The Blade Itself

Jezal followed with his thumb in his belt, close to the hilt of his sword so he could get to it quickly, watching the savage intently for any sudden moves. After following him for a short while though, Jezal had to admit, the man gave no appearance of having murder in mind. If anything he looked curious, bemused, and somewhat embarrassed. He kept slowing, staring up at the buildings around him, shaking his head, scratching his face, muttering under his breath. He would occasionally horrify passers-by by smiling at them, but he seemed to present no greater threat and Jezal began to relax, at least until they reached the Square of Marshals.

The Northman stopped suddenly. Jezal fumbled for his sword, but the primitive’s eyes were locked ahead, gazing at a fountain nearby. He moved slowly towards it, then cautiously raised a thick finger and poked at the glittering jet. Water splashed into his face and he blundered away, almost knocking Jezal down. “A spring?” he whispered. “But how?”

Mercy. The man was like a child. A six and a half foot child with a face like a butcher’s block. “There are pipes!” Jezal stamped on the paving. “Beneath… the… ground!”

“Pipes,” echoed the primitive quietly, staring at the frothing water.

The others had moved some way ahead, close to the grand building in which Hoff had his offices. Jezal began to step away from the fountain, hoping to draw the witless savage with him. To Jezal’s relief he followed, shaking his head and muttering “pipes” to himself, over and over.

They entered the cool darkness of the Lord Chamberlain’s ante-room. There were people seated on the benches around the walls, some of them giving the impression of having been waiting a very long time. They all stared as Morrow ushered the peculiar group straight into Hoffs offices. The spectacled secretary opened the heavy double doors and stood by while first the old bald man, then his crony with the stick, then the madman Sulfur, and finally the nine-fingered primitive walked in past him.

Jezal made to follow them, but Morrow stood in the doorway and blocked his path. “Thank you so much for your help, Captain,” he said with a thin smile. “You may return to the gate.” Jezal peered over his shoulder into the room beyond. He saw the Lord Chamberlain frowning behind a long table. Arch Lector Sult was beside him, grim and suspicious. High Justice Marovia was there too, a smile on his wrinkled face. Three members of the Closed Council.

Then Morrow shut the door in his face.

Next

“I notice you have a new secretary,” said Glokta, as though just in passing.

The Arch Lector smiled. “Of course. The old one was not to my liking. He had a loose tongue, you know.” Glokta paused, his wine glass halfway to his mouth. “He had been passing our secrets on to the Mercers,” continued Sult carelessly, as if it was common knowledge. “I had been aware of it for some time. You needn’t worry though, he never learned anything I didn’t want him to know.”

Then… you knew who our traitor was. You knew all along. Glokta’s mind turned the events of the last few weeks around, pulled them apart and put them back together in this new light, trying them different ways until they fit, all the while struggling to conceal his surprise. You left Rews confession where you knew your secretary would see it. You knew the Mercers would find out who was on the list, and you guessed what they would do, knowing it would only play into your hands and give you the shovel with which to bury them. Meanwhile, you steered my suspicions towards Kalyne when you knew who the leak was all along. The whole business unfolded precisely according to your plan. The Arch Lector was looking back at him with a knowing smile. And I bet you guess what I’m thinking right now. I have been almost as much a piece in this game as that snivelling worm of a secretary. Glokta stifled a giggle. How fortunate for me that I was a piece on the right side. I never suspected a thing.