The Blade Itself

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.