The Blade Itself

“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?”