The Ideal Audience

Arch Lector Sult was standing by his huge window when Glokta arrived, tall and imposing as always in his spotless white coat, gazing out across the spires of the University towards the House of the Maker. A pleasant breeze was washing through the great circular room, ruffling the old man’s shock of white hair and making the many papers on his enormous desk crackle and flutter.

He turned as Glokta shuffled into the room. “Inquisitor,” he said simply, holding out his white gloved hand, the great stone on his ring of office catching the bright sunlight from the open window and glittering with purple fire.

“I serve and obey, your Eminence.” Glokta took the hand in his, and grimaced as he bent down to kiss the ring, his cane trembling with the effort of keeping upright. Damn it if the old bastard doesn’t hold his hand a little lower every time, just to watch me sweat.

Sult poured himself into his tall chair in one smooth motion, elbows on the table top, fingers pressed together before him. Glokta could only stand and wait, his leg burning from the familiar climb through the House of Questions, sweat tickling his scalp, and wait for the invitation to sit.

“Please be seated,” murmured the Arch Lector, then waited while Glokta winced his way into one of the lesser chairs at the round table. “Now tell me, has your investigation met with any success?”

“Some. There was a disturbance at our visitors’ chambers the other night. They claim that—”

“Plainly an attempt to add credence to this outrageous story. Magic!” Sult snorted his disdain. “Have you discovered how the breach in the wall was really made?”

Magic, perhaps? “I am afraid not, Arch Lector.”

“That is unfortunate. Some proof of how this particular trick was managed might be of use to us. Still,” and Sult sighed as though he had expected no better, “one cannot have everything. Did you speak to these… people?”

“I did. Bayaz, if I may use the name, is a most slippery talker. Without the aid of anything more persuasive than the questions themselves, I could get nothing from him. His friend the Northman also bears some study.”

One crease formed across Sult’s smooth forehead. “You suspect some connection with this savage Bethod?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?” echoed the Arch Lector sourly, as though the very word was poison. “What else?”

“There has been a new addition to the merry band.”

“I know. The Navigator.”

Why do I even bother? “Yes, your Eminence, a Navigator.”

“Good luck to them. Those penny-pinching fortune-tellers are always more trouble than they’re worth. Blubbering on about God and what have you. Greedy savages.”

“Absolutely. More trouble than they’re worth, Arch Lector, though it would be interesting to know why they have employed one.”

“And why have they?”

Glokta paused for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Huh,” snorted Sult. “What else?”

“Following their night-time visitation, our friends were relocated to a suite of rooms beside the park. There was a most grisly death a few nights ago, not twenty paces from their windows.”

“Superior Goyle mentioned this. He said it was nothing to concern myself about, that there was no connection with our visitors. I left the matter in his hands.” He frowned at Glokta. “Did I make the wrong decision?”

Oh dear me, I need not think too long over this one. “Absolutely not, Arch Lector.” Glokta bowed his head in deep respect. “If the Superior is satisfied, then so am I.”

“Hmm. So what you are telling me is that, all in all, we have nothing.”

Not quite nothing. “There is this.” Glokta fished the ancient scroll from his coat pocket and held it out.

Sult had a look of mild curiosity on his face as he took it and unrolled it on the table, stared down at the meaningless symbols. “What is it?”

Hah. So you don’t know everything. “I suppose you could say that it’s a piece of history. An account of how Bayaz defeated the Master Maker.”

“A piece of history.” Sult tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table top. “And how does it help us?” How does it help you, you mean?

“According to this, it was our friend Bayaz who sealed up the House of the Maker.” Glokta nodded towards the looming shape beyond the window. “Sealed it up… and took the key.”

“Key? That tower has always been sealed. Always. As far as I am aware there is not even a keyhole.”

“Those were precisely my thoughts, your Eminence.”

“Hmm.” Slowly, Sult began to smile. “Stories are all in how you tell them, eh? Our friend Bayaz knows that well enough, I dare say. He would use our own stories against us, but now we switch cups with him. I enjoy the irony.” He picked up the scroll again. “Is it authentic?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course not.” Sult rose gracefully from his chair and paced slowly over to the window, tapping the rolled-up scroll against his fingers. He stood there for some time, staring out. When he turned, he had developed a look of the deepest self-satisfaction.

