The Blade Itself: The First Law: Book One

The Master of the Mints was a strong, noble-looking man. His face was already starting to bruise. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he roared, all bluster and bravado. ‘Do you know who I am?’

Glokta snorted. ‘Of course we know who you are. Do you think we are in the habit of snatching people from the streets at random?’

‘I am the Master of the Royal Mints!’ yelled the prisoner, struggling at his bonds. Practical Frost looked on impassively, arms folded. The irons were already glowing orange in the brazier. ‘How dare you . . .’

‘We cannot have these constant interruptions!’ shouted Glokta. Frost kicked Teufel savagely in the shin and he yelped with pain. ‘How can our prisoner sign his paper of confession if his hands are tied? Please release him.’

Teufel stared suspiciously around as the albino untied his wrists. Then he saw the cleaver. The polished blade shone mirror bright in the harsh lamp light. Truly a thing of beauty. You’d like to have that, wouldn’t you, Teufel? I bet you’d like to cut my head off with it. Glokta almost hoped that he would, his right hand seemed to be reaching for it, but he used it to shove the paper of confession away instead.

‘Ah,’ said Glokta, ‘the Master of the Mints is a right-handed gentleman.’

‘A right-handed gentleman,’ Severard hissed in the prisoner’s ear.

Teufel was staring across the table through narrowed eyes. ‘I know you! Glokta, isn’t it? The one who was captured in Gurkhul, the one they tortured. Sand dan Glokta, am I right? Well, you’re in over your head this time, I can tell you! Right in over your head! When High Justice Marovia hears about this . . .’

Glokta sprang to his feet, his chair screeching on the tiles. His left leg was agony, but he ignored it. ‘Look at this!’ he hissed, then opened his mouth wide, giving the horrified prisoner a good look at his teeth. Or what’s left of them. ‘You see that? You see? Where they cracked out the teeth above, they left them below, and where they took them out below, they left them above, all the way to the back. See?’ Glokta pulled his cheeks back with his fingers so Teufel could get a better view. ‘They did it with a tiny chisel. A little bit each day. It took months.’ Glokta sat down stiffly, then smiled wide.

‘What excellent work, eh? The irony of it! To leave you half your teeth, but not a one of ’em any use! I have soup most days.’ The Master of the Mints swallowed hard. Glokta could see a drop of sweat running down his neck. ‘And the teeth were just the beginning. I have to piss sitting down like a woman, you know. I’m thirty-five years old, and I need help getting out of bed.’ He leaned back again and stretched out his leg with a wince. ‘Every day is its own little hell for me. Every day. So tell me, can you seriously believe that anything you might say could scare me?’

Glokta studied his prisoner, taking his time. No longer half so sure of himself. ‘Confess,’ he whispered. ‘Then we can ship you off to Angland and still get some sleep tonight.’

Teufel’s face had turned almost as pale as Practical Frost’s, but he said nothing. The Arch Lector will be here soon. Already on his way, most likely. If there is no confession when he arrives . . . we’ll all be off to Angland. At best. Glokta took hold of his cane and got to his feet. ‘I like to think of myself as an artist, but artistry takes time and we have wasted half the evening searching for you in every brothel in the city. Thankfully, Practical Frost has a keen nose and an excellent sense of direction. He can sniff out a rat in a shithouse.’

‘A rat in a shithouse,’ echoed Severard, eyes glittering bright in the orange glow from the brazier.

‘We are on a tight schedule so let me be blunt. You will confess to me within ten minutes.’

Teufel snorted and folded his arms. ‘Never.’

‘Hold him.’ Frost seized the prisoner from behind and folded him in a vice-like grip, pinning his right arm to his side. Severard grabbed hold of his left wrist and spread his fingers out on the scarred table-top. Glokta curled his fist round the smooth grip of the cleaver, the blade scraping against the wood as he pulled it slowly towards him. He stared down at Teufel’s hand. What beautiful fingernails he has. How long and glossy. You cannot work down a mine with nails like that. Glokta raised the cleaver high.

‘Wait!’ screamed the prisoner.

Bang! The heavy blade bit deep into the table top, neatly paring off Teufel’s middle fingernail. He was breathing fast now, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Now we’ll see what kind of a man you really are.

‘I think you can see where this is going,’ said Glokta. ‘You know, they did it to a corporal who was captured with me, one cut a day. He was a tough man, very tough. They made it past his elbow before he died.’ Glokta lifted the cleaver again. ‘Confess.’

‘You couldn’t . . .’

Bang! The cleaver took off the very tip of Teufel’s middle finger. Blood bubbled out on to the table top. Severard’s eyes were smiling in the lamp light. Teufel’s jaw dropped. But the pain will be a while coming. ‘Confess!’ bellowed Glokta.

Bang! The cleaver took off the top of Teufel’s ring finger, and a little disc out of his middle finger which rolled a short way and dropped off onto the floor. Frost’s face was carved from marble. ‘Confess!’

Bang! The tip of Teufel’s index finger jumped in the air. His middle finger was down to the first joint. Glokta paused, wiping the sweat from his forehead on the back of his hand. His leg was throbbing with the exertion. Blood was dripping onto the tiles with a steady tap, tap, tap. Teufel was staring wide-eyed at his shortened fingers.

Severard shook his head. ‘That’s excellent work, Inquisitor.’ He flicked one of the discs of flesh across the table. ‘The precision . . . I’m in awe.’

‘Aaaargh!’ screamed the Master of the Mints. Now it dawns on him. Glokta raised the cleaver once again.

‘I will confess!’ shrieked Teufel, ‘I will confess!’

‘Excellent,’ said Glokta brightly.

‘Excellent,’ said Severard.

‘Etherer,’ said Practical Frost.