”

Good for you, bastard. I’m not. Glokta leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs, such teeth as he had grinding against his gums.

“They’re inside, it’s quite a mess…” Glokta’s hand trembled, the tip of his cane rattling against the stones. His head swam. The guard was blurry and dim through his twitching eyelids. “Are you alright?” He loomed forwards, one arm outstretched.

Glokta looked up. “Just get the fucking door, fool!”

The man jumped away, hurried to the door and pushed it open. Every part of Glokta longed to give up and sprawl on his face, but he willed himself upright. He forced one foot before the other, forced his breath to come even, forced his shoulders back and his head high, and swept imperiously past the guard, every part of his body singing with pain. What he saw beyond the doors almost broke his veneer of composure however.

Yesterday these were some of the finest rooms in the Agriont. They were reserved for the most honoured of guests, the most important of foreign dignitaries. Yesterday. A gaping hole was ripped out of one wall where the window should have been, the sky beyond blinding bright after the darkness of the stairwell. A section of the ceiling had collapsed, broken timbers and shreds of plaster hanging down into the room. The floor was strewn with chunks of stone, splinters of glass, torn fragments of coloured cloth. The antique furniture had been smashed to scattered pieces, broken edges charred and blackened as if by fire. Only one chair, half a table, and a tall ornamental jar, strangely pristine in the middle of the rubble-strewn floor, had escaped the destruction.

In the midst of this expensive wreckage stood a confused and sickly-seeming young man. He looked up as Glokta picked his way through the rubble round the doorway, tongue darting nervously over his lips, evidently on edge. Has anyone ever looked more of a fraud?

“Er, good morning?” The young man’s fingers twitched nervously at his gown, a heavy thing, stitched with arcane symbols. And doesn’t he look uncomfortable in it? If this man is a wizard’s apprentice, I am the Emperor of Gurkhul.

“I am Glokta. From his Majesty’s Inquisition. I have been sent to investigate this… unfortunate business. I was expecting someone older.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I am Malacus Quai,” stammered the young man, “apprentice to great Bayaz, the First of the Magi, great in high art and learned in deep—” Kneel, kneel before me! I am the mighty Emperor of Gurkhul!

“Malacus…” Glokta cut him off rudely “…Quai. You are from the Old Empire?”

“Why yes,” the young man brightened slightly at that. “Do you know my—”

“No. Not at all.” The pale face sagged. “Were you here last night?”

“Er, yes, I was asleep, next door. I’m afraid I didn’t see anything though…” Glokta stared at him, intent and unblinking, trying to work him out. The apprentice coughed and looked at the floor, as if wondering what to clean up first. Can this really make the Arch Lector nervous? A miserable actor. His whole manner reeks of deception.

“Someone saw something, though?”

“Well, erm, Master Ninefingers, I suppose—”

“Ninefingers?”

“Yes, our Northern companion.” The young man brightened. “A warrior of great renown, a champion, a prince among his—”

“You, from the Old Empire. He, a Northman. What a cosmopolitan band you are.”

“Well yes, ha ha, we do, I suppose—”

“Where is Ninefingers now?”

“Still asleep I think, er, I could wake him—”

“Would you be so kind?” Glokta tapped his cane on the floor. “It was quite a climb, and I would rather not come back later.”

“No, er, of course… sorry” He hastened over to one of the doors and Glokta turned away, pretending to examine the gaping wound in the wall while grimacing in agony and biting his lip to keep from wailing like a sick child. He seized hold of the broken stones at the edge of the hole with his free hand, squeezing them as hard as he could.

As the spasm passed he began to take more interest in the damage. Even this high up the wall was a good four feet thick, solidly built from rubble bonded with mortar, faced with cut stone blocks. It would take a rock from a truly mighty catapult to make such a breach, or a team of strong workmen going night and day for a week. A giant siege engine or a group of labourers would doubtless have attracted the attention of the guards. So how was it made? Glokta ran his hand over the cracked stones. He had once heard rumours that in the far south they made a kind of blasting powder. Could a little powder have done this?

The door opened and Glokta turned to see a big man ducking under the low lintel, buttoning his shirt with slow, heavy hands. A thoughtful kind of slowness. As if he could move quickly but doesn’t see the point. His hair was a tangled mass, his lumpy face badly scarred. The middle finger of his left hand was missing. Hence Ninefingers. How very imaginative.

“Sleeping late?”

The Northman nodded. “Your city is too hot for me—it keeps me up at night and makes me sleepy in the day.”

Glokta’s leg was throbbing, his back was groaning, his neck was stiff as a dry branch. It was all he could do to keep his agony a secret. He would have given anything to sprawl in that one undamaged chair and scream his head off. But I must stand, and trade words with these charlatans. “Could you explain to me what happened here?”

Ninefingers shrugged. “I needed to piss in the night. I saw someone in the room.” He had little trouble with the common tongue, it seemed, even if the content was hardly polite.

“Did you see who this someone was?”

“No. It was a woman, I saw that much.” He worked his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.

“A woman, really?” This story becomes more ridiculous by the second. “Anything else? Can we narrow our search beyond half the population?”

“It was cold. Very cold.”

“Cold?” Of course, why not? On one of the hottest nights of the year.

Glokta stared into the Northman’s eyes for a long time, and he stared back. Dark, cool blue eyes, deeply set. Not the eyes of an idiot. He may look an ape, but he doesn’t talk like one. He thinks before he speaks, then says no more than he has to. This is a dangerous man.

“What is your business in the city, Master Ninefingers?”

“I came with Bayaz. If you want to know his business you can ask him. Honestly, I don’t know.”

“He pays you then?”

“No.”

“You follow him out of loyalty?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you are his servant?”

“No. Not really.” The Northman scratched slowly at his stubbly jaw. “I don’t know what I am.”

A big, ugly liar is what you are. But how to prove it? Glokta waved his cane around the shattered chamber. “How did your intruder cause so much damage?”

“Bayaz did that.”

“He did? How?”

“Art, he calls it.”

“Art?”

“Base magic is wild and dangerous,” intoned the apprentice pompously, as though he were saying something 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 together. What if they are simply telling the truth? What if…

No! Glokta forced the idea from his mind. He lifted his head and gave the old man a sneer of his own to think about. An aging actor with a shaved head and a plausible manner. Nothing more. “If you are as you say, you have nothing to fear from my questions, or from your answers.”

The old man cracked a smile and the strange pressure was suddenly released. “Your candour at least, Inquisitor, is quite refreshing. No doubt you will do your utmost to prove your theory. I wish you luck. I, as you say, have nothing to fear. I would only ask that you find some proof of this deception before bothering us again.”

Glokta bowed stiffly. “I will try to do so,” he said, and made for the door.

“There is one more thing!” The old man was looking towards the gaping hole in the wall. “Would it be possible to find some other chambers? The wind blows rather chill through these.”

“I will look into it.”

“Good. Perhaps somewhere with fewer steps. Damn things play hell with my knees these days.” Indeed? There, at least, we can agree.

Glokta gave the three of them one last inspection. The bald old man stared back, his face a blank wall. The lanky youth glanced up anxiously then quickly turned away. The Northman was still frowning towards the latrine door. Charlatans, impostors, spies. But how to prove it? “Good day, gentlemen.” And he limped towards the stairs with as much dignity as he could muster.