Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

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 façade we are weak. It is hardly a secret that the King has become entirely unable to make his own decisions. Crown Prince Ladisla is a fop, surrounded by flatterers and fools, caring for nothing but gambling and clothes. Prince Raynault is far better fitted to rule, but he is the younger brother. The Closed Council, whose task it should be to steer this leaking vessel, is packed with frauds and schemers. Some may be loyal, some are definitely not, each intent on pulling the King his own way.” How frustrating, when I suppose they should all be pulling him in yours?

“Meanwhile, the Union is beset with enemies, dangers outside our borders, and dangers within. Gurkhul has a new and vigorous Emperor, fitting his country for another war. The Northmen are up in arms as well, skulking on the borders of Angland. In the Open Council the noblemen clamour for ancient rights, while in the villages the peasants clamour for new ones.” He gave a deep sigh. “Yes, the old order crumbles, and no one has the heart or the stomach to support it.”

Sult paused, staring up at one of the portraits: a hefty, bald man dressed all in white. Glokta recognised him well enough. Zoller, the greatest of all Arch Lectors. Tireless champion of the Inquisition, hero to the torturer, scourge of the disloyal. He glared down balefully from the wall, as though even beyond death he could burn traitors with a glance.

“Zoller,” growled Sult. “Things were different in his day, I can tell you. No whinging peasants then, no swindling merchants, no sulking noblemen. If men forgot their place they were reminded with hot iron, and any carping judge who dared to whine about it was never heard from again. The Inquisition was a noble institution, filled with the best and the brightest. To serve their King and to root out disloyalty were their only desires, and their only rewards.” Oh, things were grand in the old days.

The Arch Lector slid back into his seat and leaned forward across the table. “Now we have become a place where third sons of impoverished noblemen can line their pockets with bribes, or where near-criminal scum can indulge a passion for torture. Our influence with the King has been steadily eroded, our budgets have been steadily cut. Once we were feared and respected, Glokta, but now…” We’re a miserable sham. Sult frowned, “Well, less so. Intrigues and treasons abound, and I fear that the Inquisition is no longer equal to its task. Too many of the Superiors can no longer be trusted. They are no longer concerned with the interests of the King, or of the state, or of anybody’s interests beyond their own.” The Superiors? Not to be trusted? I swoon with the shock. Sult’s frown grew still deeper. “And now Feekt is dead.”

Glokta looked up. Now that is news. “The Lord Chancellor?”

“It will become public knowledge tomorrow morning. He died suddenly a few nights ago, while you were busy with your friend Rews. There are still some questions surrounding his death, but the man was nearly ninety. The surprise is that he lasted this long. The golden Chancellor they called him, the greatest politician of his day. Even now they are setting his likeness in stone, for a statue on the Kingsway.” Sult snorted to himself. “The greatest gift that any of us can hope for.”

The Arch Lector’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “If you have any childish notions that the Union is controlled by its King, or by those prating blue-blood fools on the Open Council, you can let them wilt now. The Closed Council is where the power lies. More than ever since the King’s illness. Twelve men, in twelve big, uncomfortable chairs, myself among them. Twelve men with very different ideas, and for twenty years, war and peace, Feekt held us in balance. He played off the Inquisition against the judges, the bankers against the military. He was the axle on which the Kingdom turned, the foundation on which it rested, and his death has left a hole. All kinds of gaping holes, and people will be rushing to fill them. I have a feeling that whining ass Marovia, that bleeding heart of a High Justice, that self-appointed champion of the common man, will be first in the queue. It is a fluid, and a dangerous, situation.” The Arch Lector planted his fists firmly on the table before him. “We must ensure that the wrong people do not take advantage of it.”

Glokta nodded. I think I take your meaning, Arch Lector. We must ensure that it is we who take advantage, and no one else.

“It need hardly be said that the post of Lord Chancellor is one of the most powerful in the realm. The gathering of taxes, the treasury, the King’s mints, all come under his auspices. Money, Glokta, money. And money is power, I need hardly tell you. A new Chancellor will be appointed tomorrow. The foremost candidate was our erstwhile Master of the Mints, Sepp dan Teufel.” I see. Something tells me he will no longer be under consideration.