The Blade Itself (26 page)

She turned to Nasar’s carcass. He had been killed by a sword cut across the face. Ferro thought it was something of an improvement to his looks.

“That one looks a good sort,” said Yulwei.

“Nasar.” She laughed without amusement. “A raper, a thief, a coward.” She hawked up some phlegm and spat into his dead face. It splattered softly against his forehead. “Much the worst of the three.” She looked down at the graves. “But they were all of them shit.”

“Nice company you keep.”

“The hunted don’t have the luxury of choosing their companions.” She stared at Nasar’s bloody face. “You take what’s offered.”

“If you disliked them so much, why don’t you leave them for the vultures, like you have these others?” Yulwei swept his arm over the broken soldiers on the ground.

“You bury your own.” She kicked Nasar into the hole. He rolled forward, arms flopping, and dropped into the grave face down. “That’s the way it’s always been.”

She grabbed hold of the shovel and started to heap the stony earth onto his back. She worked in silence, the sweat building up on her face, then dripping off onto the ground. Yulwei watched her as the holes filled up. Three more piles of dirt in the wasteland. She threw the shovel away and it bounced off one of the corpses and clattered among the stones. A small cloud of black flies buzzed angrily off the body, then returned.

Ferro picked up her bow and arrows and slung them over her shoulder. She took the water skin, checked its weight carefully, then shouldered that also. Then she picked over the bodies of the soldiers. One of them, he looked like the leader, had a fine curved sword. He hadn’t even managed to draw it before her arrow had caught him in the throat. Ferro drew it now, and she tested it with a couple of sweeps through the air. It was very good: well balanced, the long blade glittering deadly sharp, bright metal on the hilt catching the sun. He had a knife as well that matched it. She took the weapons and stuck them through her belt.

She picked over the other bodies, but there wasn’t much to take. She cut her arrows from the corpses where she could. She found some coins and tossed them away. They would only weigh her down, and what would she buy out here in the Badlands? Dirt?

That was all there was, and it was free.

They had a few scraps of food with them, but not enough even for another day. That meant there must be others, probably lots of them, and not far away. Yulwei was telling the truth, but it made no difference to her.

She turned and started to walk southward, down off the hill and towards the great desert, leaving the old man behind.

“That’s the wrong way,” he said.

She stopped, squinting at him in the bright sun. “Aren’t the soldiers coming?”

Yulwei’s eyes sparkled. “There are many ways of staying unnoticed, even out here in the Badlands.”

She looked to the north, out over the featureless plain below. Out towards Gurkhul. There wasn’t a hill, or a tree, or scarcely a bush for miles. Nowhere to hide. “Unnoticed, even by an Eater?”

The old man laughed. “Especially by those arrogant swine. They’re not half as clever as they think they are. How do you think I got here? I came through them, between them, around them. I go where I please, and I take who I please with me.”

She shaded her eyes with her hand, and squinted southward. The desert stretched away into the far distance, and beyond. Ferro could survive here in the wilderness, just about, but out there in that crucible of changing sands and merciless heat?

The old man seemed to read her thoughts. “There are always the endless sands. I have crossed them before. It can be done. But not by you.”

He was right, damn him. Ferro was lean and tough as a bowstring, but that just meant she would walk in circles a little longer before pitching on her face. The desert was preferable to the cage before the palace as a place to die, but not by much. She wanted to stay alive.

There were still things to do.

The old man sat there, cross-legged, smiling. What was he? Ferro trusted no one, but if he meant to deliver her to the Emperor, he could have knocked her on the head while she was digging, instead of announcing his arrival. He had magic, she had seen that for herself, and some chance was better than none.

But what would he want in return? The world had never given Ferro anything for free, and she didn’t expect it to begin now. She narrowed her eyes. “What do you want from me, Yulwei?”

The old man laughed. That laugh was becoming very annoying. “Let us just say that I will have done you a favour. Later on, you can do me one in return.”

That answer was horribly thin on the details, but when your life’s on the table you have to take whatever’s offered. She hated to place herself in the power of another, but it seemed she had no choice.

Not if she wanted to live out the week, that is.

“What do we do?”

“We must wait for nightfall.” Yulwei glanced at the twisted bodies scattered about the ground, and wrinkled his nose. “But perhaps not here.”

Ferro shrugged and sat herself down on the middle grave. “Here will do,” she said, “I’ve a mind to watch the vultures eat.”

