The Blade Itself

that I am leaving you want me to stay? There’s no understanding you, Ferro.”

She frowned. “This bald one says he can give me vengeance. Does he lie?”

“No.”

“Then I must go with him.”

“I know. That is why I brought you here.”

She could think of nothing to say. She looked down at the floor, but Yulwei surprised her by stepping forward suddenly. She raised her hand, to ward off a blow, but instead he put his arms round her and squeezed her tightly. A strange feeling. Being so close to someone else. Warm. Then Yulwei stepped away, one hand on her shoulder. “Walk in God’s footsteps, Ferro Maljinn.”

“Huh. They have no God here.”

“Say rather that they have many.”

“Many?”

“Had you not noticed? Here, each man worships himself.” She nodded. That seemed close to the truth. “Be careful, Ferro. And listen to Bayaz. He is the first of my order, and few indeed are wise as he.”

“I do not trust him.”

Yulwei leaned closer. “I did not tell you to trust him.” Then he smiled, and turned his back. She watched him walk slowly to the door, then out into the corridor. She heard his bare feet flapping away on the tiles, the bangles on his arms jingling softly.

Leaving her alone with the luxury, and the gardens, and the pinks.

Old Friends

There was a thumping knock at the door, and Glokta jerked his head up, left eye suddenly twitching. Who the hell comes knocking at this hour? Frost? Severard? Or someone else? Superior Goyle, maybe, come to pay me a visit with his circus freaks? Might the Arch Lector have grown tired of his toy cripple already? One could hardly say the feast went according to plan, and his Eminence is hardly the forgiving type. Body found floating by the docks…

The knocking came again. Loud, confident knocking. The kind that demands the door be opened, before it’s broken down. “I’m coming!” he shouted, voice cracking slightly as he prised himself out from behind his table, legs wobbly. “I’m just coming!” He snatched up his cane and limped to the front door, took a deep breath and fumbled with the latch.

It was not Frost, or Severard. Nor was it Goyle, or one of his freakish Practicals. It was someone much more unexpected. Glokta raised an eyebrow, then leaned against the door frame. “Major West, what a surprise.”

Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. “Inquisitor Glokta,” mumbled West—hesitant, awkward, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Glokta with icy formality.

The Major nearly winced. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Glokta shut the front door behind him, then limped after West into his dining room. The Major squeezed himself into one of the chairs and Glokta took another. They sat there facing each other for a moment, without speaking. What the hell does he want, at this hour or any other? Glokta scrutinised his old friend’s face in the glow from the fire and the one, flickering candle. Now that he could see him more clearly, he realised West had changed. He looks old. His hair was thinning at the temples, going grey round his ears. His face was pale, pinched, slightly hollow. He looks worried. Ground down. Close to the edge. West looked round at the mean room, the mean fire, the mean furniture, cautiously up at Glokta, then quickly down at the floor. Nervous, as if he had something picking at his mind. He looks ill at ease. As well he might.

He did not seem ready to break the silence, so Glokta did it for him. “So, how long has it been, eh? Apart from that night in town, and we can hardly count that, can we?”

The memory of that unfortunate meeting hung between them for a moment like a fart, then West cleared his throat. “Nine years.”

“Nine years. Imagine that. Since we stood on the ridge, old friends together, looking down towards the river. Down towards the bridge and all those Gurkish on the other side. Seems a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Nine years. I can remember you pleading with me not to go down there, but I was having none of it. What a fool I was, eh? Thought I was our only hope. Thought I was invincible.”

“You saved us all that day, saved the whole army.”

“Did I? How wonderful. I daresay if I’d died on that bridge there’d be statues of me all over the place. Shame I didn’t, really. Shame for everyone.”

West winced and shifted in his chair, looking ever more uncomfortable. “I looked for you, afterwards…” he mumbled.

You looked for me? How hugely fucking noble. What a true friend. Precious little good it did me, dragged off in agony with my leg hacked to mincemeat. And that was just the beginning. “You did not come to discuss old times, West.”

“No… no, I didn’t. I came about my sister.”

Glokta paused. He had certainly not expected that answer. “Ardee?”

“Ardee, yes. I’m leaving for Angland soon and… I was hoping that, perhaps, you could keep an eye on her for me, while I’m away.” West’s eyes flickered up nervously. “You always had a way with women… Sand.” Glokta grimaced at the sound of his first name. No one called him that anymore. No one besides my mother. “You always knew just what to say. Do you remember those three sisters? What were their names? You had them all eating out of your hand.” West smiled, but Glokta couldn’t.

He remembered, but the memories were weak now, colourless, faded. The memories of another man. A dead man. My life began in Gurkhul, in the Emperor’s prisons. The memories since then are much more real. Stretched out in bed like a corpse after I came back, in the darkness, waiting for friends who never came. He looked at West, and he knew that his glance was terribly cold. Do you think to win me with your honest face and your talk of old times? Like a long-lost dog, at last come faithfully home? I know better. You stink, West. You smell like betrayal. That memory at least is mine.

Glokta leaned back slowly in his chair. “Sand dan Glokta,” he murmured, as though recalling a name he once knew. “Whatever became of him, eh, West? You know, that friend of yours, that dashing young man, handsome, proud, fearless? Magic touch with the women? Loved and respected by all, destined for great things? Wherever did he go?”

West looked back, puzzled and unsure of himself, and said nothing.

Glokta lurched towards him, hands spread out on the table, lips curling back to show his ruined mouth. “Dead! He died on the bridge! And what remains? A fucking ruin with his name! A limping, skulking shadow! A crippled ghost, clinging to life the way the smell of piss clings to a beggar. He has no friends, this loathsome fucking remnant, and he wants none! Get you gone, West! Go back to Varuz, and to Luthar, and the rest of those empty bastards! There’s no one here you know!” Glokta’s lips trembled and spat with revulsion. He wasn’t sure who disgusted him more—West, or himself.

The Major blinked, his jaw muscles working silently. He got shakily to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, over his shoulder.

“Tell me!” shouted Glokta, bringing him up short of the door. “The rest of them, they stuck to me so long as I was useful, so long as I was going up. I always knew it. I wasn’t so very surprised they wanted nothing to do with me when I came back. But you, West, I always thought you were a better friend than that, a better man. I always thought that you at least—you alone—would come to visit me.” He shrugged. “I suppose I was wrong.” Glokta turned away, frowning towards the fire, waiting for the sound of the front door closing.

“She didn’t tell you?”

Glokta looked back. “Who?”

“Your mother.”