The Seed

“How are you, Sand?”

Colonel Glokta opened his eyes. It was dark in the room. Damn it, he was late!

“Damn it!” he shouted, shoving back the covers and leaping out of bed. “I’m late!” He snatched up his uniform trousers, shoving his legs in, fumbling with his belt.

“Don’t worry about that, Sand!” His mother’s voice was half soothing, half impatient. “Where is the Seed?”

Glokta frowned over as he pushed his shirt in. “I’ve no time for this nonsense, mother! Why do you always think you know what’s best for me?” He cast around him for his sword, but couldn’t see it. “We’re at war you know!”

“We are indeed.” The Colonel looked up, surprised. It was the voice of Arch Lector Sult. “Two wars. One fought with fire and steel, and another one beneath—an old war, long years in the making.” Glokta frowned. How ever could he have mistaken that old windbag for his mother? And what was he doing in Glokta’s chambers in any case? Sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed, prattling about old wars?

“What the hell are you doing in my chambers?” growled Colonel Glokta, “and what have you done with my sword?”

“Where is the Seed?” A woman’s voice now, but not his mother’s. Someone else. He did not recognise it. He squinted against the darkness, straining to see who was in the chair. He could make out a vague outline, but the shadows were too deep to tell more.

“Who are you?” asked Glokta sternly.

“Who was I? Or what am I?” The figure in the chair shifted as it rose slowly, smoothly, from its seat. “I was a patient woman, but I am woman no more, and the grinding years have worn my patience thin.”

“What do you want?” Glokta’s voice quivered, reedy and weak as he backed away.

The figure moved, stepping through the shaft of moonlight from the window. A woman’s form, slender and graceful, but shadows stuck to the face. A sudden fear clawed at him and he stumbled back against the wall, raising his arm to fend the woman off.

“I want the Seed.” A pale hand snaked out and closed around his outstretched arm. A gentle touch, but cold. Cold as stone. Glokta trembled, gasped, squeezed shut his eyes. “I need it. You cannot know the need I have. Where is it?” Fingers plucked at his clothes, quick and deft, seeking, searching, darting in his pockets, in his shirt, brushing his skin. Cold. Cold as glass.

“The Seed?” squeaked Glokta, half paralysed with terror.

“You know what I speak of, broken man. Where is it?”

“The Maker fell…” he whispered. The words welled up, he knew not from where.

“I know it.”

“…burning, burning…”

“I saw it.” The face was close enough for him to feel the breath upon his skin. Cold. Cold as frost.

“…he broke upon the bridge below…”

“I remember it.”

“…they searched for the Seed…”

“Yes…” whispered the voice, urgent in his ear, “where is it?” Something brushed against his face, his cheek, his eyelid, soft and slimy. A tongue. Cold. Cold as ice. His flesh crawled.

“I don’t know! They could not find it!”

“Could not?” Fingers closed tight around his throat, squeezing, crushing, choking the air from him. Cold. Cold as iron, and just as hard. “You think you know pain, broken man? You know nothing!” The icy breath rasped in his ear, the icy fingers squeezed, squeezed. “But I can show you! I can show you!”

Glokta screamed, thrashed, struggled. He fought his way up, stood for a dizzy instant, then his leg buckled and he plunged into space. The dark room tumbled around him and he crashed to the boards with a sickening crunch, his arm folded beneath him, his forehead cracking against the floor.

He struggled up, clawing at the leg of his bed, pushing himself against the wall, snorting for breath, staring wild-eyed towards the chair, yet barely able to look for fear. A bar of moonlight spilled through the window, cut across the rumpled bed-clothes and onto the polished wood of the seat. Empty.

Glokta cast around the rest of the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness, peering into every shadowy corner. Nothing. Empty. A dream.

And now, as the crazy hammering of his heart relaxed, as his ragged breathing slowed, the pain came on. His head thumped, his leg screamed, his arm was throbbing dully. He could taste blood, his eyes stung and wept, his guts heaved, sick and spinning. He whimpered, made an agonising hop towards the bed, then collapsed on the moonlit mattress, exhausted, wet with cold sweat.

There was an urgent knocking at the door. “Sir? Are you alright?” Barnam’s voice. The knocking came again. No good. It is locked. Always locked, but I don’t think I’ll be moving. Frost will have to break it down. But the door swung open, and Glokta shielded his eyes from the sudden ruddy glow of the old servant’s lamp.

“Are you alright?”

