The Blade Itself

“We had an uninvited guest,” muttered Logen.

“Er… I must notify…” the guard looked thoroughly confused “…somebody.” He tripped and nearly fell over a fallen beam as he backed towards the door. Logen heard his footsteps rattling away down the stairs.

“What’s an Eater?” There was no reply. The wizard was asleep, eyes closed, a deep frown on his face, chest moving slowly. Logen looked down. He was surprised to see he still had the pot, beautiful and delicate, clasped tightly in his right hand. He carefully swept clear a space on the floor and set the jar down, in amongst the wreckage.

One of the doors banged open and Logen’s heart jumped. It was Malacus, wild-eyed and staring, hair sticking up off his head at all angles. “What the…” He stumbled to the hole and peered gingerly out into the night. “Shit!”

“Malacus, what’s an Eater?”

Quai’s head snapped round to look at Logen, his face a picture of horror. “It’s forbidden,” he whispered, “to eat the flesh of men…”

Questions

Glokta heaped porridge into his mouth as fast as he could, hoping to get half a meal’s worth down before his gorge began to rise. He swallowed, coughed, shuddered. He shoved the bowl away, as though its very presence offended him. Which, in fact, it does. “This had better be important, Severard,” he grumbled.

The Practical scraped his greasy hair back with one hand. “Depends what you mean by important. It’s about our magical friends.”

“Ah, the First of the Magi and his bold companions. What about them?”

“There was some manner of a disturbance at their chambers last night. Someone broke in, they say. There was a fight of some sort. Seems as if some damage was done.”

“Someone? Some sort? Some damage?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Seems? Seems isn’t good enough for us, Severard.”

“Well it’ll have to be, this time. The guard was a little thin on the details. Looked damn worried, if you ask me.” Severard sprawled a little deeper into his chair, shoulders hunching up around his ears. “Someone needs to go and look into it, might as well be us. You can get a good look at them, close up. Ask them some questions, maybe.”

“Where are they?”

“You’ll love this. The Tower of Chains.”

Glokta scowled as he sucked a few bits of porridge from his empty gums. Of course. And right at the top, I bet. Lots of steps. “Anything else?”

“The Northman went for a stroll yesterday, walked in circles round half the Agriont. We watched him, of course.” The Practical sniffed and adjusted his mask. “Ugly bastard.”

“Ah, the infamous Northman. Did he commit any outrages? Rape and murder, buildings aflame, that type of thing?”

“Not much, being honest. A tedious morning for everyone. Wandered around and gawped at things. He spoke to a couple of people.”

“Anyone we know?”

“No one important. One of the carpenters working on the stands for the Contest. A clerk on the Kingsway. There was some girl near the University. He spoke to her for a while.”

“A girl?”

Severard’s eyes grinned. “That’s right, and a nice-looking one too. What was her name?” He snapped his fingers. “I made sure I found it out. Her brother’s with the King’s Own… West, something West…”

“Ardee.”

“That’s the one! You know her?”

“Hmm.” Glokta licked at his empty gums. She asked me how I was. I remember. “What did they have to talk about?”

The Practical raised his eyebrows. “Probably nothing. She’s from Angland though, not been in the city long. Might be some connection. You want me to bring her in? We could soon find out.”

“No!” snapped Glokta. “No. No need. Her brother used to be a friend of mine.”

“Used to be.”

“No one touches her, Severard, you hear?”

The Practical shrugged. “If you say so, Inquisitor. If you say so.”

“I do.”

There was a pause. “So we’re done with the Mercers then, are we?” Severard sounded almost wistful.

“It would seem so. They’re finished. Nothing but some cleaning up to do.”

“Some lucrative cleaning up, I daresay.”

“I daresay,” said Glokta sourly. “But his Eminence feels our talents will be better used elsewhere.” Like watching fake wizards. “Hope you didn’t lose out on your little property by the docks.”

Severard shrugged. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you need somewhere away from prying eyes again, before too long. It’ll still be there. At the right price. Shame to leave a job half done is all.”

True. Glokta paused for a moment, considering. Dangerous. The Arch Lector said go no further. Very dangerous, to disobey, and yet I smell something. It niggles, to leave a loose end, whatever his Eminence might say. “There might be one more thing.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but keep it subtle. Do you know anything about banks?”

“Big buildings. They lend people money.”

Glokta gave a thin smile. “I had no idea you were such an expert. There’s one in particular I’m interested in. Name of Valint and Balk.”

“Never heard of them, but I can ask around.”

“Just keep it discreet, Severard, do you understand me? No one can know about this. I mean it.”

“Discretion is what I’m all about, chief, ask anyone. Discreet. That’s me. Known for it.”

“You’d better be, Severard. You had better be.” Or it could be both our heads.

Glokta sat, wedged into the embrasure with his back against the stones and his left leg stretched out in front of him—a searing, pulsing furnace of pain. He expected pain of course, every moment of every day. But this is something just a bit special.

Every breath was a rattling moan through rigid jaws. Every tiniest movement was a mighty task. He remembered how Marshal Varuz had made him run up and down these steps when he was training for the Contest, years ago. I took them three at a time, up and down without a second thought. Now look at me. Who would have thought it could come to this?

His trembling body ran with sweat, his stinging eyes ran with tears, his burning nose dripped watery snot. All this water flowing out of me, and yet I’m thirsty as hell. Where’s the sense in that? Where was the sense in any of it? What if someone should come past, and see me like this? The terrifying scourge of the Inquisition, flopped on his arse in a window, barely able to move? Will I force a nonchalant smile onto this rigid mask of agony? Will I pretend that all is well? That I often come here, to sprawl beside the stairs? Or will I weep and scream and beg for help?

But no one passed. He lay there, wedged in that narrow space, three-quarters of the way up the Tower of Chains, the back of his head resting on the cool stones, his trembling knees drawn up in front of him. Sand dan Glokta, master swordsman, dashing cavalry officer, what glorious future might he have in front of him? There was a time when I could run for hours. Run and run and never tire. He could feel a