The Blade Itself tfl-1

by Joe Abercrombie

  Glokta frowned at the man. I’m not asking you to get your wand out, fool. “From a historical standpoint,” he snapped, “the Magi, and so on. Bayaz!”

  “Ah, from a historical standpoint, I see.” Silber’s taut face relaxed slightly. “Our library contains a wide range of ancient texts, some of them dating back to the period when magic was considered… less remarkable.”

  “Who can assist me?”

  The Administrator raised his brows. “I am afraid that the Adeptus Historical is, ah, something of a 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.”

  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.”

  “You speak the language well enough.”

  “There are few tongues that I, Brother Longfoot, cannot speak. An effortless skill with languages is but one among my many remarkable talents.” The man beamed. “God has truly blessed me,” he added.

  Logen wondered if this might be some elaborate joke. “What brings you here?”

  “I have been sent for!” His dark eyes sparkled.

  “Sent for?”

  “Indeed I have! By Bayaz, the First of the Magi! I have been sent for, and I have come! That is my way! A most generous contribution to the coffers of the order has been made in return for my remarkable talents, but I would have come without it. Indeed. Without it!”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed!” The small man stepped away and started to stride around the room at a terrific pace, rubbing his hands together. “The challenge of this assignment spoke as much to
the pride of the order, as to its well-documented greed! And it was I! I who was selected, from all the Navigators within the Circle of the World, for this task! I, Brother Longfoot! I, and no other! Who in my position, of my reputation, could resist such a challenge?”

  He stopped before Logen and looked up at him expectantly, as if waiting for an answer to his question. “Er—”

  “Not I!” shouted Longfoot, setting off on another circuit of the room. “I did not resist it! Why would I? That would not be my way! To journey to the very edge of the World? What a tale that will make! What an inspiration to others! What an—”

  “The edge of the World?” asked Logen suspiciously.

  “I know!” The strange man clapped him on the arm. “We are equally excited!”

  “This must be our Navigator.” Bayaz emerged from his room.

  “I am indeed. Brother Longfoot, at your service. And you are, I presume, none other than my illustrious employer, Bayaz, the First of the Magi.”

  “I am he.”

  “It is an honour and a privilege most profound!” cried Longfoot, springing forward and seizing the Magus by the hand, “to make your acquaintance!”

  “Likewise. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

  “Journeys are always pleasant to me! Always! It is the time between them that I find trying. Indeed it is!” Bayaz frowned over at Logen but he could only shrug his shoulders. “May I ask how long it will be until we begin our journey? I am most keen to embark!”

  “Soon, I hope, the last member of our expedition will arrive. We will need to charter a ship.”

  “Of course! It shall be my particular pleasure to do so! What shall I tell the captain of our course?”

  “West across the Circle Sea, to Stariksa, then on to Calcis in the Old Empire.” The little man smiled and bowed low. “You approve?”

  “I do, but ships rarely pass to Calcis now. The Old Empire’s endless wars have made the waters dangerous thereabouts. Piracy, alas, is rife. It may be difficult to find a captain willing.”

  “This should help.” Bayaz tossed his ever-bulging purse onto the table.