Glokta mentally compared his features to those of Bayaz’ statue in the Kingsway. There is hardly anything uncanny about the resemblance. Half as commanding and a great deal shorter. Given an hour I could find five old men who looked more convincing. If I took a razor to Arch Lector Sult, I could do better. Glokta glanced at his shiny pate. I wonder if he takes a razor to that every morning?
“And you are?” asked the supposed Bayaz.
“Inquisitor Glokta.”
“Ah, one of His Majesty’s Inquisitors. We are honoured!”
“Oh no, the honour is mine. You, after all, are the legendary Bayaz, First of the Magi.”
The old man glared back at him, his green eyes prickly hard. “Legendary is perhaps a shade too much, but I am Bayaz.”
“Your companion, Master Ninefingers, was just describing last night’s events to me. A colourful tale. He claims that you caused… all this.”
The old man snorted. “I am not in the habit of welcoming uninvited guests.”
“So I see.”
“Alas, there was some damage to the suite. In my experience one should act quickly and decisively. The pieces can always be picked up afterward.”
“Of course. Forgive my ignorance, Master Bayaz, but how, precisely, was the damage caused?”
The old man smiled. “You can understand that we do not share the secrets of our order with just anyone, and I am afraid that I already have an apprentice.” He indicated the unconvincing youth.
“We met. In simple terms then, perhaps, that I might understand?”
“You would call it magic.”
“Magic. I see.”
“Indeed. It is, after all, what we Magi are best known for.”
“Mmm. I don’t suppose you would be kind enough to demonstrate, for my benefit?”
“Oh no!” The so-called wizard gave a comfortable laugh. “I don’t do tricks.”
This old fool is as hard to fathom as the Northman. The one barely speaks, while the other talks and talks but says nothing. “I must admit to being somewhat at a loss as to how this intruder got in.” Glokta glanced round the room, examining the possible means of entrance. “The guard saw nothing, which leaves the window.”
He shuffled cautiously to the hole and peered out. There had been a small balcony, but a few stubby splinters of stone were all that remained. Otherwise the wall fell smooth and sheer all the way to the glittering water far, far below. “That’s quite a climb to make, especially in a dress. An impossible one, wouldn’t you say? How do you think this woman made it?”
The old man snorted. “Do you want me to do your job for you? Perhaps she clambered up the latrine chute!” The Northman looked deeply troubled by that suggestion. “Why don’t you catch her and ask her? Isn’t that what you’re here for?”
Touchy, touchy, and consummately acted. An air of injured innocence so convincing, he almost has me believing this garbage. Almost, but not quite. “Therein lies the problem. There is no sign of your mysterious intruder. No body has been recovered. Some wood, small pieces of furniture, the stones from the wall, they were scattered widely in the streets below. But nothing of any intruder, of either sex.”
The old man stared back at him, a hard frown beginning to form on his face. “Perhaps the body burned to nothing. Perhaps it was torn apart, into pieces too small to see, or boiled away into the air. Magic is not always precise, or predictable, even in the hands of a master. Such things can happen. Easily. Particularly when I become annoyed.”
“I fear I must risk your annoyance, though. It has occurred to me that you might not, in fact, be Bayaz, the First of the Magi.”
“Indeed?” The old man’s bushy eyebrows drew together.
“I must at least entertain the possibility…” a tense stillness had settled on the room “…that you are an impostor.”
“A fraud?” snapped the so-called Magus. The pale young man lowered his head and backed quietly away towards the wall. Glokta felt suddenly very alone in the midst of that rubble strewn circle, alone and increasingly unsure of himself, but he soldiered on.
“It had occurred to me that this whole event might have been staged for our benefit. A convenient demonstration of your magical powers.”
“Convenient?” Hissed the bald old man, his voice unnaturally loud. “Convenient, say you? It would be convenient if I was left to enjoy a night’s sleep uninterrupted. Convenient if I was now sitting in my old chair on the Closed Council. Convenient if people took my word as law, the way they used to, without asking a lot of damn fool questions!”
The resemblance to the statue on the Kingsway was suddenly much increased. There, now, was the frown of command, the sneer of contempt, the threat of terrible anger. The old man’s words seemed to press on Glokta like a great weight, driving the breath from his body, threatening to crush him to his knees, cutting into his skull, and leaving behind a creeping shred of doubt. He glanced up at the yawning hole in the wall. Powder? Catapults? Labourers? Is there not a simpler explanation? The world seemed to shift around him, as it had in the Arch Lector’s study a few days before, his mind turned the pieces, pulling them apart, putting them together. What if they are simply telling the truth? What if…
No! Glokta forced the idea from his mind. He lifted his head and gave the old man a sneer of his own to think about. An aging actor with a shaved head and a plausible manner. Nothing more. “If you are as you say, you have nothing to fear from my questions, or from your answers.”
The old man cracked a smile and the strange pressure was suddenly released. “Your candour at least, Inquisitor, is quite refreshing. No doubt you will do your utmost to prove your theory. I wish you luck. I, as you say, have nothing to fear. I would only ask that you find some proof of this deception before bothering us again.”
Glokta bowed stiffly. “I will try to do so,” he said, and made for the door.
“There is one more thing!” The old man was looking towards the gaping hole in the wall. “Would it be possible to find some other chambers? The wind blows rather chill through these.”
“I will look into it.”
“Good. Perhaps somewhere with fewer steps. Damn things play hell with my knees these days.” Indeed? There, at least, we can agree.
Glokta gave the three of them one last inspection. The bald old man stared back, his face a blank wall. The lanky youth glanced up anxiously then quickly turned away. The Northman was still frowning towards the latrine door. Charlatans, impostors, spies. But how to prove it? “Good day, gentlemen.” And he limped towards the stairs with as much dignity as he could muster.
Nobility
Jezal scraped the last fair hairs from the side of his jaw and washed the razor off in the bowl. Then he wiped it on the cloth, closed it and placed it carefully on the table, admiring the way the sunlight glinted on the mother-of-pearl handle.
He wiped his face, and then—his favourite part of the day—gazed at himself in the looking glass. It was a good one, newly imported from Visserine, a present from his father: an oval of bright, smooth glass in a frame of lavishly-carved dark wood. A fitting surround for such a handsome man as the one gazing happily back at him. Honestly, handsome hardly did him justice.
“You’re quite the beauty aren’t you?” Jezal said to himself, smiling as he ran his fingers over the smooth skin of his jaw. And what a jaw it was. He had often been told it was his best feature, not that there was anything whatever wrong with the rest of him. He turned to the right, then to the left, the better to admire that magnificent chin. Not too heavy, not brutish, but not too light either, not womanly or weak. A man’s jaw, no doubt, with a slight cleft in the chin, speaking of strength and authority, but sensitive and thoughtful too. Had there ever been a jaw like it? Perhaps some king, or hero of legend, once had one almost as fine. It was a noble jaw, that much was clear. No commoner could ever have had a chin so grand.