The Blade Itself

The ancient paper crackled as the Adeptus Historical carefully unrolled the scroll and spread it out on the table. The parchment was yellow and crumpled, edges rough with age, scrawled with a dense script: strange characters, utterly unintelligible to Glokta’s eye.

“What is it written in?”

“The old tongue. Few can read this now.” The old man pointed to the first line. “An account of the fall of Kanedias, this says, the third of three.”

“Third of three?”

“Of three scrolls, I presume.”

“Where are the other two?”

“Lost.”

“Huh.” Glokta peered into the endless darkness of the stacks. It’s a wonder anything can be found down here. “What does this one say?”

The ancient librarian peered down at the strange writing, poorly illuminated by the single flickering candle, his trembling forefinger tracing across the parchment, his lips moving silently. “Great was their fury.”

“What?”

“That’s how it begins. Great was their fury.” He began slowly to read. “The Magi pursued Kanedias, driving his faithful before them. They broke his fortress, laying ruin to his buildings and killing his servants. The Maker himself, sore wounded in the battle with his brother Juvens, took refuge in his House.” The old man unrolled a little more. “Twelve days and twelve nights, the Magi threw their wrath against the gates, but could not mark them. Then Bayaz found a way inside…” The Adeptus swept his hand over the parchment in frustration. Damp, or something, had blurred the characters in the next section. “I can’t make this out… something about the Makers daughter?”

“You sure?”

“No!” snapped the old man. “There’s a whole section missing!”

“Ignore it then! What’s the next thing you can be sure of?”

“Well, let’s see… Bayaz followed him to the roof, and cast him down.” The old man noisily cleared his throat. “The Maker fell burning, and broke upon the bridge below. The Magi searched high and low for the Seed, but could not find it.”

“Seed?” asked Glokta, baffled.

“That’s all that’s written.”

“What the hell does it mean?”

The old man sagged back in his chair, evidently enjoying this rare opportunity to hold forth on his area of expertise. “The end of the age of myth, the beginning of the age of reason. Bayaz, the Magi, they represent order. The Maker is a god-like figure: superstition, ignorance, I don’t know. There must be some truth to him. After all, someone built that big bloody tower,” and he wheezed with breathy laughter.

Glokta could not be bothered to point out that the Adeptus had made the very same joke a few minutes before. And it wasn’t funny then. Repetition—the curse of the old. “What about this Seed?”

“Magic, secrets, power? It’s all a metaphor.”

I will not impress the Arch Lector with metaphors. Especially bad ones. “Is there no more?”

“It goes on a bit, let’s see.” He looked back at the symbols. “He broke on the bridge, they searched for the Seed…”

“Yes, yes.”

“Patience, Inquisitor.” His withered finger traced across the characters. “They sealed up the House of the Maker. They buried the fallen, Kanedias and his daughter among them. That’s all.” He peered at the page, his finger hovering over the last few letters. “And Bayaz took the key. That’s all.”

Glokta’s eyebrows went up. “What? What was that last bit?”

“They sealed the gates, they buried the fallen, and Bayaz took the key.”

“The key? The key to the House of the Maker?”

The Adeptus Historical squinted back at the page. “That’s what it says.”

There is no key. That tower has stood sealed for centuries, everyone knows it. Our impostor will have no key, that’s sure. Slowly, Glokta began to smile. It is thin, it is very thin, but with the right setting, the right emphasis, it might be enough. The Arch Lector will be pleased.

“I’ll be taking this.” Glokta pulled the ancient scroll over and started to roll it up.

“What?” The eyes of the Adeptus were wide with horror. “You can’t!” He staggered up from his chair, even more painfully than Glokta might have done. His crow scrambled up with him, flapping around near the ceiling and croaking in a fury, but Glokta ignored them both. “You can’t take it! It’s irreplaceable,” wheezed the old man, making a hopeless grab for the scroll.

Glokta spread his arms out wide. “Stop me! Why don’t you? I’d like to see it! Can you imagine? We two cripples, floundering around in the stacks with a bird loosing its droppings on us, tugging this old piece of paper to and fro?” He giggled to himself. “That wouldn’t be very dignified, would it?”

The Adeptus Historical, exhausted by his pitiful efforts, crumpled back into his chair, breathing hard. “No one cares about the past any more,” he whispered. “They don’t see that you can’t have a future without a past.”

How very deep. Glokta slipped the rolled-up parchment into his coat and turned to leave.

“Who’s going to look after the past, when I’m gone?”

“Who cares?” asked Glokta as he stalked towards the steps, “as long as it isn’t me.”

The Remarkable Talents of Brother Longfoot

The cheering had woken Logen every morning for a week. It started early, ripping him from his sleep, loud as a battle close at hand. He’d thought it was a battle when he first heard it, but now he knew it was just their damn stupid sport. Closing the window brought some relief from the noise, but the heat soon became unbearable. It was sleep a little, or sleep not at all. So he left the window open.

Logen rubbed his eyes, cursing, and hauled himself from his bed. Another hot, tedious day in the City of White Towers. On the road, in the wild, he’d be alert as soon as his eyes opened, but here things were different. The boredom and the heat were making him slow and lazy. He stumbled across the threshold into the living room, yawning wide and rubbing at his jaw with one hand. He stopped.

There was someone in there, a stranger. Standing at the window, bathed in sunlight with his hands clasped behind him. A small, slight man, with hair shaved close to his knobbly skull and strange, travel-worn clothes—faded, baggy cloth wrapped round and round his body.

Before Logen had a chance to speak, the man turned and sprang nimbly over to him. “And you are?” he demanded. His smiling face was deeply tanned and weather-beaten, like the creased leather on a favourite pair of boots. It made it impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere from twenty-five to fifty.

“Ninefingers,” muttered Logen, taking a cautious step back towards the wall.

“Ninefingers, yes.” The little man pressed forwards and seized Logen’s hand in both of his, gripping it tightly. “It is an honour and privilege most profound,” he said, closing his eyes and bowing his head, “to make your acquaintance!”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Alas, no, but all God’s creatures are worthy of the deepest respect.” He bowed his head again. “I am Brother Longfoot, a traveller of the illustrious order of Navigators. There are few lands beneath the sun upon which my feet have not trodden.” He pointed down towards his well-worn boots then spread his arms wide. “From the mountains of Thond to the deserts of Shamir, from the plains of the Old Empire to the silver waters of the Thousand Isles, all the world is my home! Truly!”

He spoke the northern tongue well, better than Logen himself perhaps. “And the North too?”

“One brief visit, in my youth. I found the climate somewhat harsh.”