The Blade Itself

Here brother murders brother. All slow time
Can never have recorded such a crime.
I half expect to see the stars go out.
Why does the ground not open up and spout
Some raging flame?

He threw himself down on his knees and beat upon his ageing breast.

Oh bitter fate, I would most happily
Now join my master, but it cannot be!
For when a great man dies, we that remain
Though in a narrowed world, must brave the pain
And struggle onward.

Lestek looked slowly up towards the audience, slowly clambered to his feet, his expression shifting from deepest sorrow to grimmest determination.

For though the Maker’s house is locked and barred,
All carved from rock and steel, all wondrous hard,
If I must wait until that steel is rust,
Or with my bare hands crush that rock to dust,
I’ll have my vengeance!

The actor’s eyes flashed fire as he flicked out his robe and strode from the stage to rapturous applause. It was a condensed version of a familiar piece, often performed. Although rarely so well. Glokta was surprised to find himself clapping. Quite the performance so far. Nobility, passion, command. A great deal more convincing than another fake Bayaz I could mention. He sat back in his chair, easing his left leg out under the table, and prepared to enjoy the show.

Logen watched with his face screwed up in confusion. He guessed that this was one of the spectacles that Bayaz had spoken of, but his grip on the language wasn’t good enough to catch the details.

They swept up and down the stage with much sighing and waving of their hands, dressed in bright costumes and speaking in some kind of chant. Two of them were supposed to be dark-skinned, he thought, but were clearly pale men with black paint on their faces. In another scene, the one playing Bayaz whispered to a woman through a door, seeming to plead with her to open it, only the door was a piece of painted wood stood up on its own in the middle of the stage, and the woman was a boy in a dress. It would have been easier, Logen thought, to step around the piece of wood and speak to him or her directly.

Logen was sure of one thing, though—the real Bayaz was seriously displeased. He could feel his annoyance mounting with each scene. It reached a teeth-grinding peak when the villain of the piece, a big man with a glove and an eye-patch, pushed the boy in the dress over some wooden battlements. It was plain that he or she was meant to have fallen a great distance, even though Logen could hear him hit something soft just behind the stage.

“How fucking dare they?” the real Bayaz growled under his breath. Logen would have got all the way out of the room if he could’ve, but he had to be content with shuffling his chair towards West, as far from the Magus’ fury as possible.

On the stage, the other Bayaz was battling the old man with the glove and the eye-patch, although they fought by walking round in circles and talking a lot. Finally the villain followed the boy off the back of the stage, but not before his adversary took an enormous golden key from him.

“There’s more detail here than in the original,” muttered the real Bayaz, as his counterpart held up the key and spouted some more verse. Logen was little further on when the performance came to a close, but he caught the last two lines, just before the old actor bowed low:

Pray your indulgence, at our story’s end,
Our humble purpose was not to offend.

“My fucking old arse it wasn’t,” hissed Bayaz through gritted teeth, while fixing a grin and clapping enthusiastically.

Glokta watched Lestek take a few last bows as the curtains closed on him, the golden key still shining in his hand. Arch Lector Sult rose from his chair as the applause died.