Overhead the clear night sky was scattered with bright stars, and the air had turned cool, cold even. Down on the dark and dusty plain below, fires were burning, a curved line of fires that seemed to hem them in against the edge of the desert. She, Yulwei, the ten corpses and the three graves were trapped on the hillside. Tomorrow, as the first light crept over the arid land, the soldiers would leave those fires and creep carefully towards the hills. If Ferro was still there when they arrived, she would be killed for sure, or worse still captured. She could not fight that many on her own, even supposing there was no Eater with them.

She hated to admit it, but her life was in Yulweis hands now.

He squinted up at the starry sky. “It is time,” he said.

They scrambled down the rocky hillside in the darkness, picking their way carefully among the boulders and the odd, scrubby, half-dead bush. Northward, towards Gurkhul. Yulwei moved surprisingly fast and she was forced to half-run to keep up, eyes fixed on the ground to find her footing among the dry rocks. When they finally reached the base of the hill and she looked up, she saw that Yulwei was leading her toward the left hand edge of the line, where the fires were most numerous.

“Wait,” she whispered, grabbing his shoulder. She pointed over to the right hand side. There were fewer fires there, and it would be easier to slip between them. “What about that way?”

She could just see Yulwei’s teeth smiling white in the starlight. “Oh no, Ferro Maljinn. That is where most of the soldiers are… and our other friend.” He was making no attempt to keep his voice down, and it was making her jumpy. “That is where they expect you to come through, if you choose to go north. But they do not expect you. They think you will go south into the desert to die, rather than risk being captured, as indeed you would have done, had I not been here.”

Yulwei turned and moved off and she crept after him, keeping low to the ground. As they drew nearer to the fires she saw that the old man had been right. There were figures sitting around some of them, but they were thinly spread. The old man strode confidently toward four fires on the far left, only one of them manned. He made no effort to stay low, his bangles jingled softly together, his bare feet flapped loud on the dry earth. They were almost close enough to see the features of the three men round the fire. Yulwei would surely be seen at any moment. She hissed at him to grab his attention, sure that she would be heard.

Yulwei turned round, looking puzzled in the faint light from the flames. “What?” he said. She winced, waiting for the soldiers to leap up, but they chattered on regardless. Yulwei looked over at them. “They will not see us, nor hear us either, unless you start shouting in their ears. We are safe.” He turned and walked on, giving the soldiers a wide berth. Ferro followed, still keeping low and quiet, if only out of habit.

As Ferro came closer she began to make out the words of the soldier’s conversation. She slowed, listening. She turned. She started to move towards the fire. Yulwei looked round. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Ferro looked at the three of them. A big, tough-looking veteran, a thin, weaselly type, and an honest-seeming young man, who didn’t look much like a soldier. Their weapons were lying around, sheathed, wrapped up, unready. She circled them warily, listening.

“They say she’s not right in the head,” the thin one was whispering at the young one, trying to scare him, “they say she’s killed a hundred men, or more. If you’re a good looking fella, she cuts your fruits off while you’re still alive,” he grabbed hold of his crotch, “and eats them in front of you!”

“Ah, stop your mouth,” said the big one, “she won’t be coming near us.” He pointed over to where the fires were sparser, his voice dropping to a whisper. “She’ll be going to
him
, if she comes this way at all.”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t,” said the young one, “live and let live, say I.”

The thin man frowned. “And what about all the good men she’s killed? And women and children too? Shouldn’t they have been let live?” Ferro’s teeth ground together. She’d never killed children, that she could think of.

“Well, it’s a shame for them, of course. I’m not saying she shouldn’t be caught.” The young soldier glanced around nervously. “Just maybe not by us.”

The big man let go a laugh at that, but the thin one didn’t look amused. “You a coward?”

“No!” said the young man, angrily, “but I got a wife and a family depending on me, and I could do without being killed out here, that’s all.” He grinned. “We’re expecting another child. Hoping for a son this time.”

The big man nodded. “My son’s nearly grown now. They get old so quick.”

Talk of children, and families, and hopes only made the fury in Ferro’s chest squeeze harder. Why should they be allowed a life, when she had nothing? When them and their kind had taken everything from her? She slid the curved knife out of its sheath.

“What are you doing, Ferro?” hissed Yulwei.

The young man looked round. “Did you hear something?”

