The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  It was cool in here, very cool. The cold air felt good on his bare skin after the damp heat of his bedroom. Why wasn’t he sleeping in here, instead of that oven next door? He squinted at the shadowy walls, face all screwed up with the painful fuzz of sleep, trying to work out which blurry door led to the pissing-shelf. Knowing his luck he’d probably blunder into Bayaz’ room and accidentally piss on the First of the Magi while he was asleep. That would be just the thing to sweeten the wizard’s temper.

  He took a step forward. There was a clunk and a rattle as his leg barged into the corner of the table. He cursed, grabbing at his bruised shin—then he remembered the jar. He lunged and caught it by the rim just before it fell. His eyes were adjusting to the half-light now, and he could just make out the flowers painted on the cold, shiny surface. He moved to put it back on the table, but then it occurred to him. Why go any further when he had a perfectly good pot right there? He glanced furtively round the room, swinging the jar into position… then froze.

  He was not alone.

  A tall, slender figure, vague in the half-light. He could just make out long hair, blowing gently in the breeze from the open window. He strained against the darkness, but he couldn’t see the face.

  “Logen…” A woman’s voice, soft and low. He didn’t like the sound of it one bit. It was cold in the room, very cold. He took a firm grip on the jar.

  “Who are you?” he croaked, voice suddenly loud in the dead stillness. Was he dreaming? He shook his head, squeezed the jar in his hand. It all felt real. Horribly real.

  “Logen…” The woman moved silently towards him. Soft light from the window caught the side of her face. A white cheek, a shadowy eye-socket, the corner of a mouth, then sunk in darkness again. There was something familiar… Logen’s mind fumbled for it as he backed away, eyes fixed on her outline, keeping the table between them.

  “What do you want?” He had a cold feeling in his chest, a bad feeling. He knew he should be shouting for help, raising the others, but somehow he had to know who it was. Had to know. The air was freezing, Logen could almost see his breath smoking before his face. His wife was dead, he knew that, dead and cold and gone back to the mud, long ago and far away. He’d seen the village, burned to ashes, full of corpses. His wife was dead… and yet…

  “Thelfi?” he whispered.

  “Logen…” Her voice! Her voice! His mouth dropped open. She reached out for him, through the light from the window. Pale hand, pale fingers, long, white nails. The room was icy, icy cold. “Logen!”

  “You’re dead!” He raised the jar, ready to smash it down on her head. The hand reached out, fingers spreading wide.

  Suddenly, the room was bright as day. Brighter. Brilliant, searing bright. The murky outlines of the doors, the furniture, were transformed into hard white edges, black shadows. Logen squeezed his eyes shut, shielded them with his arm, dropped back gasping against the wall. There was a deafening crash like a landslide, a tearing and splintering like a great tree falling, a stink of burning wood. Logen opened one eye a crack, peered out from between his fingers.

  The chamber was strangely altered. Dark, once more, but less dark than before. Light filtered in through a great ragged hole in the wall where the window used to be. Two of the chairs had gone, a third teetered on three legs, broken edges glowing faintly, smouldering like sticks that had been a long time in a fire. The table, standing right beside him just a moment before, was sheared in half on the other side of the room. Part of the ceiling had been torn away from the rafters and the floor was littered with chunks of stone and plaster, broken lengths of wood and fragments of glass. Of the strange woman there was no sign.

  Bayaz picked his way unsteadily through the wreckage towards the gaping hole in the wall, nightshirt flapping around his thick calves, and peered out into the night. “It’s gone.”

  “It?” Logen stared at the steaming hole. “She knew my name…”

  The wizard stumbled over to the last remaining intact chair and flung himself into it like a man exhausted. “An Eater, perhaps. Sent by Khalul.”

  “A what?” asked Logen, baffled. “Sent by who?”

  Bayaz wiped sweat from his face. “You wanted not to know.”

  “That’s true.” Logen couldn’t deny it. He rubbed at his chin, staring out of the ragged patch of night sky, wondering whether now might be a good time to change his mind. But by then it was too late. There was a frantic hammering at the door.

  “Get that, would you?” Logen stumbled stupidly through the debris and slid back the bolt. An angry-looking guard shouldered his way past, a lamp in one hand, drawn sword in the other.

  “There was a noise!” The light from his lamp swept over the wreckage, found the ragged edge of the ripped plaster, the broken stone, the empty night sky beyond. “Shit,” he whispered.

  “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 trickle of sweat running down his back. Why do I do this? Why the hell would anyone do this? I could stop today. I could go home to mother. But then what? Then what?

  “Inquisitor, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Good for you, bastard. I’m not. Glokta leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs, such teeth as he had grinding against his gums.

  “They’re inside, it’s quite a mess…” Glokta’s hand trembled, the tip of his cane rattling against the stones. His head swam. The guard was blurry and dim through his twitching eyelids. “Are you alright?” He loomed forwards, one arm outstretched.

