The Blade Itself

relic.”

“I need to speak with him, not fence with him.”

“Of course, Inquisitor, this way.”

Glokta grabbed the handle of an ancient-looking door, studded with black rivets, began to turn it. He felt Silber seize his arm.

“No!” he snapped, guiding Glokta away down a corridor beside. “The stacks are down here.”

The Adeptus Historical seemed indeed to be a part of ancient history himself. His face was a mask of lined and sagging half-transparent skin. Sparse hairs, snowy white, stuck unkempt from his head. There were only a quarter as many as there should have been, but each was four times longer than you would expect, hence his eyebrows were thin, yet sprouted out to impressive length in all directions, like the whiskers of a cat. His mouth hung slack, weak, and toothless, hands were withered gloves, several sizes too big. Only his eyes showed any trace of life, peering up at Glokta and the administrator as they approached.

“Visitors, is it?” croaked the old man, apparently talking to a large black crow perched on his desk.

“This is Inquisitor Glokta!” bellowed the Administrator, leaning down towards the old man’s ear.

“Glokta?”

“From the Arch Lector!”

“Is it?” The Adeptus Historical squinted up with his ancient eyes.

“He’s somewhat deaf,” Silber murmured, “but no one knows these books like he does.” He thought about it for a moment, peering round at the endless stacks, disappearing into the gloom. “No one else knows these books at all.”

“Thank you,” said Glokta. The Administrator nodded and strode off towards the stairs. Glokta took a step towards the old man and the crow leaped from the table and scrambled into the air, shedding feathers, flapping madly around the ceiling. Glokta hobbled painfully back. I was sure the damn thing was stuffed. He watched it suspiciously until it clattered to a halt on top of one of the shelves and perched there motionless, staring at him with its beady yellow eyes.

Glokta pulled out a chair and dropped into it. “I need to know about Bayaz.”

“Bayaz,” muttered the ancient Adeptus. “The first letter in the alphabet of the old tongue, of course.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“The world’s brimming full of what you don’t know, young man.” The bird gave a sudden harsh caw, horribly loud in the dusty silence of the stacks. “Brimming full.”

“Then let’s begin my education. It’s the man Bayaz, I need to know about. The First of the Magi.”

“Bayaz. The name great Juvens gave to his first apprentice. One letter, one name. First apprentice, first letter of the alphabet, you understand?”

“I’m just about keeping up. Did he really exist?”

The ancient Adeptus scowled. “Unquestionably. Did you not have a tutor as a young man?”

“I did, unfortunately.”

“Did he not teach you history?”

“He tried, but my mind was on fencing and girls.”

“Ah. I lost interest in such things a long time ago.”

“So did I. Let us return to Bayaz.”

The old man sighed. “Long ago, before there was a Union, Midderland was made of many petty kingdoms, often at war with one another, rising and falling with the passing years. One of these was ruled by a man called Harod, later to become Harod the Great. You’ve heard of him, I assume?”

“Of course.”

“Bayaz came to Harod’s throne room, and promised to make him King of all Midderland if he did as he was told. Harod, being young and headstrong, did not believe him, but Bayaz broke the long table with his Art.”

“Magic, eh?”

“So the story goes. Harod was impressed—”

“Understandable.”

“—and he agreed to accept the advice of the Magus—”

“Which was?”

“To make his capital here, in Adua. To make peace with certain neighbours, war with others, and when and how to do it.” The old man squinted across at Glokta. “Are you telling this story or am I?”

“You are.” And you’re taking your time about it.

“Bayaz was good as his word. In time Midderland was unified, Harod became its first High King, the Union was born.”

“Then what?”

“Bayaz served as Harod’s chief counsellor. Our laws and statutes, the very structure of our government, all are said to be his inventions, little changed since those ancient days. He established the Councils, Closed and Open, he formed the Inquisition. On Harod’s death he left the Union, promising one day to return.”

“I see. How much of this is true, do you think?”

“Hard to say. Magus? Wizard? Magician?” The old man looked at the flickering candle flame. “To a savage, that candle might be magic. It’s a fine line indeed, between magic and trickery, eh? But this Bayaz was a cunning mind in his day, that’s a fact.”

This is all useless. “What about before?”

“Before what?”

“Before the Union. Before Harod.”

The old man shrugged. “Record-keeping was hardly a priority during the dark ages. The whole world was in chaos after the war between Juvens and his brother Kanedias—”

“Kanedias? The Master Maker?”

“Aye.”

Kanedias. He stares down from the walls of my little room in the cellars beneath Severard’s charming town house. Juvens dead, his eleven apprentices, the Magi, marching to avenge him. I know this tale.

“Kanedias,” murmured Glokta, the image of that dark figure with the flames behind clear in his mind. “The Master Maker. Was he real?”

“Hard to say. He’s in the ground between myth and history, I suppose. Probably there’s some grain of truth in it. Someone must have built that big bloody tower, eh?”

“Tower?”

“The House of the Maker!” The old man gestured at the room around them. “And they say he built all this as well.”

“What, this library?”

The old man laughed. “The whole Agriont, or at least the rock on which it stands. The University too. He built it, appointed the first Adepti to help him with his works, whatever they were, to look into the nature of things. We here are the Maker’s disciples, yes, though I doubt they know it upstairs. He is gone but the work continues, eh?”

“After a fashion. Where did he go?”

“Hah. Dead. Your friend Bayaz killed him.”

Glokta raised an eyebrow. “Did he really?”

“So the story goes. Have you not read The Fall of the Master Maker?”

“That rubbish? I thought it was all invention.”

“So it is. Sensational claptrap, but based on writings from the time.”

“Writings? Such things survive?”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “Some.”

“Some? You have them here?”

“One in particular.”

Glokta fixed the old man with his eye. “Bring it to me.”