The big one laughed. “I think I heard you shit yourself.” The thin one chuckled to himself, the young man smiled, embarrassed. Ferro crept right up behind him. She was just a foot or two away, brightly lit by the fire, but none of the soldiers even glanced at her. She raised the knife.

“Ferro!” shouted Yulwei. The young man sprang to his feet, he peered out across the dark plain, squinting, brow furrowed. He looked Ferro right in the face, but his eyes were focused far behind her. She could smell his breath. The blade of the knife glittered an inch or less from his stubbly throat.

Now. Now was the time. She could kill him quickly, and take the other two as well before the alarm was raised. She knew she could do it. They were unprepared, and she was ready. Now was the time.

But her hand didn’t move.

“What’s got up your arse?” asked the big soldier. “There’s nothing out there.”

“Could’ve sworn I heard something,” said the young man, still looking right in her face.

“Wait!” shouted the thin one, jumping to his feet and pointing. “There she is! Right in front of you!” Ferro froze for an instant, staring at him, then he and the big man started to laugh. The young soldier looked sheepish, turned around and sat down.

“I thought I heard something, that’s all.”

“There’s no one out there,” said the big man. Ferro began to back slowly away. She felt sick, her mouth full of sour spit, her head thumping. She pushed the knife back into its sheath, turned and stumbled off with Yulwei following silently behind.

When the light of the fires and the sound of the talking had faded into the distance she stopped and dropped down on the hard ground. A cold wind blew up across the barren plain. It blew stinging dust in her face, but she hardly noticed. The hate and the fury were gone, for the time being, but they had left a hole, and she had nothing else to fill it with. She felt empty and cold and sick and alone. She hugged herself, rocking slowly back and forth, and closed her eyes. But the darkness held no comfort.

Then she felt the old man’s hand press onto her shoulder.

Now normally she would have twisted away, thrown him off, killed him if she could. But the strength was all gone. She looked up, blinking. “There’s nothing left of me. What am I?” She pressed one hand on her chest, but she barely felt it. “I have nothing inside.”

“Well. It’s strange that you should say that.” Yulwei smiled up at the starry sky. “I was just starting to think there might be something in there worth saving.”

The King’s Justice

As soon as he reached the Square of Marshals, Jezal realised there was something wrong. It was never half this busy for a meeting of the Open Council. He glanced over the knots of finely dressed people as he hurried by, slightly late and out of breath from his long training session: voices were hushed, faces tense and expectant.

He shouldered his way through the crowd to the Lord’s Round, glancing suspiciously up at the guards flanking the inlaid doors. They at least seemed the same as ever, their heavy visors giving nothing away. He crossed the ante-chamber, vivid tapestries flapping slightly in the draught, slipped through the inner doors and passed into the vast, cool space beyond. His footsteps made tapping echoes in the gilded dome as he hurried down the aisle towards the high table. Jalenhorm was standing beneath one of the tall windows, face splashed with coloured light from the stained glass, frowning at a bench with a metal rail along its base which had been placed to one side of the floor.

“What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Jalenhorm’s voice was whispery with excitement. “Hoffs let it be known there’ll be some great matter to discuss.”

“What is it? Angland? The Northmen?”

The big man shook his head. “Don’t know, but we’ll soon see.”

Jezal frowned. “I don’t like surprises.” His eye came to rest on the mysterious bench. “What’s that for?”

At that moment the great doors were swung open and a stream of councillors began to flood down the aisle. The usual mixture, Jezal supposed, if a little more purposeful. The younger sons, the paid representatives… he caught his breath. There was a tall man at the front, richly dressed even in this august company, with a weighty golden chain across his shoulders and a weighty frown across his face.

“Lord Brock himself,” whispered Jezal.

“And there’s Lord Isher.” Jalenhorm nodded at a sedate old man just behind Brock, “and Heugen, and Barezin. It’s something big. It has to be.”

Jezal took a deep breath as four of the Union’s most powerful noblemen arranged themselves on the front row. He had never seen the Open Council half so well attended. On the councillors’ half-circle of benches there was barely an empty seat. High above them, the public gallery was an unbroken ring of nervous faces.

Now Hoff blustered through the doors and down the aisle, and he was not alone. On his right a tall man flowed along, slender and proud-looking with a long, spotless white coat and a shock of white hair. Arch Lector Sult. On his left walked another man, leaning heavily on a stick, slightly bent in a robe of black and gold with a long grey beard. High Justice Marovia. Jezal could hardly believe his eyes. Three members of the Closed Council, here.