“It occurs to me that there will be a feast tomorrow evening, a celebration for our new champion swordsman, Captain Luthar.” That cheating little worm. “The great and the good will be in attendance: the Queen, both Princes, most of the Closed Council, several leading noblemen.” Not forgetting the King himself. It has come to something when his presence at dinner is not even worth mentioning. “That would be the ideal audience for our little unmasking, don’t you think?”

Glokta cautiously bowed his head. “Of course, Arch Lector. The ideal audience.” Providing it works. It might be an embarrassing audience to fail in front of.

But Sult was already anticipating his triumph. “The perfect gathering, and just enough time to make the necessary arrangements. Send a messenger to our friend the First of the Magi, and let him know that he and his companions are cordially invited to a dinner tomorrow evening. I trust that you will attend yourself?”

Me? Glokta bowed again. “I would not miss it for anything, your Eminence.”

“Good. Bring your Practicals with you. Our friends might become violent when they realise the game is up. Barbarians of this sort, who can tell what they might be capable of?” A barely perceptible motion of the Arch Lector’s gloved hand indicated that the interview was finished. All those stairs, just for this?

Sult was looking down his nose at the scroll as Glokta finally reached the threshold. “The ideal audience,” he was muttering, as the heavy doors clicked shut.

In the North, a chieftain’s own Carls ate with him every night in his hall. The women brought the food in wooden bowls. You’d stab the lumps of meat out with a knife and with a knife you’d cut them up, then you’d stuff the bits in your mouth with your fingers. If you found some bone or gristle you’d toss it down on the straw for the dogs. The table, if there was one, was a few slabs of ill-fitting wood, stained and gouged and scarred from having knives stuck in it. The Carls sat on long benches, with maybe a chair or two for the Named Men. It’d be dark, especially in the long winters, and smoky from the fire-pit and the chagga pipes. There’d often be singing of songs, usually shouting of good-natured insults, sometimes screaming of bad-natured ones, and always a lot of drink. The only rule was that you waited for the chief to begin.

Logen had no idea what the rules might be here, but he guessed there were a lot.

The guests were sat round three long tables set out in a horseshoe, sixty people or more. Everyone had their own chair, and the dark wood of the table tops was polished to a high sheen, made bright enough for Logen to see the blurry outline of his face in by hundreds of candles scattered round the walls and down the tables. Every guest had at least three blunt knives, and several other things scattered about in front of them that Logen had no idea of the use for, including a big flat circle of shiny metal.

There was no shouting and certainly no singing, just a low murmur like a beehive as people muttered between themselves, leaning towards each other as if they were swapping secrets. The clothes were stranger than ever. Old men wore heavy robes of black, red and gold, trimmed with shining fur, even in the heat.

Young men wore tight fitting jackets in bright crimson, green, or blue, festooned with ropes and knots of gold and silver thread. Women were hung with chains and rings of glittering gold and flashing jewels, wearing strange dresses of vivid cloth that were ridiculously loose and billowing in places, painfully tight in others, and left others still entirely, distractingly bare.

Even the servants were dressed like lords, prowling around behind the tables, leaning forward silently to fill goblets with sweet, thin wine. Logen had already drunk a deal of it, and the bright room had taken on a pleasant glow.

The problem was the lack of food. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach was growling. He’d been eyeing the jars of plants sat on the tables before the guests. They had bright flowers on them, and didn’t look much like food to him, but then they ate some strange things in this country.

There was nothing for it but to try. He snatched one of the things from the jar, a long piece of green plant with a yellow flower on the end. He took a nibble from the bottom of the stem. Tasteless and watery, but at least it was crunchy. He took a larger bite and munched on it without relish.

“I don’t think they’re meant for eating.” Logen glanced round, surprised to hear the Northern tongue spoken here, surprised that anyone was speaking to him at all. His neighbour, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, lined face, was leaning towards him with an embarrassed smile. Logen recognised him vaguely. He’d been at the sword game—holding the blades for the lad from the gate.

“Ah,” mumbled Logen round his mouthful of plant. The taste of the stuff got worse with time. “Sorry,” he said once he had forced it down his throat, “I don’t know much about these things.”

“Honestly, neither do I. How did it taste?”

“Like shit.” Logen held the half-eaten flower uncertainly in his fingers. The tiled floor was spotlessly clean. It hardly seemed right to toss the thing under the table. There were no dogs anyway, and even if there had been he doubted they’d have eaten the thing. A dog would have had more sense than him. He dropped it on the metal platter and wiped his fingers on his chest, hoping that no one had noticed.

