The Blade Itself

There was an urgent knocking at the door. “Sir? Are you alright?” Barnam’s voice. The knocking came again. No good. It is locked. Always locked, but I don’t think I’ll be moving. Frost will have to break it down. But the door swung open, and Glokta shielded his eyes from the sudden ruddy glow of the old servant’s lamp.

“Are you alright?”

“I fell,” mumbled Glokta. “My arm…”

The old servant perched on the bed, taking Glokta’s hand gently and pushing up the sleeve of his night-shirt. Glokta winced, Barnam clicked his tongue. His forearm had a big pink mark across it, already beginning to swell and redden.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” said the servant, “but I should fetch the surgeon, just in case.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved Barnam away with his good hand. “Fetch him.”

Glokta watched the old servant hurry, stooped, out of the door, heard him creaking along the narrow corridor outside, down the narrow stairs. He heard the front door banging shut. Silence descended.

He looked over at the scroll he had taken from the Adeptus Historical, still rolled up tight on the dresser, waiting to be delivered to Arch Lector Sult. The Maker fell burning. He broke upon the bridge below. Strange, how parts of the waking world stray into one’s dreams. That damned Northman and his intruder. A woman, and cold. That’ll be what set me off.

Glokta rubbed his arm gently, pressing the sore flesh with his fingertips. Nothing. Just a dream. And yet something was niggling at him. He looked over at the back of the door. The key was still in the lock, shining orange in the light from the lamp. Not locked, and yet I must have locked it. Must have. I always do. Glokta looked back to the empty chair. What did that idiot apprentice say? Magic comes from the Other Side. The world below. Hell.

Somehow, at that moment, after that dream, it did not seem so difficult to believe. The fear was building in him again, now he was alone. He stretched out his good hand towards the chair. It took an age to get there, trembling, shaking. His fingers touched the wood. Cool, but not cold. Not cold. There is nothing there. He slowly withdrew his hand, cradled his pulsing arm. Nothing. Empty.

A dream.

“What the hell happened to you?”

Glokta sucked sourly at his gums. “Fell out of bed.” He scratched absently at his wrist through the dressing. Until a moment ago it had been throbbing like hell, but the sight in front of him had pushed the pain into the back of his mind. I could be worse off. A lot worse. “Not a pretty sight. Not at all.”

“You’re damn right it’s not.” Severard looked as disgusted as was possible with half his face covered. “I nearly puked when I first saw it. Me!”

Glokta peered down, frowning, at the tangled mess of butchery, supporting himself against a tree-trunk with one hand and pushing some of the ferns aside with the tip of his cane to get a better look. “Are we even sure it’s a man?”

“Might be a woman. Human anyway. That’s a foot.”

“Ah, so it is. How was it found?”

“He found it.” Severard nodded over towards a gardener: sat on the ground, pale-faced and staring, and with a small pool of drying vomit on the grass beside him. “In amongst the trees here, hidden in the bushes. Looks as if whatever killed it tried to hide it, but not long ago. It’s fresh.” It is indeed—barely any smell, and only a couple of flies have arrived. Very fresh, perhaps last night even. “It might not have been found for days, except someone asked for one of these trees to be pruned. Blocking out the light or something. You ever see anything like this?”

Glokta shrugged. “In Angland, once, before you came. One of the convicts tried to escape. He made it a few miles, then succumbed to the cold. A bear made free with the corpse. That was quite a mess, though not near as bad as this one.”

“I can’t see anyone freezing to death last night. It was hot as hell.”

“Mmm,” said Glokta. If hell is hot. I’ve always thought it might be cold. Cold as ice. “There are few bears within the Agriont in any case. Do we have any idea as to the identity of this…” he waved his cane towards the carcass “…person?”

“None.”

“Is anyone unaccounted for? Reported missing?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”