Jalenhorm hurried to take his place as the clerks deposited their burdens of ledgers and papers on the polished tabletop. The Lord Chamberlain threw himself down in their midst and immediately called for wine. The head of his Majesty’s Inquisition swept into a high chair on one side of him, smiling faintly to himself. High Justice Marovia lowered himself slowly into another, frowning all the while. The volume of the anxious whispering in the hall rose a step, the faces of the great magnates on the front row were grim and suspicious. The Announcer took his place before the table, not the usual brightly dressed imbecile, but a dark, bearded man with a barrel chest. He lifted his staff high, then beat it against the tiles, fit to wake the dead.

“I call this meeting of the Open Council of the Union to order!” he bellowed. The hubbub gradually died away.

“There is but one matter for discussion this morning,” said the Lord Chamberlain, peering sternly at the house from beneath his heavy brows, “a matter of the King’s Justice.” There were scattered mutterings. “A matter concerning the royal licence for trade in the city of Westport.” The noise increased: angry whispers, uncomfortable shufflings of noble arses on their benches, the familiar scratching of quills on the great ledgers. Jezal saw Lord Brock’s brows draw together, the corners of Lord Heugen’s mouth turn down. They did not seem to like the taste of this. The Lord Chamberlain sniffed and took a swig of wine, waiting for the muttering to die away. “I am not best qualified to speak on this matter, however—”

“No indeed!” snapped Lord Isher sharply, shifting in his seat on the front row with a scowl.

Hoff fixed the old man with his eye. “So I call on a man who is! My colleague from the Closed Council, Arch Lector Sult.”

“The Open Council recognises Arch Lector Sult!” thundered the Announcer, as the head of the Inquisition made his graceful way down the steps of the dais and onto the tiled floor, smiling pleasantly at the angry faces turned towards him.

“My Lords,” he began, in a slow, musical voice, ushering his words out into space with smooth movements of his hands, “for the past seven years, ever since our glorious victory in the war with Gurkhul, an exclusive royal licence for trade in the city of Westport has been in the hands of the honourable Guild of Mercers.”

“And a fine job they’ve done of it!” shouted Lord Heugen.

“They won us that war!” growled Barezin, pounding the bench beside him with a meaty fist.

“A fine job!”

“Fine!” came the cries.

The Arch Lector nodded as he waited for the noise to fade. “Indeed they have,” he said, pacing across the tiles like a dancer, his words scratching their way across the pages of the books. “I would be the last to deny it. A fine job.” He spun suddenly around, the tails of his white coat snapping, his face twisted into a brutal snarl. “A fine job of dodging the Kings taxes!” he screamed. There was a collective gasp.

“A fine job of slighting the King’s law!” Another gasp, louder. “A fine job of high treason!” There was a storm of protest, of fists shaken in the air and papers thrown to the floor. Livid faces stared down from the public gallery, florid ones ranted and bellowed from the benches before the high table. Jezal stared about him, unsure if he could have heard correctly.

“How dare you, Sult!” Lord Brock roared at the Arch Lector as he swished back up the steps of the dais, a faint smile clinging to his lips.

“We demand proof!” bellowed Lord Heugen. “We demand justice!”

“The King’s Justice!” came cries from the back.

“You must supply us with proof!” shouted Isher, as the noise began to fade.

The Arch Lector twitched out his white gown, the fine material billowing around him as he swung himself smoothly back into his chair. “Oh but that is our intention, Lord Isher!”

The heavy bolt of a small side door was flung back with an echoing bang. There was a rustling as Lords and proxies twisted round, stood up, squinted over to see what was happening. People in the public gallery peered out over the parapet, leaning dangerously far in their eagerness to see. The hall fell quiet. Jezal swallowed. There was a scraping, tapping, clinking sound beyond the doorway, then a strange and sinister procession emerged from the darkness.

Sand dan Glokta came first, limping as always and leaning heavily on his cane, but with his head held high and a twisted, toothless grin on his hollow face. Three men shuffled behind him, chained together by their hands and bare feet, clinking and rattling their way towards the high table. Their heads were shaved bare and they were dressed in brown sackcloth. The clothing of the penitent. Confessed traitors.

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.