“I fell,” mumbled Glokta. “My arm…”

The old servant perched on the bed, taking Glokta’s hand gently and pushing up the sleeve of his night-shirt. Glokta winced, Barnam clicked his tongue. His forearm had a big pink mark across it, already beginning to swell and redden.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” said the servant, “but I should fetch the surgeon, just in case.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved Barnam away with his good hand. “Fetch him.”

Glokta watched the old servant hurry, stooped, out of the door, heard him creaking along the narrow corridor outside, down the narrow stairs. He heard the front door banging shut. Silence descended.

He looked over at the scroll he had taken from the Adeptus Historical, still rolled up tight on the dresser, waiting to be delivered to Arch Lector Sult. The Maker fell burning. He broke upon the bridge below. Strange, how parts of the waking world stray into one’s dreams. That damned Northman and his intruder. A woman, and cold. That’ll be what set me off.

Glokta rubbed his arm gently, pressing the sore flesh with his fingertips. Nothing. Just a dream. And yet something was niggling at him. He looked over at the back of the door. The key was still in the lock, shining orange in the light from the lamp. Not locked, and yet I must have locked it. Must have. I always do. Glokta looked back to the empty chair. What did that idiot apprentice say? Magic comes from the Other Side. The world below. Hell.

Somehow, at that moment, after that dream, it did not seem so difficult to believe. The fear was building in him again, now he was alone. He stretched out his good hand towards the chair. It took an age to get there, trembling, shaking. His fingers touched the wood. Cool, but not cold. Not cold. There is nothing there. He slowly withdrew his hand, cradled his pulsing arm. Nothing. Empty.

A dream.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. “Fell out of bed.” He scratched absently at his wrist through the dressing. Until a moment ago it had been throbbing like hell, but the sight in front of him had pushed the pain into the back of his mind. I could be worse off. A lot worse. “Not a pretty sight. Not at all.”

“You’re damn right it’s not.” Severard looked as disgusted as was possible with half his face covered. “I nearly puked when I first saw it. Me!”

Glokta peered down, frowning, at the tangled mess of butchery, supporting himself against a tree-trunk with one hand and pushing some of the ferns aside with the tip of his cane to get a better look. “Are we even sure it’s a man?”

“Might be a woman. Human anyway. That’s a foot.”

“Ah, so it is. How was it found?”

“He found it.” Severard nodded over towards a gardener: sat on the ground, pale-faced and staring, and with a small pool of drying vomit on the grass beside him. “In amongst the trees here, hidden in the bushes. Looks as if whatever killed it tried to hide it, but not long ago. It’s fresh.” It is indeed—barely any smell, and only a couple of flies have arrived. Very fresh, perhaps last night even. “It might not have been found for days, except someone asked for one of these trees to be pruned. Blocking out the light or something. You ever see anything like this?”

Glokta shrugged. “In Angland, once, before you came. One of the convicts tried to escape. He made it a few miles, then succumbed to the cold. A bear made free with the corpse. That was quite a mess, though not near as bad as this one.”

“I can’t see anyone freezing to death last night. It was hot as hell.”

“Mmm,” said Glokta. If hell is hot. I’ve always thought it might be cold. Cold as ice. “There are few bears within the Agriont in any case. Do we have any idea as to the identity of this…” he waved his cane towards the carcass “…person?”

“None.”

“Is anyone unaccounted for? Reported missing?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“So we have not the slightest idea even who our victim is? Why the hell are we taking an interest? Don’t we have a fake Magus to be watching?”

“That’s just it. Their new quarters are right over there.” Severard’s gloved finger pointed out a building not twenty strides away. “I was watching them when this came to light.”

Glokta raised an eyebrow. “I see. And you suspect some connection, do you?” The Practical shrugged. “Mysterious intruders in the dead of night, gruesome murders on their very doorstep? Our visitors draw trouble like shit draws flies.”

“Huh,” said Severard, swatting a fly away with his gloved hand. “I looked into that other thing as well. Your bankers. Valint and Balk.”

Glokta looked up. “Really? And?”

“And not a lot. An old house. Very old and very well respected. Their notes are good as gold among the merchants. They’ve got offices all across Midderland, Angland, Starikland, in Westport, in Dagoska. Even outside the Union. Powerful people, by all accounts. All kind of folk owe them money, I reckon. Strange thing though, no one seems ever to have met a Valint or a Balk. Who can tell with banks though, eh? They love secrets. You want me to dig any more?”

It could be dangerous. Very dangerous. Dig too far and we might be digging our own graves. “No. We’d better leave off. For now. Keep your ears open though.”

“My ears are always open, chief. So who do you like for the Contest?”

Glokta glanced across at the Practical. “How can you think about that with this in front of you?”

