‘Did Sult tell you to?’
Glokta looked round sharply. ‘He didn’t tell me not to. Just get it done.’
Severard muttered something, but his words were lost as the noise of the crowd suddenly swelled in a wave of angry jeering. Tulkis was being led out onto the scaffold. He shuffled forwards, chains rattling round his ankles. He did not cry or wail, nor did he yell in defiance. He simply looked drawn, and sad, and in some pain. There were light bruises round his face, tracks of angry red spots down his arms and legs, across his chest. Impossible to use hot needles without leaving some marks, but he looks well, considering. He was naked aside from a cloth tied round his waist. To spare the delicate sensibilities of the ladies present. Watching a man’s entrails spilling out is excellent entertainment, but the sight of his cock, well, that would be obscene.
A clerk stepped to the front of the scaffold and started reading out the prisoner’s name, the nature of the charge, the terms of his confession and his punishment, but even at this distance he could hardly be heard for the sullen muttering of the crowd, punctuated by an occasional furious scream. Glokta grimaced and worked his leg slowly back and forth, trying to loosen the cramping muscles.
The masked executioners stepped forward and took hold of the prisoner, moving with careful skill. They pulled a black bag over the envoy’s head, snapped manacles shut around his neck, his wrists, his ankles. Glokta could see the canvas moving in and out in front of his mouth. The desperate last breaths. Does he pray, now? Does he curse and rage? Who can know, and what difference can it make?
They hoisted him up into the air, spreadeagled on the frame. Most of his weight was on his arms. Enough on the collar round his neck to choke him, not quite enough to kill. He struggled somewhat, of course. Entirely natural. An animal instinct to climb, to writhe, to wriggle out and breathe free. An instinct that cannot be resisted. One of the executioners went to the rack, pulled out a heavy blade, displayed it to the crowd with a flourish, the thin sun flashing briefly on its edge. He turned his back on the audience, and began to cut.
The crowd went silent. Almost deathly still, aside from the odd hushed whisper. It was a punishment that brooked no calling out. A punishment which demanded awestruck silence. A punishment to which there could be no response other than a horrified, fascinated staring. That is its design. So there was only silence, and perhaps the wet gurgling of the prisoner’s breath. Since the collar makes screaming impossible.
‘A fitting punishment, I suppose,’ whispered Ardee as she watched the envoy’s bloody gut slithering out of his body, ‘for the murderer of the Crown Prince.’
Glokta bowed his head to whisper in her ear. ‘I’m reasonably sure that he did not kill anyone. I suspect he is guilty of nothing more than being a courageous man, who came to us speaking truth and holding out the hand of peace.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Then why hang him?’
‘Because the Crown Prince has been murdered. Someone has to hang.’
‘But . . . who really killed Raynault?’
‘Someone who wants no peace between Gurkhul and the Union. Someone who wants the war between us to grow, and spread, and never end.’
‘Who could want that?’
Glokta said nothing. Who indeed?
You don’t have to admire that Fallow character, but he can certainly pick a good chair. Glokta settled back into the soft upholstery with a sigh, stretching his feet out towards the fire, working his aching ankles round and round in clicking circles.
Ardee did not seem quite so comfortable. But then this morning’s diversion was hardly a comforting spectacle. She stood frowning out of the window, thoughtful, one hand pulling nervously at a strand of hair. ‘I need a drink.’ She went to the cabinet and opened it, took out a bottle and a glass. She paused, and looked round. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me it’s a little early in the day?’
Glokta shrugged. ‘You know what the time is.’
‘I need something, after that . . .’
‘Then have something. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I’m not your brother.’
She jerked her head round and gave him a hard look, opened her mouth as though about to speak, then she shoved the bottle angrily away and the glass after it, snapped the doors of the cabinet shut. ‘Happy?’
He shrugged. ‘About as close as I get, since you ask.’
Ardee dumped herself into a chair opposite, staring sourly down at one shoe. ‘What happens now?’
‘Now? Now we will delight each other with humorous observations for a lazy hour, then a stroll into town?’ He winced. ‘Slowly, of course. Then a late lunch, perhaps, I was thinking of—’
‘I meant about the succession.’