“My name is West,” said the man, offering his hand, “I come from Angland.”

Logen gave the hand a squeeze. “Ninefingers. A Brynn, from way up north of the High Places.”

“Ninefingers?” Logen waggled his stump at him and the man nodded. “Ah, I see.” He smiled as though remembering something funny. “I heard a song once, in Angland, about a nine-fingered man. What was he called now? The Bloody-Nine! That was it!” Logen felt his grin slipping. “One of those Northern songs, you know the kind, all violence. He cut off heads by the cartload, this Bloody-Nine, and burned towns, and mixed blood with his beer and whatnot. That wasn’t you, was it?”

The man was making a joke. Logen laughed nervously. “No, no, I never heard of him,” but luckily West had already moved on.

“Tell me, you look like you’ve seen some battles in your time.”

“I’ve been in some scrapes.” It was pointless to deny it.

“Do you know of this one they call the King of the Northmen? This man Bethod?”

Logen glanced sideways. “I know of him.”

“You fought against him in the wars?”

Logen grimaced. The sour taste of the plant seemed to be lingering in his mouth. He picked up his goblet and took a swallow. “Worse,” he said slowly as he set it down. “I fought for him.”

This only seemed to make the man more curious than ever. “Then you know about his tactics, and his troops. His way of making war?” Logen nodded. “What can you tell me about him?”

“That he’s a most cunning and ruthless opponent, with no pity or scruple in him. Make no mistake, I hate the man, but there’s been no war leader in his league since the days of Skarling Hoodless. He has that in him which men respect, or fear, or at least obey. He pushes his men hard, so he can make the field first and choose his own ground, but they march hard for him because he brings them victories. He’s cautious when he must be, and fearless when he must be, but neglects no detail. He delights in every trick of war—in setting traps and ambushes, in mounting feints and deceptions, in sending sudden raids against the unwary. Look for him where you expect him least, and expect him to be strongest where he seems the weakest. Beware him most of all when he seems to run. Most men fear him, and those that don’t are fools.”

Logen picked up the flower from the plate and started snapping it into pieces. “His armies are grouped about the chieftains of the clans, some of them strong war leaders in their own right. Most of his fighters are Thralls, peasants pressed into service, lightly armed with spear or bow, fast moving in loose groups. In the past they were ill-trained, and taken from their farms for only a short time, but the wars have been raging for so long that many of them have become hard fighters, and show scant mercy.”

He began to arrange the bits of plant, imagining they were groups of men and the plate a hill. “Each chieftain keeps Carls besides, his own household warriors, well armed and armoured, skilled with axe and sword and spear, well disciplined. Some few have horses, but Bethod will keep those out of sight, waiting for the best moment to charge or pursue.” He pulled the yellow petals from the flower, and they became horsemen hidden on the flanks. “Last there are the Known Men, the Named Men, those warriors who’ve earned great respect in battle. They might lead groups of Carls on the field, or act as scouts or raiders, sometimes far in the enemy’s rear.”

He realised the plate was covered with a mess of broken pieces of plant, and brushed them hurriedly off onto the table. “That’s the tradition of war in the North, but Bethod’s always had a fancy for new ideas. He’s read books, and studied other ways of fighting, and often talked of buying flatbows, and heavy armour, and strong war-horses from the southern traders, and of making an army to be feared throughout the world.”

Logen became aware he had been talking solidly for ages. He hadn’t said half that many words together in years, but West was staring at him with a look of rapt attention. “You speak like a man who knows his business.”

“Well, you’ve happened upon the one subject on which I might be reckoned an expert.”

“What advice would you give to a man who had to fight a war against Bethod?”

Logen frowned. “Be careful. And watch your back.”

