Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

Sult’s lip curled. “Teufel was closely linked with the merchant guilds, and the Mercers in particular.” His sneer became a scowl. “In addition to which he was an associate of High Justice Marovia. So, you see, he would hardly have made a suitable Lord Chancellor.” No indeed. Hardly suitable. “Surveyor General Halleck is a far better choice, in my opinion.”

Glokta looked towards the door. “Him? Lord Chancellor?”

Sult got up smiling and moved over to a cabinet against the wall. “There really is no one else. Everyone hates him, and he hates everyone, except me. Furthermore, he is a hard-nosed conservative, who despises the merchant class and everything they stand for.” He opened the cabinet and took out two glasses and an ornate decanter. “If not exactly a friendly face on the Council, he will at least be a sympathetic one, and damned hostile toward everyone else. I can hardly think of a more suitable candidate.”

Glokta nodded. “He seems honest.” But not so honest that I’d trust him to put me in the bath. Would you, your Eminence?

“Yes,” said Sult, “he will be very valuable to us.” He poured out two glasses of rich red wine. “And just as a bonus, I was able to arrange for a sympathetic new Master of the Mints as well. I hear that the Mercers are absolutely biting their tongues off with fury. Marovia’s none too happy either, the bastard.” Sult chuckled to himself. “All good news, and we have you to thank.” He held out one of the glasses.

Poison? A slow death twitching and puking on the Arch Lectors lovely mosaic floor? Or just pitching onto my face on his table? But there was really no option but to grasp the glass and take a hearty swig. The wine was unfamiliar but delicious. Probably from somewhere very beautiful and far away. At least if I die up here I won ’ t have to make it back down all those steps. But the Arch Lector was drinking too, all smiles and good grace. So I suppose I will last out the afternoon, after all.

“Yes, we have made a good first step. These are dangerous times alright, and yet danger and opportunity often walk hand in hand.” Glokta felt a strange sensation creeping up his back. Is that fear, or ambition, or both? “I need someone to help me put matters in order. Someone who does not fear the Superiors, or the merchants, or even the Closed Council. Someone who can be relied upon to act with subtlety, and discretion, and ruthlessness. Someone whose loyalty to the Union is beyond question, but who has no friends within the government.” Someone who’s hated by everyone? Someone to take the fall if things turn sour? Someone who will have few mourners at their funeral?

“I have need of an Inquisitor Exempt, Glokta. Someone to operate beyond the Superiors’ control, but with my full authority. Someone answerable only to me.” The Arch Lector raised an eyebrow, as though the thought had only just come to him. “It strikes me that you are exceptionally well suited to this task. What do you think?”

I think the holder of such a post would have a great many enemies and only one friend. Glokta peered up at the Arch Lector. And that friend might not be so very reliable. I think the holder of such a post might not last long. “Could I have some time to consider it?”

“No.”

Danger and opportunity often walk hand in hand… “Then I accept.”

“Excellent. I do believe this is the start of a long and productive relationship.” Sult smiled at him over the rim of his glass. “You know, Glokta, of all the merchants grubbing away out there, it is the Mercers I find the most unpalatable. It was largely through their influence that Westport entered the Union, and it was because of Westport’s money that we won the Gurkish war. The King rewarded them, of course, with priceless trading rights, but ever since then their arrogance has been insufferable. Anyone would have thought they fought the battles themselves, for the airs they have put on, and the liberties they have taken. The honourable Guild of Mercers,” he sneered. “It occurs to me, now that your friend Rews has given us the means to hook them in so deeply, it would be a shame to let them wriggle free.”

Glokta was much surprised, though he thought he hid it well. To go further? Why? The Mercers wriggle free and they keep on paying, and that keeps all kinds of people happy. As things are, they’re scared and soft—wondering who Rews named, who might be next in the chair. If we go further they may be hurt, or finished entirely. Then they’ll stop paying, and a lot of people will be unhappy. Some of them in this very building. “I can easily continue my investigations, your Eminence, if you would like me to.” Glokta took another sip. It really was an excellent wine.

“We must be cautious. Cautious and very thorough. The Mercers’ money flows like milk. They have many friends, even amongst the highest circles of the nobility. Brock, Heugen, Isher, and plenty more besides. Some of the very greatest men in the land. They’ve all been known to suck at that tit, one time or another, and babies will cry when their milk is snatched away.” A cruel grin flickered across Sult’s face. “But still, if children are to learn discipline, they must sometimes be made to weep… who did that worm Rews name in his confession?”

Glokta leaned forward painfully and slid Rews’ paper of confession toward him, unfolded it and scanned the list of names from bottom to top.

“Sepp dan Teufel, we all know.”

“Oh, we know and love him, Inquisitor,” said Sult, beaming down, “but I feel we may safely cross him off the list. Who else?”

“Well, let’s see,” Glokta took a leisurely look back at the paper. “There’s Harod Polst, a Mercer.” A nobody.

Sult waved his hand impatiently. “He’s nobody.”

“Solimo Scandi, a Mercer from Westport.” Also nobody.

“No, no, Glokta, we can do better than Solimo what’s-his-name can’t we? These little Mercers are of no real interest. Pull up the root, and the leaves die by themselves.”

“Quite so, Arch Lector. We have Villem dan Robb, minor nobility, holds a junior customs post.” Sult looked thoughtful, shook his head. “Then there’s—”

“Wait! Villem dan Robb…” The Arch Lector snapped his fingers, “His brother Kiral is one of the Queen’s gentlemen. He snubbed me at a social gathering.” Sult smiled. “Yes, Villem dan Robb, bring him in.”

And so we go deeper. “I serve and obey, your Eminence. Is there anyone’s name in particular that need be mentioned?” Glokta set down his empty glass.

“No.” The Arch Lector turned away and waved his hand again. “Any of ’em, all of ’em. I don’t care.”

The lake stretched away, fringed by steep rocks and dripping greenery, surface pricked by the rain, flat and grey as far as the eye could see. Logen’s eye couldn’t see too far in this weather, it had to be said. The opposite shore could have been a hundred strides away, but the calm waters looked deep. Very deep.

Logen had long ago given up any attempt at staying dry, and the water ran through his hair and down his face, dripped from his nose, his fingers, his chin. Being wet, tired, and hungry had become a part of life. It often had been, come to think on it. He closed his eyes and felt the rain patter against his skin, heard the water lapping on the shingle. He knelt by the lake, pulled the stopper from his flask and pushed it under the surface, watched the bubbles break as it filled up.

Malacus Quai stumbled out of the bushes, breathing fast and shallow. He sank down to his knees, crawled against the roots of a tree, coughed out phlegm onto the pebbles. His coughing sounded bad now. It came right up from his guts and made his whole rib cage rattle. He was even paler than he had been when they first met, and a lot thinner. Logen was somewhat thinner too. These were lean times, all in all. He walked over to the haggard apprentice and squatted down.