‘Oh,’ muttered Glokta. ‘That.’ He reached round and dragged a cushion into a better position, then stretched out further with a satisfied grunt. One could almost pretend, sitting in this warm and comfortable room, in such attractive and agreeable company, that one still had some kind of life. He nearly had a smile on his face as he continued. ‘There will be a vote in Open Council. Meaning, I have no doubt, that there will be an orgy of blackmail, bribery, corruption and betrayal. A carnival of deal-making, alliance-breaking, intrigue and murder. A merry dance of fixing, of rigging, of threats and of promises. It will go on until the king dies. Then there will be a vote in Open Council.’
Ardee gave her crooked smile. ‘Even commoners’ daughters are saying the king cannot live long.’
‘Well, well,’ and Glokta raised his eyebrows. ‘Once the commoners’ daughters start saying a thing, you know it must be true.’
‘Who are the favourites?’
‘Why don’t you tell me who the favourites are?’
‘Alright, then, I will.’ She sat back, one fingertip rubbing thoughtfully at her jaw. ‘Brock, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then Barezin, I suppose, Heugen, and Isher.’
Glokta nodded. She’s no fool. ‘They’re the big four. Who else, do we think?’
‘I suppose Meed sunk his chances when he lost to the Northmen. What about Skald, the Lord Governor of Starikland?’
‘Very good. You could get long odds for him, but he’d be on the sheet—’
‘And if the Midderland candidates split the vote enough—’
‘Who knows what could happen?’ They grinned at each other for a moment. ‘At this point it really could be anyone,’ he said. ‘And then any illegitimate children of the king might also be considered . . .’
‘Bastards? Are there any?’
Glokta raised an eyebrow. ‘I believe I could point out a couple.’ She laughed, and he congratulated himself on it. ‘There are rumours, of course, as there always are. Carmee dan Roth, have you heard of her? A lady-at-court, and reckoned an exceptional beauty. She was quite a favourite with the king at one point, years ago. She disappeared suddenly and was later said to have died, perhaps in childbirth, but who can say? People love to gossip, and beautiful young women will die from time to time, without ever bearing a royal bastard.’
‘Oh, it’s true, it’s true!’ Ardee fluttered her eyelashes and pretended to swoon. ‘We certainly are a sickly breed.’
‘You are, my dear, you are. Looks are a curse. I thank my stars every day to have been cured of that.’ And he leered his toothless grin at her. ‘Members of the Open Council are flooding to the city in their scores, and I daresay many of them have never set foot in the Lords’ Round in their lives. They smell power, and they want to be a part of it. They want to get something out of it, while there’s something to be had. It might well be the only time in ten generations that the nobles get to make a real decision.’
‘But what a decision,’ muttered Ardee, shaking her head.
‘Indeed. The race could be lengthy and the competition near the front will be savage.’ If not to say lethal. ‘I would not like to discount the possibility of some outsider coming up at the last moment. Someone without enemies. A compromise candidate.’
‘What about the Closed Council?’
‘They’re forbidden from standing, of course, to ensure impartiality. ’ He snorted. ‘Impartiality! What they passionately want is to foist some nobody on the nation. Someone they can dominate and manipulate, so they can continue their private feuds uninterrupted.’
‘Is there such a candidate?’
‘Anyone with a vote is an option, so in theory there are hundreds, but of course the Closed Council cannot agree on one, and so they scramble with scant dignity behind the stronger candidates, changing their loyalties day by day, hoping to insure their futures, doing their best to stay in office. Power has shifted so quickly from them to the nobles their heads are spinning. And some of them will roll one way or another, you may depend on that.’
‘Will yours roll, do you think?’ asked Ardee, looking up at him from under her dark brows.
Glokta licked slowly at his gums. ‘If Sult’s does, it may well be that mine will follow.’
‘I hope not. You’ve been kind to me. Kinder than anyone else. Kinder than I deserve.’ It was a trick of utter frankness that he had seen her use before, but still an oddly disarming one.