Jezal was not enjoying himself. At first, of course, it had seemed a delightful idea, just the thing he had always dreamed of: a celebration in his honour, attended by so many of the Union’s greatest. Surely it was only the start of his wonderful new life as a champion of the Contest. The great things which everyone had predicted, no, promised for him were almost arrived, poised like over-ripe fruit to drop from the tree and into his lap. Promotions and glory were sure to follow close behind. Perhaps they would make him Major tonight, and he would go to the war in Angland as commander of a full battalion…

But, strangely, it appeared that most of the guests were more interested in their own affairs. They chattered to each other about government matters, about the business of merchant houses, about issues of land, and title, and politics. Fencing, and his remarkable skill at it, were scarcely mentioned. No immediate promotion had been forthcoming. He simply had to sit there, and smile, and accept the odd lukewarm congratulation from strangers in splendid clothes who barely even looked him in the eye. A wax effigy could have done the same job. He had to admit, the adulation of the commoners in the arena had been considerably more gratifying. At least they had sounded as if they meant it.

Still, he had never before been within the palace compound, a fortress within the fortress of the Agriont where few indeed were permitted to tread. Now he was seated at the top table in the King’s own dining hall, though Jezal did not doubt that his Majesty took the majority of his meals propped up in bed, and most likely had them fed to him with a spoon.

There was a stage set into the wall at the far end of the room. Jezal had once heard that Ostus, the child King, had jesters perform for him at every meal. Morlic the Mad, by contrast, had staged executions there to go with his dinner. King Casamir, it was said, had likenesses of his worst enemies shout insults at him from that stage while he took his breakfast every morning, to keep his hatred for them fresh. The curtains were closed now, though. Jezal would have to look for his entertainment elsewhere, and in this regard the pickings were slim indeed.

Marshal Varuz prattled on in his ear. He, at least, was still interested in fencing. Unfortunately, he talked of nothing else. “I never saw such a thing. The whole city is buzzing with it. Most remarkable bout that anyone’s ever seen! I swear, you’re better even than Sand dan Glokta used to be, and I never thought to see his like again! I never dreamed you had it in you to fight like that, Jezal, never had the slightest inkling!”

“Mmm,” said Jezal.

The Crown Prince Ladisla and his bride-to-be, Terez of Talins, made a dazzling couple at the top of the table, just beside the dozing King. They were oblivious to all that was going on around them, but hardly in the way that one might hope for from two young lovers. They were arguing viciously in scarcely hushed voices, while their neighbours studiously pretended not to suck in every word.

“…well I’ll be going to war soon, in Angland, so you need not suffer me too much longer!” whined Ladisla. “I might be killed! Perhaps that would make your Highness happy?”

“Pray don’t die on my account,” returned Terez, her Styrian accent dripping venom, “but if you must, you must. I suppose I will learn to bear the sorrow…”

Somebody nearer at hand distracted Jezal by thumping on the table. “Damn these commoners! Damn peasantry’s up in arms in Starikland! Lazy dogs, they refuse to work a stroke!”

“It’s these taxes,” grumbled the man’s neighbour, “these war taxes have them all stirred up. Have you heard about this damn character they call the Tanner? Some bloody peasant, preaching revolution, open as you please! I heard that one of the King’s collectors was set on by a mob, not a mile outside the walls of Keln. One of the King’s collectors, I say! By a mob! Not a mile outside the city walls—”

“We’ve damn well brought it on ourselves!” The speaker’s face was out of sight but Jezal recognised him by the gold-embroidered cuffs on his gown. Marovia, the High Justice. “Treat a man like a dog and sooner or later he’ll bite you, it’s a simple fact. Our role as governors, and as noblemen, is surely to respect and protect the common man, rather than to oppress and scorn him?”

“I wasn’t talking about scorn, Lord Marovia, or oppression, just about them paying what’s due to us as their landlords, and for that matter their natural betters.”

Marshal Varuz, meanwhile, had not let up for an instant. “It was quite a thing, eh? The way you put him down, one steel against two!” The old soldier swished his hand around in the air. “The whole town’s buzzing. You’re bound for great things now my boy, mark my words. Bound for great things. I’ll be damned if you don’t have my seat on the Closed Council one day!”

It really was too much. Jezal had put up with the man for all those months. He had somehow imagined that if he won that would be the end of it, but it seemed he would be disappointed in this, as in so much else. It was strange, but Jezal had never fully realised before what a boring old imbecile the Lord Marshal was. He was realising now though, and no mistake.

To further add to his dismay, there were several people seated about the tables who would most definitely not have been among his chosen guests. He supposed he could make a dispensation for Sult, the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, since he sat on the Closed Council and was without doubt a powerful figure, but Jezal could not comprehend why he might have brought that bastard Glokta with him. The cripple looked even more ill than usual, twitching eyes sunken in dark circles. For some reason he was occasionally shooting grim and suspicious glances at Jezal as though he suspected him of some crime or other. It was a damn cheek, what with it being his feast and all.