The Practical shrugged. “It won’t do ’em any harm, will it?” Glokta looked back at the mangled body. I suppose it wont, at that. “So come on, you should know, Luthar or Gorst?”

“Gorst.” I hope he carves the little bastard in two.

“Really? People say he’s a clumsy ox. Lucky is all.”

“Well, I say he’s a genius,” said Glokta. “In a couple of years they’ll all be fencing like him, if you can call it fencing. You mark my words.”

“Gorst, eh? Maybe I’ll have a little bet.”

“You do that. But in the meantime you’d better scrape this mess up and take it to the University. Get Frost to give you a hand, he’s got a strong stomach.”

“The University?”

“Well we can’t just leave it here. Some fashionable lady taking a turn in the park could get an awful shock.” Severard giggled. “And I might just know of someone who can shed some light on this little mystery.”

“This is quite an interesting discovery you’ve made, Inquisitor.” The Adeptus Physical paused in his work and peered over at Glokta, one eye enormously magnified through his glittering eyeglass. “Quite a fascinating discovery,” he muttered, as he returned to the corpse with his instruments: lifting, prodding, twisting, squinting down at the glistening flesh.

Glokta peered round the laboratory, his lip curling with distaste. Jars of many different sizes lined two of the four walls, filled with floating, pickled lumps of meat. Some of those floating things Glokta recognised as parts of the human body, some he did not. Even he felt slightly uncomfortable in amongst the macabre display. I wonder how Kandelau came by them all? Do his visitors end up dismembered, floating in a dozen different jars? Perhaps I would make an interesting specimen?

“Fascinating.” The Adeptus loosened the strap of his eye-glass and perched it on top of his head, rubbing at the pink ring it had left behind around his eye. “What can you tell me about it?”

Glokta frowned. “I came here to find out what you can tell me about it.”

“Of course, of course.” Kandelau pursed his lips. “Well, er, as to the gender of our unfortunate friend, er…” he trailed off.

“Well?”

“Heh heh, well, er, the organs that would allow one to make an easy determination are…” and he gestured at the meat on the table, harshly lit under the blazing lamps “…absent.”

“And that is the sum of your investigation?”

“Well, there are other things: a man’s third finger is typically longer than his first, not necessarily so with a woman but, heh, our remnant does not have all the digits necessary to make such a judgement. As to gender, therefore, without the fingers, we are quite stumped!” He giggled nervously at his own joke. Glokta did not.

“Young or old?”

“Well, er, again that is quite difficult to determine, I am afraid. The, er,” and the Adeptus tapped at the corpse with his tongs, “teeth here are in good condition and, heh, such skin as remains would appear to be consistent with a younger person but, er, this is really just, heh heh—”

“So what can you tell me about the victim?”

“Er, well… nothing.” And he smiled apologetically. “But I have made some interesting discoveries as to the cause of death!”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, look at this!” I would rather not. Glokta limped cautiously over to the bench, peering down at the spot the old man was indicating.

“You see here? The shape of this wound?” The Adeptus prodded at a flap of gristle.

“No I do not see,” said Glokta. It appears all to be one enormous wound to me.

The old man leaned towards him, his eyes wide. “Human,” he said.

“We know that it is human! This is a foot!”

“No! No! These teeth marks, here… they are human bites!”

Glokta frowned. “Human… bites?”

“Absolutely!” Kandelau’s beaming smile was quite at odds with the surroundings. And with the subject matter, I rather think. “This individual was bitten to death by another person, and, heh heh, in all likelihood,” and he gestured triumphantly at the mess on his table, “considering the incomplete nature of the remains… partially eaten!”

Glokta stared at the old man for a moment. Eaten? Eaten? Why must every question answered raise ten more? “This is what you would have me tell the Arch Lector?”

The Adeptus laughed nervously. “Well, heh heh, these are the facts, as I see them…”

“A person, unidentified, perhaps a man, perhaps a woman, either young or old, was attacked in the park by an unknown assailant, bitten to death within two hundred strides of the King’s palace and partially… eaten?”

“Er…” Kandelau gave a worried glance sideways towards the entrance. Glokta turned to look, and frowned. There was a new arrival there, one that he had not heard enter. A woman, standing in the shadows at the edge of the bright lamp-light with her arms folded. A tall woman with short, spiky red hair and a black mask on her face, staring at Glokta and the Adeptus through narrowed eyes. A Practical. But not one I recognise, and women are quite a rarity in the Inquisition. I would have thought…

“Good afternoon, good afternoon!” A man stepped briskly through the door: gaunt, balding, with a long black coat and a prim little smile on his face. An unpleasantly familiar man. Goyle, damn him. Our new Superior of Adua, arrived at last. Great news. “Inquisitor Glokta,” he purred, “what an absolute pleasure it is to see you again!”