‘Nonsense,’ mumbled Glokta, wriggling his shoulders in the chair, suddenly awkward. Kindness, honesty, comfortable living rooms . . . Colonel Glokta would have known what to say, but I am a stranger here. He was still groping for a reply when a sharp knocking echoed in the hallway. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’
‘Who would I be expecting? My entire acquaintance is here in the room.’
Glokta strained to listen as the front door opened, but could hear nothing more than vague muttering. The door handle turned and the maid poked her head into the room.
‘Begging your pardon, but there is a visitor for the Superior.’
‘Who?’ snapped Glokta. Severard, with news of Prince Raynault’s guard? Vitari, with some message from the Arch Lector? Some new problem that needs solving? Some new set of questions to ask?
‘He says his name is Mauthis.’
Glokta felt the whole left side of his face twitching. Mauthis? He had not thought about him for some time, but an image of the gaunt banker sprang instantly into his mind now, holding out the receipt, neatly and precisely, for Glokta to sign. A receipt for a gift of one million marks. It may be that in the future, a representative of the banking house of Valint and Balk will come to you requesting . . . favours.
Ardee was frowning over at him. ‘Something wrong?’
‘No, nothing,’ he croaked, striving to keep his voice from sounding strangled. ‘An old associate. Could you give me the room for a moment? I need to talk with this gentleman.’
‘Of course.’ She got up and started to walk to the door, her dress swishing on the carpet behind her. She paused halfway, looked over her shoulder, biting her lip. She went to the cabinet and opened it, pulled out the bottle and the glass. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I need something.’
‘Don’t we all,’ whispered Glokta at her back as she went out.
Mauthis stepped through the door a moment later. The same sharp bones in his face, the same cold eyes in deep sockets. There was something changed in his demeanour, however. A certain nervousness. A certain anxiety, perhaps?
‘Why, Master Mauthis, what an almost unbearable honour it is to—’
‘You may dispense with the pleasantries, Superior.’ His voice was shrill and grating as rusty hinges. ‘I have no ego to bruise. I prefer to speak plainly.’
‘Very well, what can I—’
‘My employers, the banking house of Valint and Balk, are not pleased with your line of investigation.’
Glokta’s mind raced. ‘My line of investigation into what?’
‘Into the murder of Crown Prince Raynault.’
‘That investigation is concluded. I assure you that I have no—’
‘Speaking plainly, Superior, they know. It would be easier for you to assume that they know everything. They usually will. The murder has been solved, with impressive speed and competence, I may say. My employers are delighted with the results. The guilty man has been brought to justice. No one will benefit from your delving any deeper into this unfortunate business.’
That is speaking very plainly indeed. But why would Valint and Balk mind my questions? They gave me money to frustrate the Gurkish, now they seem to object to my investigating a Gurkish plot? It makes no sense . . . unless the killer did not come from the South at all. Unless Prince Raynault’s murderers are much closer to home . . .
‘There are some loose ends that need to be tied,’ Glokta managed to mumble. ‘There is no need for your employers to be angry—’
Mauthis took a step forward. His forehead was glistening with sweat, though the room was not hot. ‘They are not angry, Superior. You could not have known that they would be displeased. Now you know. Were you to continue with this line of investigation, knowing that they are displeased . . . then they would be angry.’ He leaned down towards Glokta and almost whispered. ‘Please allow me to tell you, Superior, as one piece on the board to another. We do not want them angry.’ There was a strange note in his voice. He does not threaten me. He pleads.
‘Are you implying,’ Glokta murmured, scarcely moving his lips, ‘that they would inform Arch Lector Sult of their little gift to the defence of Dagoska?’
‘That is the very least of what they would do.’ Mauthis’ expression was unmistakable. Fear. Fear, in that emotionless mask of a face. Something about it left a certain bitterness on Glokta’s tongue, a certain coldness down his back, a certain tightness in his throat. It was a feeling he remembered, from long ago. It was the closest he had come to being afraid, himself, in a long time. They have me. Utterly and completely. I knew it when I signed. That was the price, and I had no choice but to pay.
