Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

A handsome young man lay on his back under the window, staring up, pale-faced and open mouthed at the ceiling. It would have been an understatement to say that his throat had been cut. It had been hacked so savagely that his head was only just still attached. There was blood splattered everywhere, on the torn clothes, on the slashed mattress, all over the body itself. There were a couple of smeared, bloody palm-prints on the wall, a great pool of blood across a good part of the floor, still wet. He was killed tonight. Perhaps only a few hours ago. Perhaps only a few minutes.

“I don’t think he’ll be answering our questions,” said Severard.

“No.” Glokta’s eyes drifted over the wreckage. “I think he might be dead. But how did it happen?”

Frost fixed him with a pink eye and raised a white eyebrow. “Poithon?”

Severard spluttered with shrill laughter under his mask. Even Glokta allowed himself a chuckle. “Clearly. But how did our poison get in?”

“Open wi’ow,” mumbled Frost, pointing at the floor.

Glokta limped into the room, careful not to let his feet or his cane touch the sticky mess of blood and feathers. “So, our poison saw the lamp burning, just as we did. He entered via the downstairs window. He climbed silently up the stairs.” Glokta turned the corpse’s hands over with the tip of his cane. A few specks of blood from the neck, but no damage to the knuckles or the fingers. He did not struggle. He was taken by surprise. He craned forward and peered at the gaping wound.

“A single, powerful cut. Probably with a knife.”

“And Villem dan Robb has sprung a most serious leak,” said Severard.

“And we are short one informant,” mused Glokta. There had been no blood in the corridor. Our man took pains not to get his feet wet while searching the room, however messy it may look. He was not angry or afraid. It was just a job.

“The killer was a professional,” murmured Glokta, “he came here with murder in mind. Then perhaps he made this little effort to give the appearance of a burglary, who can say? Either way, the Arch Lector won’t be satisfied with a corpse.” He looked up at his two Practicals. “Who’s next on the list?”

This time there had been a struggle, without a doubt. If a onesided one. Solimo Scandi was sprawled on his side, facing the wall, as though embarrassed by the state of his slashed and tattered nightshirt. There were deep cuts in his forearms. Where he struggled vainly to ward off the blade. He had crawled across the floor, leaving a bloody trail across the highly polished wood. Where he struggled vainly to get away. He had failed. The four gaping knife wounds in his back had been the end of him.

Glokta felt his face twitching as he looked down at the bloody corpse. One body might just be a coincidence. Two make a conspiracy. His eyelid fluttered. Whoever did this knew we were coming, and when, and precisely who for. They are one step ahead of us. More than likely, our list of accomplices has already become a list of corpses. There was a creaking sound behind Glokta and his head whipped round, sending shooting pains down his stiff neck. Nothing but the open window swinging in the breeze. Calm, now. Calm, and think it out.

“It would seem the honourable Guild of Mercers have been doing a little housekeeping.”

“How could they know?” muttered Severard.

How indeed? “They must have seen Rews’ list, or been told who was on it.” And that means… Glokta licked at his empty gums. “Someone inside the Inquisition has been talking.”

For once, Severard’s eyes were not smiling. “If they know who’s on the list, they know who wrote it. They know who we are.”

Three more names on the list, perhaps? Down at the bottom? Glokta grinned. How very exciting. “You scared?”

“I’m not happy, I’ll tell you that.” He nodded down at the corpse. “A knife in the back isn’t part of my plan.”

“Nor mine, Severard, believe me.” No indeed. If I die, I’ll never know who betrayed us.

And I want to know.

A bright, cloudless spring day, and the park was busy with fops and idlers of every variety. Glokta sat very still on his bench, in the merciful shade of a spreading tree, and stared out at the shimmering greenery, the sparkling water, the happy, the drunken, the colourful revellers. There were people wedged together on the benches around the lake, pairs and groups scattered around the grass, drinking and talking and basking in the sun. There seemed no space for any more.

But no one came and sat next to Glokta. Occasionally somebody would hurry up, hardly able to believe their luck in finding such a spot, then they would see him sitting there. Their faces would fall and they would swerve away, or walk right past as though they had never meant to sit. I drive them away as surely as the plague, but perhaps that’s just as well. I don’t need their company.

He watched a group of young soldiers rowing a boat on the lake. One of them stood up, wobbling around, holding forth with a bottle in his hand. The boat rocked alarmingly, and his companions shouted at him to get down. Vague gales of good-natured laughter came wafting through the air, delayed a little by the distance. Children. How young they look. How innocent. And such was I, not long ago. It seems a thousand years, though. Longer. It seems a different world.

“Glokta.”

He looked up, shading his eyes with his hand. It was Arch Lector Sult, arrived at last, a tall dark shape against the blue sky. Glokta thought he looked a little more tired, more lined, more drawn than usual as he stared coldly down.

“This had better be interesting.” Sult flicked out the tails of his long white coat and lowered himself gracefully onto the bench. “The commoners are up in arms again near Keln. Some idiot of a landowner hangs a few peasants and now we have a mess to deal with! How hard can it be to manage a field full of dirt and a couple of farmers? You don’t have to treat them well, just as long as you don’t hang them!” His mouth was a straight, hard line as he glared out across the lawns. “This had better be damned interesting.”

Then I’ll try not to disappoint you. “Villem dan Robb is dead.” As though to add emphasis to Glokta’s statement, the drunken soldier slipped and toppled over the side of the boat, splashing into the water. His friends’ screams of laughter reached Glokta a moment later. “He was murdered.”

“Huh. It happens. Pick up the next man on the list.” Sult got to his feet, frowning. “I didn’t think you’d need my approval for every little thing. That’s why I picked you for this job. Just get on with it!” he snapped as he turned away.

There’s no need to rush, Arch Lector. That’s the trouble with good legs, you tend to run around too much. If you have trouble moving, on the other hand, you don’t move until you damn well know it’s time. “The next man on the list also suffered a mishap.”

Sult turned back, one eyebrow slightly raised. “He did?”

“They all did.”

The Arch Lector pursed his lips, sat back down on the bench. “All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Hmm,” mused Sult. “That is interesting. The Mercers are cleaning up, are they? I hardly expected such ruthlessness. Times have changed, alright, times have certainly…” He trailed off, slowly starting to frown. “You think someone gave them Rews’ list, don’t you? You think one of ours has been talking. That’s why you asked me to come here, isn’t it?”

Did you think I was just avoiding the stairs? “Each one of them killed? Each and every name on our list? The very night we go to arrest them? I am not a great believer in coincidences.” Are you, Arch Lector?