Before They Are Hanged (62 page)

“Is there such a candidate?”

“Anyone with a vote is an option, so in theory there are hundreds, but of course the Closed Council cannot agree on one, and so they scramble with scant dignity behind the stronger candidates, changing their loyalties day by day, hoping to insure their futures, doing their best to stay in office. Power has shifted so quickly from them to the nobles their heads are spinning. And some of them will roll one way or another, you may depend on that.”

“Will yours roll, do you think?” asked Ardee, looking up at him from under her dark brows.

Glokta licked slowly at his gums. “If Sult’s does, it may well be that mine will follow.”

“I hope not. You’ve been kind to me. Kinder than anyone else. Kinder than I deserve.” It was a trick of utter frankness that he had seen her use before, but still an oddly disarming one.

“Nonsense,” mumbled Glokta, wriggling his shoulders in the chair, suddenly awkward.
Kindness, honesty, comfortable living rooms… Colonel Glokta would have known what to say, but I am a stranger here.
He was still groping for a reply when a sharp knocking echoed in the hallway. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“Who would I be expecting? My entire acquaintance is here in the room.”

Glokta strained to listen as the front door opened, but could hear nothing more than vague muttering. The door handle turned and the maid poked her head into the room.

“Begging your pardon, but there is a visitor for the Superior.”

“Who?” snapped Glokta.
Severard, with news of Prince Raynault’s guard? Vitari, with some message from the Arch Lector? Some new problem that needs solving? Some new set of questions to ask?

“He says his name is Mauthis.”

Glokta felt the whole left side of his face twitching.
Mauthis?
He had not thought about him for some time, but an image of the gaunt banker sprang instantly into his mind now, holding out the receipt, neatly and precisely, for Glokta to sign.
A receipt for a gift of one million marks. It may be that in the future, a representative of the banking house of Valint and Balk will come to you requesting… favours.

Ardee was frowning over at him. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing,” he croaked, striving to keep his voice from sounding strangled. “An old associate. Could you give me the room for a moment? I need to talk with this gentleman.”

“Of course.” She got up and started to walk to the door, her dress swishing on the carpet behind her. She paused halfway, looked over her shoulder, biting her lip. She went to the cabinet and opened it, pulled out the bottle and the glass. She shrugged her shoulders. “I need something.”

“Don’t we all,” whispered Glokta at her back as she went out.

Mauthis stepped through the door a moment later. The same sharp bones in his face, the same cold eyes in deep sockets. There was something changed in his demeanour, however.
A certain nervousness. A certain anxiety, perhaps?

“Why, Master Mauthis, what an almost unbearable honour it is to—”

“You may dispense with the pleasantries, Superior.” His voice was shrill and grating as rusty hinges. “I have no ego to bruise. I prefer to speak plainly.”

“Very well, what can I—”

“My employers, the banking house of Valint and Balk, are not pleased with your line of investigation.”

Glokta’s mind raced. “My line of investigation into what?”

“Into the murder of Crown Prince Raynault.”

“That investigation is concluded. I assure you that I have no—”

“Speaking plainly, Superior, they know. It would be easier for you to assume that they know everything. They usually will. The murder has been solved, with impressive speed and competence, I may say. My employers are delighted with the results. The guilty man has been brought to justice. No one will benefit from your delving any deeper into this unfortunate business.”

That is speaking very plainly indeed. But why would Valint and Balk mind my questions? They gave me money to frustrate the Gurkish, now they seem to object to my investigating a Gurkish plot? It makes no sense… unless the killer did not come from the South at all. Unless Prince Raynault’s murderers are much closer to home…

“There are some loose ends that need to be tied,” Glokta managed to mumble. “There is no need for your employers to be angry—”

Mauthis took a step forward. His forehead was glistening with sweat, though the room was not hot. “They are not angry, Superior. You could not have known that they would be displeased. Now you know. Were you to continue with this line of investigation, knowing that they are displeased… then they would be angry.” He leaned down towards Glokta and almost whispered. “Please allow me to tell you, Superior, as one piece on the board to another. We do not want them angry.” There was a strange note in his voice.
He does not threaten me. He pleads.

“Are you implying,” Glokta murmured, scarcely moving his lips, “that they would inform Arch Lector Sult of their little gift to the defence of Dagoska?”

