The Collected Joe Abercrombie (4 page)

‘We were talking about your tooth, I think,’ murmured Glokta. Rews’ eye flicked up to look at him. ‘Or would you like to confess?’
I have him, here he comes. Confess, confess, confess, confess . . .

There was a sharp knock at the door.
Damn it again!
Frost opened it a crack and there was a brief whispering. Rews licked at his bloated lip. The door shut, the albino leaned to whisper in Glokta’s ear.

‘Ith the Arth Ector.’ Glokta froze.
The money was not enough. While I was shuffling back from Kalyne’s office, the old bastard was reporting me to the Arch Lector. Am I finished then?
He felt a guilty thrill at the thought.
Well, I’ll see to this fat pig first.

‘Tell Severard I’m on my way.’ Glokta turned back to talk to his prisoner, but Frost put a big white hand on his shoulder.

‘O. The Arth Ector,’ Frost pointed to the door, ‘he’th ere. Ow.’

Here?
Glokta could feel his eyelid twitching.
Why?
He pushed himself up using the edge of the table.
Will they find me in the canal tomorrow? Dead and bloated, far . . . far beyond recognition?
The only emotion that he felt at the idea was a flutter of mild relief.
No more stairs.

The Arch Lector of His Majesty’s Inquisition was standing outside in the corridor. The grimy walls looked almost brown behind him, so brilliantly spotless were his long white coat, his white gloves, his shock of white hair. He was past sixty, but showed none of the infirmity of age. Every tall, clean-shaven, fine-boned inch of him was immaculately turned out.
He looks like a man who has never once in his life been surprised by anything.

They had met once before, six years earlier when Glokta joined the Inquisition, and he hardly seemed to have changed. Arch Lector Sult. One of the most powerful men in the Union.
One of the most powerful men in the world, come to that.
Behind him, almost like outsized shadows, loomed two enormous, silent, black-masked Practicals.

The Arch Lector gave a thin smile when he saw Glokta shuffle out of his door. It said a lot, that smile.
Mild scorn, mild pity, the very slightest touch of menace. Anything but amusement.
‘Inquisitor Glokta,’ he said, holding out one white-gloved hand, palm down. A ring with a huge purple stone flashed on his finger.

‘I serve and obey, your Eminence.’ Glokta could not help grimacing as he bent slowly forward to touch his lips to the ring. A difficult and painful manoeuvre, it seemed to take forever. When he finally hoisted himself back upright, Sult was gazing at him calmly with his cool blue eyes. A look that implied he already understood Glokta completely, and was unimpressed.

‘Come with me.’ The Arch Lector turned and swept away down the corridor. Glokta limped along after him, the silent Practicals marching close behind. Sult moved with an effortless, languid confidence, coat tails flapping gracefully out behind him.
Bastard.
Soon they reached a door, much like his own. The Arch Lector unlocked it and went inside, the Practicals took up positions either side of the doorway, arms folded.
A private interview then. One which I, perhaps, will never leave.
Glokta stepped over the threshold.

A box of grubby white plaster too brightly lit and with a ceiling too low for comfort. It had a big crack instead of a damp patch, but was otherwise identical to his own room. It had the scarred table, the cheap chairs, it even had a poorly cleaned bloodstain.
I wonder if they’re painted on, for the effect?
One of the Practicals suddenly pulled the door shut with a loud bang. Glokta was intended to jump, but he couldn’t be bothered.

Arch Lector Sult lowered himself gracefully into one of the seats, drew a heavy sheaf of yellowing papers across the table towards him. He waved his hand at the other chair, the one that would be used by the prisoner. The implications were not lost on Glokta.

‘I prefer to stand, your Eminence.’

Sult smiled at him. He had lovely, pointy teeth, all shiny white. ‘No, you don’t.’

He has me there.
Glokta lowered himself ungracefully into the prisoner’s chair while the Arch Lector turned over the first page of his wedge of documents, frowned and shook his head gently as though horribly disappointed by what he saw.
The details of my illustrious career, perhaps?

