The Blade Itself

Glokta tottered across the bridge, teeth clenched tight on gums, painfully aware of the volume of empty air beneath his feet. It was a single, delicate arch, leaping from high up on the wall of the Agriont to the gate of the Maker’s House. He had often admired it from down in the city, on the other side of the lake, wondering how it had stayed up all these years. A spectacular, remarkable, beautiful thing. It does not seem so beautiful now. Not much wider than a man lying down, too narrow by far for comfort, and with a terrifying drop to the water below. Worse still, it had no parapet. Not so much as a wooden handrail. And the breeze is rather fresh today.

Luthar and Ninefingers seemed worried enough by it. And they have the free and painless use of both their legs. Only Bayaz made the long trip across without apparent worry, as confident as if his feet were on a country lane.

They walked always in the vast shadow of the House of the Maker, of course. The closer they came, the more massive it seemed, its lowest parapet far higher than the wall of the Agriont. A stark black mountain, rising sheer from the lake below, blotting out the sun. A thing from a different age, built on a different scale.

Glokta glanced back towards the gate behind him. Did he catch a glimpse of something between the battlements on the wall above? A Practical watching? They would see the old man fail to open the door. They would be waiting to take him on their way back through. But until then, I am helpless. It was not a comforting thought.

And Glokta was in need of comfort. As he tottered further across the bridge, a niggling fear swelled inside him. It was more than the height, more than the strange company, more than the great tower looming above. A base fear, without reason. The animal terror of a nightmare. With every shuffling step the feeling grew. He could see the door now, a square of dark metal set back into the smooth stones of the tower. A circle of letters was etched into the centre of it. For some reason they made Glokta want to vomit, but he dragged himself closer. Two circles: large letters and small letters, a spidery script he did not recognise. His guts churned. Many circles: letters and lines, too detailed to take in. They swam before his stinging, weeping eyes. Glokta could go no further. He stood there, leaning on his cane, fighting with every ounce of will against the need to fall to his knees, turn and crawl away.

Ninefingers was faring little better, breathing hard through his nose, a look of the most profound horror and disgust on his face. Luthar was in considerably worse shape: teeth gritted, white-faced and palsied. He dropped slowly down on one knee, gasping, as Glokta edged past him.

Bayaz did not seem afraid. He stepped right up to the door and ran his fingers over the larger symbols. “Eleven wards, and eleven wards reversed.” He traced the circle of smaller characters. “And eleven times eleven.” His finger followed the fine line outside them. Can it be that line is made of tiny letters too? “Who can say how many hundreds here? Truly, a most potent enchantment!”

The sense of awe was only slightly diminished by the sound of Luthar puking noisily over the side of the bridge. “What does it say?” croaked Glokta, swallowing some bile of his own.

The old man grinned at him. “Can you not feel it, Inquisitor? It says turn away. It says get you gone. It says… none… shall… pass. But the message is not for us.” He reached into his collar and pulled out the rod of metal. The same dark metal as the door itself.

“We shouldn’t be here,” growled Ninefingers from behind. “This place is dead. We should go.” But Bayaz did not seem to hear.

“The magic has leaked out of the world,” Glokta heard him murmuring, “and all the achievements of Juvens lie in ruins.” He weighed the key in his hand, brought it slowly upwards. “But the Maker’s works stand strong as ever. Time has not diminished them… nor ever will.” There did not even seem to be a hole, but the key slid slowly into the door. Slowly, slowly, into the very centre of the circles. Glokta held his breath.

Click.

And nothing happened. The door did not open. That is all then. The game is over. He felt a surge of relief as he turned back towards the Agriont, raising a hand to signal to the Practicals on the wall above. I need not go further. I need not. Then an answering echo came from deep within.

Click.

Glokta felt his face twitch in sympathy with the sound. Did I imagine it? He hoped so, with all his being.

Click.