“That is the very least of what they would do.” Mauthis’ expression was unmistakable.
Fear.
Fear, in that emotionless mask of a face. Something about it left a certain bitterness on Glokta’s tongue, a certain coldness down his back, a certain tightness in his throat. It was a feeling he remembered, from long ago. It was the closest he had come to being afraid, himself, in a long time.
They have me. Utterly and completely. I knew it when I signed. That was the price, and I had no choice but to pay.

Glokta swallowed. “You may tell your employers that there will be no further enquiries.”

Mauthis closed his eyes for a moment and blew out with evident relief. “I am delighted to carry that message back to them. Good day.” And he turned and left Glokta alone in Ardee’s living room, staring at the door, and wondering what had just happened.

The Abode of Stones

The prow of the boat crunched hard into the rocky beach and stones groaned and scraped along the underside. Two of the oarsmen floundered out into the washing surf and dragged the boat a few steps further. Once it was firmly grounded they hurried back in as though the water caused intense pain. Jezal could not entirely blame them. The island at the edge of the World, the ultimate destination of their journey, the place called Shabulyan, had indeed a most forbidding appearance.

A vast mound of stark and barren rock, the cold waves clutching at its sharp promontories and clawing at its bare beaches. Above rose jagged cliffs and slopes of treacherous scree, piled steeply upwards into a menacing mountain, looming black against the dark sky.

“Care to come ashore?” asked Bayaz of the sailors.

The four oarsmen showed no sign of moving, and their Captain slowly shook his head. “We have heard bad things of this island,” he grunted in common so heavily accented it was barely intelligible. “They say it is cursed. We will wait for you here.”

“We may be some time.”

“We will wait.”

Bayaz shrugged. “Wait, then.” He stepped from the boat and waded through knee-high breakers. Slowly and somewhat reluctantly the rest of the party followed him through the icy sea and up onto the beach.

It was a bleak and blasted place, a place fit only for stones and cold water. Waves foamed greedily up the shore and sucked jealously back out through the shingle. A pitiless wind cut across this wasteland and straight through Jezal’s wet trousers, whipping his hair in his eyes and chilling him to the marrow. It snatched away any trace of excitement he might have felt at reaching the end of their journey. It found chinks and holes in the boulders and made them sing, and sigh, and wail in a mournful choir.

There was precious little vegetation. Some colourless grass, ill with salt, some thorny bushes more dead than alive. A few clumps of withered trees, higher up away from the sea, clung desperately to the unyielding stone, curved and bent over in the direction of the wind as though they might be torn away at any moment. Jezal felt their pain.

“A charming spot!” he shouted, his words flying off into the gale as soon as they left his lips. “If you are an enthusiast for rocks!”

“Where does the wise man hide a stone?” Bayaz hurled back at him. “Among a thousand stones! Among a million!”

There certainly was no shortage of stones here. Boulders, rocks, pebbles and gravel also were in abundant supply. It was the profound lack of anything else that rendered the place so singularly unpleasant. Jezal glanced back over his shoulder, feeling a sudden stab of panic at the notion of the four oarsmen shoving the boat back out to sea and leaving them marooned.

But they were still where they had been, their skiff rocking gently near the beach. Beyond them, on the churning ocean, Cawneil’s ill-made tub of a ship sat at anchor, its sails lowered, its mast a black line against the troubled sky, moving slowly back and forward with the stirring of the uneasy waves.

“We need to find somewhere out of the wind!” Logen bellowed.

“Is there anywhere out of the wind in this bloody place?” Jezal shouted back.

“There’ll have to be! We need a fire!”

Longfoot pointed up towards the cliffs. “Perhaps up there we might find a cave, or a sheltered spot. I will lead you!”

They clambered up the beach, first sliding in the shingle, then hopping from teetering rock to rock. The edge of the World hardly seemed worth all the effort, as far as final destinations went. They could have found cold stone and cold water in plenty without ever leaving the North. Logen had a bad feeling about this barren place, but there was no point in saying so. He’d had a bad feeling for the last ten years. Call on this spirit, find this Seed, and then away, and quickly. What then, though? Back to the North? Back to Bethod, and his sons, racks full of scores and rivers of bad blood? Logen winced. None of that held much appeal. Better to do it, than to live in fear of it, his father would have said, but then his father said all kinds of things, and a lot of them weren’t much use.