Even worse, on the other side of the room was that old, bald man, the one who had called himself Bayaz. Jezal had still not got to the bottom of his strange words of congratulation at the Contest—or his father’s reaction to the man, for that matter. And he had his hideous friend, the nine-fingered barbarian, beside him.

Major West had the misfortune of being seated next to the primitive, but he was making the best of it; indeed, the two were engaged in a lively conversation. The Northman broke into sudden peals of laughter and thumped the table with his big fist, making the glasses rattle. At least they were enjoying themselves at his party, Jezal thought sourly, but he almost wished he was down there with them.

Still, he knew that he wanted to be a big, important man some day. To wear things with a lot of fur, and a heavy golden chain of office. To have people bow and scrape and fawn before him. He had made that decision long ago, and he supposed he still liked the idea. It was just that, up close, the whole thing seemed so awfully false and boring. He would much, much rather have been on his own with Ardee, even though he had seen her the night before. There was nothing boring about her…

“…the savages are closing on Ostenhorm, that’s what I heard!” someone shouted over on Jezal’s left. “The Lord Governor, Meed, he’s raising an army and has sworn to turn them out of Angland!”

“Hah. Meed? That swollen-headed old fool couldn’t turn a pie out of a dish!”

“Enough to beat these Northern animals though, what? One good Union man’s worth ten of their kind.

Jezal heard Terez’ voice cutting suddenly shrill above the hubbub, almost loud enough to be heard at the far end of the room, “…of course I will marry where my father commands me, but I don’t have to like it!” She appeared so vicious at that moment that he would not have been surprised to see her stab the Crown Prince in the face with her fork. Jezal felt somewhat gratified to see that he was not the only one who had trouble with women.

“…oh yes, a remarkable performance! Everyone’s talking about it,” Varuz was still droning.

Jezal squirmed in his chair. How long was this bloody business going to take? He felt suffocated. He glanced across the faces again and caught Glokta’s eye, staring at him with that grim, suspicious look on his wasted face. Jezal still couldn’t meet that gaze for long, his party or no. What the hell did the cripple have against him anyhow?

The little bastard. He cheated. Somehow. I know it. Glokta’s eyes tracked slowly across the table opposite until they lighted on Bayaz. The old fraud was sitting there, quite at home. And he had some part in it. They cheated, together. Somehow.

“My lords and ladies!” The chatter faded as the Lord Chamberlain rose to address the room. “I would like to welcome you all, on his Majesty’s behalf, to this humble gathering.” The King himself stirred briefly, gazed vacantly about him, blinked, then closed his eyes. “We are gathered, of course, in honour of Captain Jezal dan Luthar, who has recently added his name to that most select roll of honour: those swordsman who have been victorious at the summer Contest.” A few glasses were raised and there were some half-hearted mumblings of agreement.

“I recognise several other winners among the assembly here today, many of them now the holders of high office: Lord Marshal Varuz, Commander Valdis of the Knights Herald, Major West down there, now on Marshal Burr’s staff, of course. Even I was a winner in my day.” He smiled and looked down at his bulging paunch. “Though my day was some time ago, of course.” A polite ripple of laughter passed round the room. I notice that I don’t get a mention. Not all winners are enviable, eh?

“Victors at the Contest,” continued the Lord Chamberlain, “have so often gone on to great things. I hope, and indeed we all hope, that it may prove so for our young friend, Captain Luthar.” I hope he meets a slow death in Angland, the cheating little bastard. But Glokta raised his glass along with everyone else to toast the arrogant ass, while Luthar sat there, loving every instant of it.

And to think. I sat in that very chair, being applauded and envied and clapped on the back after I won the Contest. Different men in the big clothes, different faces sweating in the heat, but nothing very much has changed. Was my grin really any less smug? Of course not. If anything I was worse. But at least I earned it.

Such was Lord Hoffs commitment that he did not stop toasting until his goblet was entirely empty, then he shoved it back on the table and licked his lips. “And now, before the food arrives, a small surprise has been prepared by my colleague Arch Lector Sult, in honour of another of our guests. I hope you will all find it diverting.” And the Lord Chamberlain sat heavily back down, holding his empty goblet out for more wine.