‘I had a visit from Superior Kalyne not long ago. He was most upset.’ Sult’s hard blue eyes came up from his papers. ‘Upset with you, Glokta. He was quite vocal on the subject. He told me that you are an uncontrollable menace, that you act without a thought for the consequences, that you are a mad cripple. He demanded that you be removed from his department.’ The Arch Lector smiled, a cold, nasty smile, the kind Glokta used on his prisoners.
But with more teeth.
‘I think he had it in mind that you be removed . . . altogether.’ They stared at each other across the table.

Is this where I beg for mercy? Is this where I crawl on the ground and kiss your feet? Well, I don’t care enough to beg and I’m far too stiff to crawl. Your Practicals will have to kill me sitting down. Cut my throat. Bash my head in. Whatever. As long as they get on with it.

But Sult was in no rush. The white-gloved hands moved neatly, precisely, the pages hissed and crackled. ‘We have few men like you in the Inquisition, Glokta. A nobleman, from an excellent family. A champion swordsman, a dashing cavalry officer. A man once groomed for the very top.’ Sult looked him up and down as though he could hardly believe it.

‘That was before the war, Arch Lector.’

‘Obviously. There was much dismay at your capture, and little hope that you would be returned alive. As the war dragged on and the months passed, hope diminished to nothing, but when the treaty was signed, you were among those prisoners returned to the Union.’ He peered at Glokta through narrowed eyes. ‘Did you talk?’

Glokta couldn’t help himself, he spluttered with shrill laughter. It echoed strangely in the cold room. Not a sound you often heard down here. ‘Did I talk? I talked until my throat was raw. I told them everything I could think of. I screamed every secret I’d ever heard. I babbled like a fool. When I ran out of things to tell them I made things up. I pissed myself and cried like a girl. Everyone does.’

‘But not everyone survives. Two years in the Emperor’s prisons. No one else lasted half that long. The physicians were sure you would never leave your bed again, but a year later you made your application to the Inquisition.’
We both know it. We were both there. What do you want from me, and why not get on with it? I suppose some men just love the sound of their own voices.

‘I was told that you were crippled, that you were broken, that you could never be mended, that you could never be trusted. But I was inclined to give you a chance. Some fool wins the Contest every year, and wars produce many promising soldiers, but your achievement in surviving those two years was unique. So you were sent to the North, and put in charge of one of our mines there. What did you make of Angland?’

A filthy sink of violence and corruption. A prison where we have made slaves of the innocent and guilty alike in the name of freedom. A stinking hole where we send those we hate and those we are ashamed of to die of hunger, and disease, and hard labour.
‘It was cold,’ said Glokta.

‘And so were you. You made few friends in Angland. Precious few among the Inquisition, and none among the exiles.’ He plucked a tattered letter from among the papers and cast a critical eye over it. ‘Superior Goyle told me that you were a cold fish, had no blood in you at all. He thought you’d never amount to anything, that he could make no use of you.’
Goyle. That bastard. That butcher. I’d rather have no blood than no brains.

‘But after three years, production was up. It was doubled in fact. So you were brought back to Adua, to work under Superior Kalyne. I thought perhaps you would learn discipline with him, but it seems I was wrong. You insist on going your own way.’ The Arch Lector frowned up at him. ‘To be frank, I think that Kalyne is afraid of you. I think they all are. They don’t like your arrogance, they don’t like your methods, they don’t like your . . . special insight into our work.’

‘And what do you think, Arch Lector?’

‘Honestly? I’m not sure I like your methods much either, and I doubt that your arrogance is entirely deserved. But I like your results. I like your results very much.’ He slapped the bundle of papers closed and rested one hand on top of it, leaning across the table towards Glokta.
As I might lean towards my prisoners when I ask them to confess.
‘I have a task for you. A task that should make better use of your talents than chasing around after petty smugglers. A task that may allow you to redeem yourself in the eyes of the Inquisition.’ The Arch Lector paused for a long moment. ‘I want you to arrest Sepp dan Teufel.’