He looked over at Ferro, and she looked back. She didn’t frown, she didn’t smile. He’d never been much at understanding women, of course, or anyone else, but Ferro was some new kind of riddle. She acted just as cold and angry by day as she ever had, but most nights now she still seemed to find her way under his blanket. He didn’t understand it and he didn’t dare ask. The sad fact was, she was about the best thing he’d had in his life for a long time. He puffed his cheeks out and scratched his head. That didn’t say much for his life, now he thought about it.

They found a kind of cave at the base of the cliffs. More of a hollow really, in the lee of two great boulders, where the wind didn’t blast quite so strongly. Not much of a place for a conversation, but the island was a wasteland and Logen saw little chance of finding a better. You have to be realistic, after all.

Ferro took her sword to a stunted tree nearby and soon they had enough sticks to make an effort at a flame. Logen hunched over and fumbled the tinderbox out with numb fingers. Draughts blew in around the rocks and the wood was damp, but after much cursing and fumbling with the flint he finally managed to light a fire fit for the purpose. They huddled in around it.

“Bring out the box,” said Bayaz, and Logen hauled the heavy thing out from his pack and set it down next to Ferro with a grunt. Bayaz felt around its edge with his fingertips, found some hidden catch and the lid lifted silently. There were a set of metal coils underneath, pointing in from all sides to leave a space the size of Logen’s fist.

“What are they for?” he asked.

“To keep what is inside still and well-cushioned.”

“It needs to be cushioned?”

“Kanedias thought so.” That answer did not make Logen feel any better. “Place it inside as soon as you are able,” said the Magus, turning to Ferro. “We do not wish to be exposed to it for longer than we must. It is best that you all keep your distance.” And he ushered the others back with his palms. Luthar and Longfoot nearly scrambled over each other in their eagerness to get away, but Quai’s eyes were fixed on the preparations and he scarcely moved.

Logen sat cross-legged in front of the flickering fire, feeling the weight of worry in his stomach growing steadily heavier. He was starting to regret ever getting involved with this business, but it was a bit late now for second thoughts. “Something to offer them will help,” he said, looking round, and found Bayaz already holding a metal flask out. Logen unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. The smell of strong spirits greeted his nostrils like a sorely missed lover. “You had this all the time?”

Bayaz nodded. “For this very purpose.”

“Wish I’d known. I could’ve put it to good use more than once.”

“You can put it to good use now.”

“Not quite the same thing.” Logen tipped the flask up and took a mouthful, resisted a powerful urge to swallow, puffed out his cheeks and blew it out in a mist over the fire, sending up a gout of flame.

“And now?” asked Bayaz.

“Now we wait. We wait until—”

“I am here, Ninefingers.” A voice like the wind through the rocks, like the stones falling from the cliffs, like the sea draining through the gravel. The spirit loomed over them in their shallow cave among the stones, a moving pile of grey rock as tall as two men, casting no shadow.

Logen raised his eyebrows. The spirits never answered promptly, if they bothered to answer at all. “That was quick.”

“I have been waiting.”

“A long time, I reckon.” The spirit nodded. “Well, er, we’ve come for—”

“For that thing that the sons of Euz entrusted to me. There must be desperate business in the world of men for you to seek it out.”

Logen swallowed. “When isn’t there?”

“Do you see anything?” Jezal whispered behind him.

“Nothing,” replied Longfoot. “It is indeed a most remarkable—”

“Shut your mouths!” snarled Bayaz over his shoulder.

The spirit loomed down close over him. “This is the First of the Magi?”

“It is,” said Logen, keeping the talk to the point.

“He is shorter than Juvens. I do not like his look.”

“What does it say?” snapped Bayaz impatiently, staring into the air well to the left of the spirit.

Logen scratched his face. “It says that Juvens was tall.”

“Tall? What of it? Get what we came for and let us be gone!”

“He is impatient,” rumbled the spirit.

“We’ve come a long way. He has Juvens’ staff.”

The spirit nodded. “The dead branch is familiar to me. I am glad. I have held this thing for long winters, and it has been a heavy weight to carry. Now I will sleep.”

“Good idea. If you could—”

“I will give it to the woman.”

The spirit dug its hand into its stony stomach and Logen shuffled back warily. The fist emerged, and something was clutched inside, and he felt himself shiver as he saw it.

“Hold your hands out,” he muttered to Ferro.

