And so he came at last to the high seat of Guslav the fifth, High King of the Union. His head was slumped sideways, squashed down under the sparkling crown. His pasty pale fingers twitched on his crimson silk mantle like white slugs. His eyes were closed, chest rising and falling gently, accompanied by gentle splutterings as spittle issued from his slack lips and ran down his chin, joining the sweat on his bulging jowls and helping it to turn his high collar dark with wet.

Truly, Jezal was in the presence of greatness.

“Your Majesty,” murmured Lord Hoff. The head of state did not respond. His wife the Queen looked on, painfully erect, a fixed, emotionless smile plastered across her well-powdered face.

Jezal hardly knew where to look, and settled on his dusty shoes. The Lord Chamberlain coughed loudly. A muscle twitched beneath the sweaty fat on the side of the King’s face, but he did not wake. Hoff winced, and, glancing around to make sure no one was watching too closely, jabbed the royal ribs with his finger.

The King jumped, eyelids suddenly flicking wide open, heavy jowls wobbling, staring at Jezal with wild, bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes.

“Your Majesty, this is Captain…”

“Raynault!” exclaimed the King, “my son!”

Jezal swallowed nervously, doing his best to maintain a rigid smile of his own. The senile old fool had mistaken him for his younger son. Worse yet, the Prince himself was standing not four paces away. The Queen’s wooden grin twitched slightly. Princess Terez’ perfect lips twisted with scorn. The Lord Chamberlain gave an awkward cough. “Er, no, your Majesty, this is…”

But it was too late. Without any warning, the monarch struggled to his feet and folded Jezal in an enthusiastic embrace, his heavy crown slipping over to one side of his head and one of its jewel-encrusted prongs nearly poking Jezal in the eye. Lord Hoff’s jaw opened silently. The two Princes goggled. Jezal could only manage a helpless gurgle.

“My son!” blubbered the King, his voice choked with emotion. “Raynault, I’m so glad you’re back! When I am gone, Ladisla will need your help. He is so weak, and the crown is such a heavy weight! You were always the better suited for it! Such a heavy weight!” he sobbed into Jezal’s shoulder.

It was like a hideous nightmare. Ladisla and the real Raynault gawped at each other, then back at their father, both looking sick. Terez was sneering down her nose at her prospective father-in-law with undisguised contempt. From bad to much, much worse. What the hell did one do in such a situation? Could there possibly be any etiquette devised for this? Jezal patted his King awkwardly on his fat back. What else could he do? Shove the senile old idiot over on his arse, with half of his subjects looking on? He was almost tempted to do it.

It was a small mercy that the crowds took the King’s embrace for a ringing endorsement of Jezal’s fencing abilities, and drowned out his words with a fresh wave of cheering. No one beyond the royal box heard what he said. They all missed the full significance of what was, without doubt, the most embarrassing moment of Jezal’s life.

The Ideal Audience

Arch Lector Sult was standing by his huge window when Glokta arrived, tall and imposing as always in his spotless white coat, gazing out across the spires of the University towards the House of the Maker. A pleasant breeze was washing through the great circular room, ruffling the old man’s shock of white hair and making the many papers on his enormous desk crackle and flutter.

He turned as Glokta shuffled into the room. “Inquisitor,” he said simply, holding out his white gloved hand, the great stone on his ring of office catching the bright sunlight from the open window and glittering with purple fire.

“I serve and obey, your Eminence.” Glokta took the hand in his, and grimaced as he bent down to kiss the ring, his cane trembling with the effort of keeping upright. Damn it if the old bastard doesn’t hold his hand a little lower every time, just to watch me sweat.

Sult poured himself into his tall chair in one smooth motion, elbows on the table top, fingers pressed together before him. Glokta could only stand and wait, his leg burning from the familiar climb through the House of Questions, sweat tickling his scalp, and wait for the invitation to sit.

“Please be seated,” murmured the Arch Lector, then waited while Glokta winced his way into one of the lesser chairs at the round table. “Now tell me, has your investigation met with any success?”

“Some. There was a disturbance at our visitors’ chambers the other night. They claim that—”

“Plainly an attempt to add credence to this outrageous story. Magic!” Sult snorted his disdain. “Have you discovered how the breach in the wall was really made?”

Magic, perhaps? “I am afraid not, Arch Lector.”

“That is unfortunate. Some proof of how this particular trick was managed might be of use to us. Still,” and Sult sighed as though he had expected no better, “one cannot have everything. Did you speak to these… people?”

“I did. Bayaz, if I may use the name, is a most slippery talker. Without the aid of anything more persuasive than the questions themselves, I could get nothing from him. His friend the Northman also bears some study.”

One crease formed across Sult’s smooth forehead. “You suspect some connection with this savage Bethod?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?” echoed the Arch Lector sourly, as though the very word was poison. “What else?”

“There has been a new addition to the merry band.”

“I know. The Navigator.”

Why do I even bother? “Yes, your Eminence, a Navigator.”

“Good luck to them. Those penny-pinching fortune-tellers are always more trouble than they’re worth. Blubbering on about God and what have you. Greedy savages.”

“Absolutely. More trouble than they’re worth, Arch Lector, though it would be interesting to know why they have employed one.”

“And why have they?”

Glokta paused for a moment. “I don’t know.”

“Huh,” snorted Sult. “What else?”

“Following their night-time visitation, our friends were relocated to a suite of rooms beside the park. There was a most grisly death a few nights ago, not twenty paces from their windows.”

“Superior Goyle mentioned this. He said it was nothing to concern myself about, that there was no connection with our visitors. I left the matter in his hands.” He frowned at Glokta. “Did I make the wrong decision?”

Oh dear me, I need not think too long over this one. “Absolutely not, Arch Lector.” Glokta bowed his head in deep respect. “If the Superior is satisfied, then so am I.”

“Hmm. So what you are telling me is that, all in all, we have nothing.”

Not quite nothing. “There is this.” Glokta fished the ancient scroll from his coat pocket and held it out.

Sult had a look of mild curiosity on his face as he took it and unrolled it on the table, stared down at the meaningless symbols. “What is it?”

Hah. So you don’t know everything. “I suppose you could say that it’s a piece of history. An account of how Bayaz defeated the Master Maker.”

“A piece of history.” Sult tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table top. “And how does it help us?” How does it help you, you mean?

“According to this, it was our friend Bayaz who sealed up the House of the Maker.” Glokta nodded towards the looming shape beyond the window. “Sealed it up… and took the key.”

“Key? That tower has always been sealed. Always. As far as I am aware there is not even a keyhole.”

“Those were precisely my thoughts, your Eminence.”

“Hmm.” Slowly, Sult began to smile. “Stories are all in how you tell them, eh? Our friend Bayaz knows that well enough, I dare say. He would use our own stories against us, but now we switch cups with him. I enjoy the irony.” He picked up the scroll again. “Is it authentic?”