Glokta frowned.
Teufel?
‘The Master of the Mints, your Eminence?’

‘The very same.’

The Master of the Royal Mints. An important man from an important family. A very big fish, to be hooked in my little tank. A fish with powerful friends. It could be dangerous, arresting a man like that. It could be fatal.
‘May I ask why?’

‘You may not. Let me worry about the whys. You concentrate on obtaining a confession.’

‘A confession to what, Arch Lector?’

‘Why, to corruption and high treason! It seems our friend the Master of the Mints has been most indiscreet in some of his personal dealings. It seems he has been taking bribes, conspiring with the Guild of Mercers to defraud the King. As such, it would be very useful if a ranking Mercer were to name him, in some unfortunate connection.’

It can hardly be a coincidence that I have a ranking Mercer in my interrogation room, even as we speak.
Glokta shrugged. ‘Once people start talking, it’s shocking the names that tumble out.’

‘Good.’ The Arch Lector waved his hand. ‘You may go, Inquisitor. I will come for Teufel’s confession this time tomorrow. You had better have it.’

Glokta breathed slowly as he laboured back along the corridor.

Breath in, breath out. Calm.
He had not expected to leave that room alive.
And now I find myself moving in powerful circles. A personal task for the Arch Lector, squeezing a confession to high treason from one of the Union’s most trusted officials. The most powerful of circles, but for how long? Why me? Because of my results?

Or because I won’t be missed?

‘I apologise for all the interruptions today, really I do, it’s like a brothel in here with all the coming and going.’ Rews twisted his cracked and swollen lips into a sad smile.
Smiling at a time like this, he’s a marvel. But all things must end.
‘Let us be honest, Rews. No one is coming to help you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. You will confess. The only choices you have are when, and the state you’ll be in when you do. There’s really nothing to be gained by putting it off. Except pain. We’ve got lots of that for you.’

It was hard to read the expression on Rews’ bloody face, but his shoulders sagged. He dipped the pen in the ink with a trembling hand, wrote his name, slightly slanted, across the bottom of the paper of confession.
I win again. Does my leg hurt any less? Do I have my teeth back? Has it helped me to destroy this man, who I once called a friend? Then why do I do this?
The scratching of the nib on the paper was the only reply.

‘Excellent,’ said Glokta. Practical Frost turned the document over. ‘And this is the list of your accomplices?’ He let his eye scan lazily over the names.
A handful of junior Mercers, three ship’s captains, an officer of the city watch, a pair of minor customs officials. A tedious recipe indeed. Let us see if we can add some spice.
Glokta turned it around and pushed it back across the table. ‘Add Sepp dan Teufel’s name to the list, Rews.’

The fat man looked confused. ‘The Master of the Mints?’ he mumbled, through his thick lips.

‘That’s the one.’

‘But I never met the man.’

‘So?’ snapped Glokta. ‘Do as I tell you.’ Rews paused, mouth a little open. ‘Write, you fat pig.’ Practical Frost cracked his knuckles.

Rews licked his lips. ‘Sepp . . . dan . . . Teufel,’ he mumbled to himself as he wrote.

‘Excellent.’ Glokta carefully shut the lid on his horrible, beautiful instruments. ‘I’m glad for both our sakes that we won’t be needing these today.’

Frost snapped the manacles shut on the prisoner’s wrists and dragged him to his feet, started to march him toward the door at the back of the room. ‘What now?’ shouted Rews over his shoulder.

‘Angland, Rews, Angland. Don’t forget to pack something warm.’ The door cracked shut behind him. Glokta looked at the list of names in his hands. Sepp dan Teufel’s sat at the bottom.
One name. On the face of it, just like the others. Teufel. Just one more name. But such a perilous one.