Jezal gave an involuntary gasp and scrambled away as the thing dropped down into Ferro’s waiting palms, raising an arm to shield his face, his mouth hanging open with horror. Bayaz stared, eyes wide. Quai craned eagerly forward. Logen grimaced and rocked back. Longfoot scrambled almost all the way out of the hollow. For a long moment all six of them stared at the dark object in Ferro’s hands, no one moving, no one speaking, no sound except for the keening wind. There it was, before them. That thing which they had come so far, and braved so many dangers to find. That thing which Glustrod dug from the deep earth long years ago. That thing which had made a blasted ruin of the greatest city in the world.

The Seed. The Other Side, made flesh. The very stuff of magic.

Then Ferro slowly began to frown. “This is it?” she asked doubtfully. “This is the thing that will turn Shaffa to dust?”

It did, in fact, now that Jezal was overcoming the shock of its sudden appearance, look like nothing more than a stone. A chunk of unremarkable grey rock the size of a big fist. No sense of unearthly danger washed from it. No deadly power was evident. No withering rays or stabs of lightning shot forth. It did, in fact, look like nothing more than a stone.

Bayaz blinked. He shuffled closer, on his hands and knees. He peered down at the object in Ferro’s palms. He licked his lips, lifting his hand ever so slowly while Jezal watched, his heart pounding in his ears. Bayaz touched the rock with his little finger tip then jerked it instantly back. He did not suddenly wither and expire. He probed it once more with his finger. There was no thunderous detonation. He pressed his palm upon it. He closed his thick fingers round it. He lifted it up. And still, it looked like nothing more than a stone.

The First of the Magi stared down at the thing in his hand, his eyes growing wider and wider. “This is not it,” he whispered, his lip trembling. “This is just a stone!”

There was a stunned silence. Jezal stared at Logen, and the Northman gazed back, scarred face slack with confusion. Jezal stared at Longfoot, and the Navigator could only shrug his bony shoulders. Jezal stared at Ferro, and he watched her frown grow harder and harder. “Just a stone?” she muttered.

“Not it?” hissed Quai.

“Then…” The meaning of Bayaz’ words was only just starting to sink into Jezal’s mind. “I came all this way… for nothing?” A sudden gust blew up, snuffing out the miserable tongue of flame and blowing grit in his face.

“Perhaps there is some mistake,” ventured Longfoot. “Perhaps there is another spirit, perhaps there is another—”

“No mistake,” said Logen, firmly shaking his head.

“But…” Quai’s eyes were bulging from his ashen face. “But… how?”

Bayaz ignored him, muscles working on the side of his head.

“Kanedias. His hand is in this. He found some way to trick his brothers, and switch this lump of nothing for the Seed, and keep it for himself. Even in death, the Maker denies me!”

“Just a stone?” growled Ferro.

“I gave up my chance to fight for my country,” murmured Jezal, indignation starting to flicker up in his chest, “and I slogged hundreds of miles across the wasteland, and I was beaten, and broken, and left scarred… for nothing?”

“The Seed.” Quai’s pale lips were curling back from his teeth, his breath snorting fast through his nose. “Where is it? Where?”

“If I knew that,” barked his master, “do you suppose we would be sitting here on this forsaken island, bantering with spirits for a chunk of worthless rock?” And he lifted his arm and dashed the stone furiously onto the ground. It cracked open and split into fragments, and they bounced, and tumbled, and clattered down among a hundred others, a thousand others, a million others the same.

“It’s not here.” Logen shook his head sadly. “Say one thing for—”

“Just a stone?” snarled Ferro, her eyes swivelling from the fallen chunks of rock to Bayaz’ face. “You fucking old liar!” She sprang up, fists clenched tight by her sides. “You promised me vengeance!”

Bayaz rounded on her, his face twisted with rage. “You think I have no greater worries than your
vengeance
?” he roared, flecks of spit flying from his lips and out into the rushing gale. “Or your
disappointment
?” he screamed in Quai’s face, veins bulging in his neck. “Or your fucking
looks
?” Jezal swallowed and faded back into the hollow, trying to seem as small as he possibly could, his own anger extinguished by Bayaz’ towering rage as sharply as the meagre fire had been by the blasting wind a moment before. “Tricked!” snarled the First of the Magi, his hands opening and closing with aimless fury. “With what now will I fight Khalul?”