  Glokta looked up. “Just get the fucking door, fool!”

  The man jumped away, hurried to the door and pushed it open. Every part of Glokta longed to give up and sprawl on his face, but he willed himself upright. He forced one foot before the other, forced his breath to come even, forced his shoulders back and his head high, and swept imperiously past the guard, every part of his body singing with pain. What he saw beyond the doors almost broke his veneer of composure however.

  Yesterday these were some of the finest rooms in the Agriont. They were reserved for the most honoured of guests, the most important of foreign dignitaries. Yesterday. A gaping hole was ripped out of one wall where the window should have been, the sky beyond blinding bright after the darkness of the stairwell. A section of the ceiling had collapsed, broken timbers and shreds of plaster hanging down into the room. The floor was strewn with chunks of stone, splinters of glass, torn fragments of coloured cloth. The antique furniture had been smashed to scattered pieces, broken edges charred and blackened as if by fire. Only one chair, half a table, and a tall ornamental jar, strangely pristine in the middle of the rubble-strewn floor, had escaped the destruction.

  In the midst of this expensive wreckage stood a confused and sickly-seeming young man. He looked up as Glokta picked his way through the rubble round the doorway, tongue darting nervously over his lips, evidently on edge. Has anyone ever looked more of a fraud?

  “Er, good morning?” The young man’s fingers twitched nervously at his gown, a heavy thing, stitched with arcane symbols. And doesn’t he look uncomfortable in it? If this man is a wizard’s apprentice, I am the Emperor of Gurkhul.

  “I am Glokta. From his Majesty’s Inquisition. I have been sent to investigate this… unfortunate business. I was expecting someone older.”

  “Oh, yes, sorry, I am Malacus Quai,” stammered the young man, “apprentice to great Bayaz, the First of the Magi, great in high art and learned in deep—” Kneel, kneel before me! I am the mighty Emperor of Gurkhul!

  “Malacus…” Glokta cut him off rudely “…Quai. You are from the Old Empire?”

  “Why yes,” the young man brightened slightly at that. “Do you know my—”

  “No. Not at all.” The pale face sagged. “Were you here last night?”

  “Er, yes, I was asleep, next door. I’m afraid I didn’t see anything though…” Glokta stared at him, intent and unblinking, trying to work him out. The apprentice coughed and looked at the floor, as if wondering what to clean up first. Can this really make the Arch Lector nervous? A miserable actor. His whole manner reeks of deception.

  “Someone saw something, though?”

  “Well, erm, Master Ninefingers, I suppose—”

  “Ninefingers?”

  “Yes, our Northern companion.” The young man brightened. “A warrior of great renown, a champion, a prince among his—”

  “You, from the Old Empire. He, a Northman. What a cosmopolitan band you are.”

  “Well yes, ha ha, we do, I suppose—”

  “Where is Ninefingers now?”

  “Still asleep I think, er, I could wake him—”

  “Would you be so kind?” Glokta tapped his cane on the floor. “It was quite a climb, and I would rather not come back later.”

  “No, er, of course… sorry.” He hastened over to one of the doors and Glokta turned away, pretending to examine the gaping wound in the wall while grimacing in agony and biting his lip to keep from wailing like a sick child. He seized hold of the broken stones at the edge
of the hole with his free hand, squeezing them as hard as he could.

  As the spasm passed he began to take more interest in the damage. Even this high up the wall was a good four feet thick, solidly built from rubble bonded with mortar, faced with cut stone blocks. It would take a rock from a truly mighty catapult to make such a breach, or a team of strong workmen going night and day for a week. A giant siege engine or a group of labourers would doubtless have attracted the attention of the guards. So how was it made? Glokta ran his hand over the cracked stones. He had once heard rumours that in the far south they made a kind of blasting powder. Could a little powder have done this?

  The door opened and Glokta turned to see a big man ducking under the low lintel, buttoning his shirt with slow, heavy hands. A thoughtful kind of slowness. As if he could move quickly but doesn’t see the point. His hair was a tangled mass, his lumpy face badly scarred. The middle finger of his left hand was missing. Hence Ninefingers. How very imaginative.

  “Sleeping late?”

  The Northman nodded. “Your city is too hot for me—it keeps me up at night and makes me sleepy in the day.”

  Glokta’s leg was throbbing, his back was groaning, his neck was stiff as a dry branch. It was all he could do to keep his agony a secret. He would have given anything to sprawl in that one undamaged chair and scream his head off. But I must stand, and trade words with these charlatans. “Could you explain to me what happened here?”

  Ninefingers shrugged. “I needed to piss in the night. I saw someone in the room.” He had little trouble with the common tongue, it seemed, even if the content was hardly polite.

  “Did you see who this someone was?”

  “No. It was a woman, I saw that much.” He worked his shoulders, clearly uncomfortable.