Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

The first of the prisoners was licking his lips, eyes darting here and there, pale with terror. The second, shorter and thicker-set, was stumbling, dragging his left leg behind him, hunched over with his mouth hanging open. As Jezal watched, a thin line of pink drool dangled from his lip and spattered on the tiles. The third man, painfully thin and with huge dark rings round his eyes, stared slowly around, blinking, eyes wide but apparently taking nothing in. Jezal recognised the man behind the three prisoners straight away: the big albino from that night in the street. Jezal rocked his weight from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly cold and uncomfortable.

The purpose of the bench was now made clear. The three prisoners slumped down on it, the albino knelt and snapped their manacles shut around the rail along its base. The chamber was entirely silent. Every eye was fixed on the crippled Inquisitor, and his three prisoners.

“Our investigation began some months ago,” said Arch Lector Sult, immensely smug at having the assembly so completely under his control. “A simple matter of some irregular accounting, I won’t bore you with the details.” He smiled at Brock, at Isher, at Barezin. “I know you all are very busy men. Who could have thought then, that such a little matter would lead us here? Who would suppose that the roots of treason could run so very deep?”

“Indeed,” said the Lord Chamberlain impatiently, looking up from his goblet. “Inquisitor Glokta, the floor is yours.”

The Announcer struck his staff on the tiles. “The Open Council of the Union recognises Sand dan Glokta, Inquisitor Exempt!”

The cripple waited politely for the scratching of the clerk’s quills to finish, leaning on his cane in the centre of the floor, seemingly unmoved by the importance of the occasion. “Rise and face the Open Council,” he said, turning to the first of his prisoners.

The terrified man sprang up, his chains rattling, licking his pale lips, goggling at the faces of the Lords in the front row. “Your name?” demanded Glokta.

“Salem Rews.”

Jezal felt a catch in his throat. Salem Rews? He knew the man! His father had had dealings with him in the past, at one time he had been a regular visitor to their estate! Jezal studied the terrified, shaven-headed traitor with increasing horror. He cast his mind back to the plump, well-dressed merchant, always ready with a joke. It was him, no doubt. Their eyes met for an instant and Jezal looked anxiously away. His father had talked with that man in their hallway! Had shaken hands with him! Accusations of treason are like illnesses—you can catch them just by being in the same room! His eyes were drawn inevitably back to that unfamiliar, yet horribly familiar face. How dare he be a traitor, the bastard?

“You are a member of the honourable Guild of Mercers?” continued Glokta, putting a sneering accent into the word “honourable”.

“I was,” mumbled Rews.

“What was your role within the Guild?” The shaven-headed Mercer stared desperately about him. “Your role?” demanded Glokta, his voice taking on a hard edge.

“I conspired to defraud the King!” cried the merchant, wringing his hands. A wave of shock ran round the hall. Jezal swallowed sour spit. He saw Sult smirking across at High Justice Marovia. The old man’s face was stony blank, but his fists were clenched tight on the table before him. “I committed treason! For money! I smuggled, and I bribed, and I lied… we were all at it!”

“All at it!” Glokta leered round at the assembly. “And if any of you should doubt it, we have ledgers, and we have documents, and we have numbers. There is a room in the House of Questions stuffed with them. A room full of secrets, and guilt, and lies.” He slowly shook his head. “Sorry reading, I can tell you.”

“I had to do it!” screamed Rews. “They made me! I had no choice!”

The crippled Inquisitor frowned at his audience. “Of course they made you. We realise you were but a single brick in this house of infamy. An attempt was made on your life recently, was it not?”

“They tried to kill me!”

“Who tried?”

“It was this man!” wailed Rews, voice cracking, pointing a trembling finger at the prisoner next to him, pulling away as far as the chains that linked them would allow. “It was him! Him!” The manacles rattled as he waved his arm, spit flying from his mouth. There was another surge of angry voices, louder this time. Jezal watched the head of the middle prisoner sag and he slumped sideways, but the hulking albino grabbed him and hauled him back upright.

“Wake up, Master Carpi!” shouted Glokta. The lolling head came slowly up. An unfamiliar face, strangely swollen and badly pocked with acne-scars. Jezal noticed with disgust that his four front teeth were missing. Just like Glokta’s.

“You are from Talins, yes, in Styria?” The man nodded slowly, stupidly, like someone half asleep. “You are paid to kill people, yes?” He nodded again. “And you were hired to murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects, among them this confessed traitor, Salem Rews?” A trickle of blood ran slowly out from the man’s nose and his eyes started to roll back in his head. The albino shook him by the shoulder and he came round, nodding groggily. “What became of the other nine?” Silence. “You killed them, did you not?” Another nod, a strange clicking sound coming from the prisoner’s throat.

Glokta frowned slowly around the rapt faces of the Council. “Villem dan Robb, customs official, throat cut ear to ear.” He slid a finger across his neck and a woman in the gallery squealed. “Solimo Scandi, Mercer, stabbed in the back four times.” He thrust up four fingers, then pressed them to his stomach as though sickened. “The bloody list goes on. All murdered, for nothing but a bigger profit. Who hired you?”

“Him,” croaked the killer, turning his swollen face to look at the gaunt man with the glassy eyes, slumped on the bench next to him, heedless of his surroundings. Glokta limped over, cane tapping on the tiles.

“What is your name?”

The prisoner’s head snapped up, his eyes focusing on the twisted face of the Inquisitor above him. “Gofred Hornlach!” he answered instantly, voice shrill.

“You are a senior member of the Guild of Mercers?”

“Yes!” he barked, blinking mindlessly up at Glokta.

“One of Magister Kault’s deputies, in fact?”

“Yes!”

“Have you conspired with other Mercers to defraud his Majesty the King? Did you hire an assassin to murder ten of his Majesty’s subjects?”

“Yes! Yes!”

“Why?”

“We were worried they would tell what they knew… tell what they knew… tell…” Hornlach’s empty eyes stared off towards one of the coloured windows. His mouth slowly stopped moving.

“Tell what they knew?” prompted the Inquisitor.

“About the treasonous activities of the Guild!” the Mercer blurted, “about our treasons! About the activities of the guild… treasonous… activities…”

Glokta cut in sharply. “Were you acting alone?”

“No! No!”

The Inquisitor rapped his cane down before him and leaned forward. “Who gave the orders?” he hissed.

“Magister Kault!” shouted Hornlach instantly, “he gave the orders!” The audience gasped. Arch Lector Sult smirked a little wider. “It was the Magister!” The quills scratched mercilessly. “It was Kault! He gave the orders! All the orders! Magister Kault!”

“Thank you, Master Hornlach.”

“The Magister! He gave the orders! Magister Kault! Kault! Kault!”

“Enough!” snarled Glokta. His prisoner fell silent. The room was still.

Arch Lector Sult lifted his arm and pointed towards the three prisoners. “There is your proof, my Lords!”