Glokta swallowed. ‘You may tell your employers that there will be no further enquiries.’
Mauthis closed his eyes for a moment and blew out with evident relief. ‘I am delighted to carry that message back to them. Good day.’ And he turned and left Glokta alone in Ardee’s living room, staring at the door, and wondering what had just happened.
The Abode of Stones
The prow of the boat crunched hard into the rocky beach and stones groaned and scraped along the underside. Two of the oarsmen floundered out into the washing surf and dragged the boat a few steps further. Once it was firmly grounded they hurried back in as though the water caused intense pain. Jezal could not entirely blame them. The island at the edge of the World, the ultimate destination of their journey, the place called Shabulyan, had indeed a most forbidding appearance.
A vast mound of stark and barren rock, the cold waves clutching at its sharp promontories and clawing at its bare beaches. Above rose jagged cliffs and slopes of treacherous scree, piled steeply upwards into a menacing mountain, looming black against the dark sky.
‘Care to come ashore?’ asked Bayaz of the sailors.
The four oarsmen showed no sign of moving, and their Captain slowly shook his head. ‘We have heard bad things of this island,’ he grunted in common so heavily accented it was barely intelligible. ‘They say it is cursed. We will wait for you here.’
‘We may be some time.’
‘We will wait.’
Bayaz shrugged. ‘Wait, then.’ He stepped from the boat and waded through knee-high breakers. Slowly and somewhat reluctantly the rest of the party followed him through the icy sea and up onto the beach.
It was a bleak and blasted place, a place fit only for stones and cold water. Waves foamed greedily up the shore and sucked jealously back out through the shingle. A pitiless wind cut across this wasteland and straight through Jezal’s wet trousers, whipping his hair in his eyes and chilling him to the marrow. It snatched away any trace of excitement he might have felt at reaching the end of their journey. It found chinks and holes in the boulders and made them sing, and sigh, and wail in a mournful choir.
There was precious little vegetation. Some colourless grass,
ill with salt, some thorny bushes more dead than alive. A few clumps of withered trees, higher up away from the sea, clung desperately to the unyielding stone, curved and bent over in the direction of the wind as though they might be torn away at any moment. Jezal felt their pain.
‘A charming spot!’ he shouted, his words flying off into the gale as soon as they left his lips. ‘If you are an enthusiast for rocks!’
‘Where does the wise man hide a stone?’ Bayaz hurled back at him. ‘Among a thousand stones! Among a million!’
There certainly was no shortage of stones here. Boulders, rocks, pebbles and gravel also were in abundant supply. It was the profound lack of anything else that rendered the place so singularly unpleasant. Jezal glanced back over his shoulder, feeling a sudden stab of panic at the notion of the four oarsmen shoving the boat back out to sea and leaving them marooned.
But they were still where they had been, their skiff rocking gently near the beach. Beyond them, on the churning ocean, Cawneil’s ill-made tub of a ship sat at anchor, its sails lowered, its mast a black line against the troubled sky, moving slowly back and forward with the stirring of the uneasy waves.
‘We need to find somewhere out of the wind!’ Logen bellowed.
‘Is there anywhere out of the wind in this bloody place?’ Jezal shouted back.
‘There’ll have to be! We need a fire!’
Longfoot pointed up towards the cliffs. ‘Perhaps up there we might find a cave, or a sheltered spot. I will lead you!’
They clambered up the beach, first sliding in the shingle, then hopping from teetering rock to rock. The edge of the World hardly seemed worth all the effort, as far as final destinations went. They could have found cold stone and cold water in plenty without ever leaving the North. Logen had a bad feeling about this barren place, but there was no point in saying so. He’d had a bad feeling for the last ten years. Call on this spirit, find this Seed, and then away, and quickly. What then, though? Back to the North? Back to Bethod, and his sons, racks full of scores and rivers of bad blood? Logen winced. None of that held much appeal. Better to do it, than to live in fear of it, his father would have said, but then his father said all kinds of things, and a lot of them weren’t much use.
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 117