Glokta glanced across at Sult. A surprise, from the Arch Lector? Bad news for somebody.

The heavy red curtains of the stage rolled slowly back. They revealed an old man lying on the boards, his white garment daubed with colourful blood. A broad canvas behind depicted a forest scene beneath a starry sky. It reminded Glokta rather unpleasantly of the mural in the round room. The room beneath Severard’s crumbling pile by the docks.

A second old man swept on from the wings: a tall, slender man with remarkably fine, sharp features. His head was shaved bald and he had grown a short white beard, but Glokta recognised him immediately. Iosiv Lestek, one of the city’s most respected actors. He gave a mannered start as he noticed the bloody corpse.

“Oooooooh!” he wailed, spreading his arms wide in an actor’s approximation of shock and despair. It was a truly enormous voice, loud enough to make the rafters shake. Confident that he had the undivided attention of the chamber, Lestek began to intone his lines, hands sweeping through the air, towering passions sweeping across his face.

So here, at last, my master Juvens lies,

And with his death all hope of peace now dies,

By Kanedias’ treachery undone.

His passing is the setting of the sun

Upon an age.

The old actor threw back his head, and Glokta saw tears sparkling in his eyes. A neat trick, to cry on demand like that. A lonely drop trickled slowly down his cheek, and the audience sat spellbound. He turned once again to the body.

Here brother murders brother. All slow time

Can never have recorded such a crime.

I half expect to see the stars go out.

Why does the ground not open up and spout

Some raging flame?

He threw himself down on his knees and beat upon his ageing breast.

Oh bitter fate, I would most happily

Now join my master, but it cannot be!

For when a great man dies, we that remain

Though in a narrowed world, must brave the pain

And struggle onward.

Lestek looked slowly up towards the audience, slowly clambered to his feet, his expression shifting from deepest sorrow to grimmest determination.

For though the Maker’s house is locked and barred,

All carved from rock and steel, all wondrous hard,

If I must wait until that steel is rust,

Or with my bare hands crush that rock to dust,

I’ll have my vengeance!

The actor’s eyes flashed fire as he flicked out his robe and strode from the stage to rapturous applause. It was a condensed version of a familiar piece, often performed. Although rarely so well. Glokta was surprised to find himself clapping. Quite the performance so far. Nobility, passion, command. A great deal more convincing than another fake Bayaz I could mention. He sat back in his chair, easing his left leg out under the table, and prepared to enjoy the show.

Logen watched with his face screwed up in confusion. He guessed that this was one of the spectacles that Bayaz had spoken of, but his grip on the language wasn’t good enough to catch the details.

They swept up and down the stage with much sighing and waving of their hands, dressed in bright costumes and speaking in some kind of chant. Two of them were supposed to be dark-skinned, he thought, but were clearly pale men with black paint on their faces. In another scene, the one playing Bayaz whispered to a woman through a door, seeming to plead with her to open it, only the door was a piece of painted wood stood up on its own in the middle of the stage, and the woman was a boy in a dress. It would have been easier, Logen thought, to step around the piece of wood and speak to him or her directly.

Logen was sure of one thing, though—the real Bayaz was seriously displeased. He could feel his annoyance mounting with each scene. It reached a teeth-grinding peak when the villain of the piece, a big man with a glove and an eye-patch, pushed the boy in the dress over some wooden battlements. It was plain that he or she was meant to have fallen a great distance, even though Logen could hear him hit something soft just behind the stage.

“How fucking dare they?” the real Bayaz growled under his breath. Logen would have got all the way out of the room if he could’ve, but he had to be content with shuffling his chair towards West, as far from the Magus’ fury as possible.

On the stage, the other Bayaz was battling the old man with the glove and the eye-patch, although they fought by walking round in circles and talking a lot. Finally the villain followed the boy off the back of the stage, but not before his adversary took an enormous golden key from him.

“There’s more detail here than in the original,” muttered the real Bayaz, as his counterpart held up the key and spouted some more verse. Logen was little further on when the performance came to a close, but he caught the last two lines, just before the old actor bowed low:

Pray your indulgence, at our story’s end,

Our humble purpose was not to offend.

“My fucking old arse it wasn’t,” hissed Bayaz through gritted teeth, while fixing a grin and clapping enthusiastically.

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.