Joe Abercrombie - Before They Are Hanged

“Down there,” she muttered at him.

A worried-looking group were gathered round a door twenty strides away. A Knight of the Body sat bent over on a chair, his helmet on the floor beside him, his head in his hands, fingers pushed through curly hair. Three other men stood, huddled together, their urgent whispering rebounding from the walls and echoing down the hallway.

“Aren’t you coming?”

Vitari shook her head. “He didn’t ask for me.”

The three men looked up at Glokta as he limped towards them. And what a group to find muttering in a palace corridor before daybreak. Lord Chamberlain Hoff was wearing a quickly flung on nightgown, his puffy face stricken as though by a nightmare. Lord Marshal Varuz had one collar of his rumpled shirt sticking up, the other down, his iron grey hair shooting off his skull at all angles. High Justice Marovia’s cheeks were gaunt, his eyes were rimmed with red, and there was a slight tremble to his liverish hand as he raised it to point at the door.

“In there,” he whispered. “A terrible business. Terrible. Whatever shall be done?”

Glokta frowned, stepped past the sobbing guard and limped over the threshold.

It was a bedchamber. And a magnificent one. This is a palace, after all. The walls were papered with vivid silk, hung with dark canvases in old gilt frames. An enormous fireplace was carved from brown and red stone to look like a miniature Kantic temple. The bed was a monstrous four-posted creation whose curtains probably enclosed more space than Glokta’s entire bedroom. The covers were flung back and rumpled, but there was no sign of the former occupant. One tall window was standing ajar, and a chill breeze washed in from the grey world outside, making the flames on the candles dance and flutter.

Arch Lector Sult was standing near the centre of the room, frowning thoughtfully down at the floor on the other side of the bed. If Glokta had expected him to be as dishevelled as his three colleagues outside the door, he was disappointed. His white gown was spotless, his white hair neatly brushed, his white gloved hands clasped carefully before him.

“Your Eminence…” Glokta was saying as he shuffled up. Then he noticed something on the floor. Dark fluid, glistening black in the candlelight. Blood. How very unsurprising.

He hobbled a little further. The corpse lay on its back on the far side of the bed. Blood was spattered on the white sheets, smeared over the boards and across the wall behind, had soaked up into the hem of the opulent drapes by the window. The ripped nightshirt was soaked through with it. One hand was curled up, the other was torn off, ragged, just beyond the thumb. There was a gaping wound on one arm, a chunk of flesh missing. As though it were bitten away. One leg was broken and bent back on itself, a snapped off length of bone poking through split flesh. The throat had been so badly mauled that the head was barely attached, but there was no mistaking the face, seeming to grin up at the fine stucco work on the ceiling, teeth bared, eyes wide, bulging open.

“Crown Prince Raynault has been murdered,” muttered Glokta.

The Arch Lector raised his gloved hands and slowly, softly clapped two fingertips against his palm. “Oh, very good. It is for just such insights that I sent for you. Yes, Prince Raynault has been murdered. A tragedy. An outrage. A terrible crime that strikes at the very heart of our nation, and at every one of its people. But that is far from the worst of it.” The Arch Lector took a long breath. “The King has no siblings, Glokta, do you understand? Now he has no heirs. When the king dies, where do you suppose our next illustrious ruler will come from?”

Glokta swallowed. I see. What a towering inconvenience. “From the Open Council.”

“An election,” sneered Sult. “The Open Council, voting for our next king. A few hundred self-serving halfwits who can’t be trusted to vote for their own lunch without guidance.”

Glokta swallowed. I would almost be enjoying his Eminence’s discomfort, were my neck not on the block beside his. “We are not popular with the Open Council.”

“We are reviled by them. Few more so. Our actions against the Mercers, against the Spicers, against Lord Governor Vurms, and more besides. None of the nobles trust us.”

Then if the king dies… “How is the king’s health?”

“Not. Good.” Sult frowned down at the bloody remains. “All our work could be undone at this one stroke. Unless we can make friends in the Open Council, Glokta, while the king yet lives. Unless we can curry enough favour to choose his successor, or at least to influence the choice.” He stared at Glokta, blue eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Votes must be bought, and blackmailed, coaxed and threatened our way. And you can depend upon it that those three old bastards outside are thinking just the same thing. How will I stay in power? With which candidate should I align myself? Whose votes can I control? When we announce the murder, we must assure the Open Council that the killer is already in our hands. Then swift, and brutal, and highly visible justice must be done. If the vote does not go our way, who knows what we could end up with? Brock on the throne, or Isher, or Heugen?” Sult gave a horrified shudder. “We will be out of our jobs, at best. At worst…” Several bodies found floating by the docks… “That is why I need you to find me the Prince’s murderer. Now.”

Glokta looked down at the body. Or what remains of it. He poked at the gouge out of Raynault’s arm with the tip of his cane. We have seen wounds like these before, on that corpse in the park, months ago. An Eater did this, or at least, we are meant to think so. The window tapped gently against its frame on a sudden cold draft. An Eater who climbed in through the window? Unlike one of the Prophets agents to leave such clues behind. Why not simply vanished, like Davoust? A sudden loss of appetite, are we meant to suppose?

“Have you spoken to the guard?”

Sult waved his hand dismissively. “He says he stood outside the door all night as usual. He heard a noise, entered the room, found the Prince as you see him, still bleeding, the window open. He sent immediately for Hoff. Hoff sent for me, and I for you.”

“The guard should be properly questioned, nonetheless…” Glokta peered down at Raynault’s curled-up hand. There was something in it. He bent with an effort, his cane wobbling under his weight, and snatched it up between two fingers. Interesting. A piece of cloth. White cloth, it seemed, though mostly stained dark red now. He flattened it out and held it up. Gold thread glittered faintly in the dim candlelight. I have seen cloth like this before.

“What is that?” snapped Sult. “Have you found something?”

Glokta stayed silent. Perhaps, but it was very easy. Almost too easy.

Glokta nodded to Frost, and the albino reached forward and pulled the bag from the head of the Emperor’s envoy. Tulkis blinked in the harsh light, took a deep breath, and squinted round at the room. A dirty white box, too brightly lit. He took in Frost, looming at his shoulder. He took in Glokta, seated opposite. He took in the rickety chairs, and the stained table, and the polished case sitting on top of it. He did not seem to notice the small black hole in the very corner opposite him, behind Glokta’s head. He was not meant to. That was the hole through which the Arch Lector watched the proceedings. The one through which he hears every word that is said.

Glokta watched the envoy closely. It is in these early moments that a man often gives away his guilt. I wonder what his first words will be? An innocent man would ask what crime he is accused of—