Glokta looked down at the body. Or what remains of it. He poked at the gouge out of Raynault’s arm with the tip of his cane. We have seen wounds like these before, on that corpse in the park, months ago. An Eater did this, or at least, we are meant to think so. The window tapped gently against its frame on a sudden cold draft. An Eater who climbed in through the window? Unlike one of the Prophets agents to leave such clues behind. Why not simply vanished, like Davoust? A sudden loss of appetite, are we meant to suppose?
“Have you spoken to the guard?”
Sult waved his hand dismissively. “He says he stood outside the door all night as usual. He heard a noise, entered the room, found the Prince as you see him, still bleeding, the window open. He sent immediately for Hoff. Hoff sent for me, and I for you.”
“The guard should be properly questioned, nonetheless…” Glokta peered down at Raynault’s curled-up hand. There was something in it. He bent with an effort, his cane wobbling under his weight, and snatched it up between two fingers. Interesting. A piece of cloth. White cloth, it seemed, though mostly stained dark red now. He flattened it out and held it up. Gold thread glittered faintly in the dim candlelight. I have seen cloth like this before.
“What is that?” snapped Sult. “Have you found something?”
Glokta stayed silent. Perhaps, but it was very easy. Almost too easy.
Glokta nodded to Frost, and the albino reached forward and pulled the bag from the head of the Emperor’s envoy. Tulkis blinked in the harsh light, took a deep breath, and squinted round at the room. A dirty white box, too brightly lit. He took in Frost, looming at his shoulder. He took in Glokta, seated opposite. He took in the rickety chairs, and the stained table, and the polished case sitting on top of it. He did not seem to notice the small black hole in the very corner opposite him, behind Glokta’s head. He was not meant to. That was the hole through which the Arch Lector watched the proceedings. The one through which he hears every word that is said.
Glokta watched the envoy closely. It is in these early moments that a man often gives away his guilt. I wonder what his first words will be? An innocent man would ask what crime he is accused of—
“Of what crime am I accused?” asked Tulkis. Glokta felt his eyelid twitch. Of course, a clever guilty man might easily ask the same question.
“Of the murder of Crown Prince Raynault.”
The envoy blinked, and sagged back in his chair. “My deepest condolences to the Royal Family, and to all the people of the Union on this black day. But is all this really necessary?” He nodded down at the yards of heavy chain wrapped round his naked body.
“It is. If you are what we suspect you might be.”
“I see. Might I ask if it will make any difference that I am innocent of any part in this heinous crime?”
I doubt it will. Even if you are. Glokta tossed the bloodstained fragment of white cloth onto the table. “This was found clasped in the Prince’s hand.” Tulkis frowned at it, puzzled. Just as if he never saw it before. “It matches exactly with a tear in a garment found in your chambers. A garment also stained liberally with blood.” Tulkis looked up at Glokta, eyes wide. Just as though he has no idea how it got there. “How would you explain this?”
The envoy leaned forwards across the table, as far as he could with his hands chained behind him, and spoke swift and low. “Please attend to me, Superior. If the Prophet’s agents have discovered my mission—and they discover everything sooner or later—they will stop at nothing to make it fail. You know what they are capable of. If you punish me for this crime, it will be an insult to the Emperor. You will slap away his hand of friendship, and slap him in the face besides. He will swear vengeance, and when Uthman-ul-Dosht has sworn… my life means nothing, but my mission cannot fail. The consequences… for both our nations… please, Superior, I beg of you… I know you for an open-minded man—”
“An open mind is like to an open wound,” growled Glokta. “Vulnerable to poison. Liable to fester. Apt to give its owner only pain.” He nodded to Frost and the albino placed the paper of confession carefully on the table top and slid it towards Tulkis with his white fingertips. He put the bottle of ink beside it and flipped open the brass lid. He placed the pen nearby. All neat and crisp as a Sergeant-Major could wish for.
“This is your confession.” Glokta waved his hand at the paper. “In case you were wondering.”
“I am not guilty,” muttered Tulkis, his voice hardly more than a whisper.
Glokta twitched his face in annoyance. “Have you ever been tortured?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen torture carried out?”
The envoy swallowed. “I have.”
“Then you have some inkling of what to expect.” Frost lifted the lid on Glokta’s case. The trays inside lifted and fanned out like a huge and spectacular butterfly unfurling its wings for the first time, exposing Glokta’s instruments in all their glittering, hypnotic, horrible beauty. He watched Tulkis’ eyes fill with fear and fascination.
“I am the very best there is at this.” Glokta gave a long sigh and clasped his hands before him. “It is not a matter for pride. It is a matter of fact. You would not be with me now if it were otherwise. I tell you so you can have no doubts. So you can answer my next question with no illusions. Look at me.” He waited for Tulkis’ dark eyes to meet his. “Will you confess?”
There was a pause. “I am innocent,” whispered the ambassador.
“That was not my question. I will ask it again. “Will you confess?”
“I cannot.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and Glokta was left in no doubt. He is innocent. If he could steal over the wall of the palace and in through the Prince’s window without being noticed, surely he could have stolen out of the Agriont and away before we were any the wiser? Why stay, and sleep, leaving his bloodstained garment hanging in the cupboard, waiting for us to discover it? A trail of clues so blatant a blind man could follow them. We are being duped, and not even subtly. To punish the wrong man, that is one thing. But to allow myself to be made a fool of? That is another.
“One moment,” murmured Glokta. He struggled out of his chair to the door, shut it carefully behind him, hobbled wincing up the steps to the next room and went in.
“What the hell are you up to in there?” the Arch Lector snarled at him.
Glokta kept his head bowed in a position of deep respect. “I am trying to establish the truth, your Eminence—”
“You are trying to establish what? The Closed Council are waiting for a confession, and you’re blathering about what?