“Likewise, Superior Goyle.” You bastard.

Two other figures followed close behind the grinning Superior, making the glaring little room seem quite crowded. One was a dark-skinned, stocky Kantic with a big golden ring through his ear, the other was a monster of a Northman with a face like a stone slab. He almost had to stoop to cram himself through the doorway. Both were masked and dressed from head to toe in Practicals black.

“This is Practical Vitari,” chuckled Goyle, indicating the red-haired woman, who had flowed over to the jars and was peering into them, one at a time, tapping on the glass and making the specimens wobble. “And these are Practicals Halim,” the Southerner sidled past Goyle and into the room, busy eyes darting here and there, “and Byre.” The monstrous Northman gazed down at Glokta from up near the ceiling. “In his own country they call him the Stone-Splitter, would you believe, but I don’t think that would work here, do you Glokta? Practical Stone-Splitter, can you imagine?” He laughed softly to himself and shook his head.

And this is the Inquisition? I had no idea the circus was in town. I wonder if they stand on each other’s shoulders? Or jump through flaming hoops?

“A remarkably diverse selection,” said Glokta.

“Oh yes,” laughed Goyle, “I have picked them up wherever my travels have taken me, eh my friends?”

The woman shrugged as she prowled around the jars. The dark-skinned Practical inclined his head. The towering Northman simply stood there.

“Wherever my travels have taken me!” chuckled Goyle, just as though everyone else had laughed with him. “And I have more besides! It’s been quite a time, I do declare!” He wiped a tear of mirth from his eye as he moved towards the table in the centre of the room. It seemed that everything was a source of amusement to him, even the thing on the bench. “But what’s all this? A body, unless I’m quite mistaken!” Goyle looked up sharply, his eyes sparkling. “A body? A death within the city? As Superior of Adua, surely that falls within my province?”

Glokta bowed. “Naturally. I was not aware that you had arrived, Superior Goyle. Also, I felt that the unusual circumstances of this—”

“Unusual? I see nothing unusual.” Glokta paused. What game is this chuckling fool playing?

“Surely you would agree that the violence here is… exceptional.”

Goyle gave a flamboyant shrug. “Dogs.”

“Dogs?” asked Glokta, unable to let that one pass. “Domestic pets run mad, do you think, or wild ones which climbed over the walls?”

The Superior only smiled. “Whichever you like, Inquisitor. Whichever you like.”

“I’m afraid it could not possibly be dogs,” the Adeptus Physical began pompously to explain. “I was only just making clear to Inquisitor Glokta… these marks here, and on the skin here, do you see? These are human bites, undoubtedly…”

The woman sauntered away from the jars, closer and closer to Kandelau, leaning in towards him until her mask was only inches away from his beak of a nose. He slowly trailed off. “Dogs,” she whispered, then barked in his face.

The Adeptus jumped away. “Well, I suppose I could have been mistaken… of course…” He backed into the enormous Northman’s chest, who had moved with surprising speed to position himself directly behind. Kandelau turned slowly around, staring up with wide eyes.

“Dogs,” intoned the giant.

“Dogs, dogs, dogs,” hummed the southerner in a thick accent.

“Of course,” squeaked Kandelau, “dogs, of course, how foolish I’ve been!”

“Dogs!” shouted Goyle in delight, throwing his hands in the air. “The mystery is solved!” To Glokta’s amazement, two of the three Practicals began politely to applaud. The woman stayed silent. I never believed that I would miss Superior Kalyne, but suddenly I am overcome with nostalgia. Goyle turned slowly round, bowing low. “My first day here, and already I warm to the work! You can bury this,” he said, gesturing to the corpse and smiling broadly at the cringing Adeptus. “Best buried, eh?” He looked over at the Northman. “Back to the mud, as you say in your country!”

The massive Practical showed not the slightest sign that anyone had spoken. The Kantic was standing there, turning the ring through his ear round and round. The woman was peering down at the carcass on the table, sniffing at it through her mask. The Adeptus Physical was backed up against his jars, sweating profusely.

Enough of this pantomime. I have work to do. “Well,” said Glokta stiffly, limping for the door, “the mystery is solved. You don’t need me any more.”

Superior Goyle turned to look at him, his good humour suddenly vanished. “No!” he hissed, furious little eyes nearly popping out of his head. “We don’t… need you… any more!”