The Blade Itself

Well. What can we do, except try to do better? Glokta blinked, and took a deep breath. “Tm, er… I’m sorry. Forget what I said, if you can. Please. Sit down. You were saying something about your sister.”

“Yes. Yes. My sister.” West fumbled his way back to his seat, looking down at the floor, his face taking on that worried, guilty look again. “We’re leaving for Angland soon, and I don’t know when I’ll be back… or if, I suppose… she’ll be without any friends in the city and, well… I think you met her once, when you came to our house.”

“Of course, and a good deal more recently than that, in fact.”

“You did?”

“Yes. With our mutual friend, Captain Luthar.”

West turned even paler. There is something more to this than he is telling me. But Glokta did not feel like putting his club foot through his one friendship quite yet, not so soon after it had been reborn. He stayed quiet, and after a moment the Major went on.

“Life has been… difficult for her. I could have done something. I should have done something.” He stared miserably down at the table and an ugly spasm ran across his face. I know that one. One of my own favourites. Self-loathing. “But I chose to let other things get in the way, and I did my best to forget all about it, and I pretended that everything was fine. She has suffered and I am to blame.” He coughed, then swallowed awkwardly. His lip began to tremble and he covered his face with his hands. “My fault… if something were to happen to her…” His shoulders shook silently, and Glokta raised his eyebrows. He was used to men crying in his presence of course. But I usually have at least to show them the instruments first.

“Come on, Collem, this isn’t like you.” He reached slowly across the table, half pulled his hand back, and then patted his sobbing friend awkwardly on the shoulder. “You’ve made some mistakes, but haven’t we all? They’re in the past, and can’t be changed. There’s nothing to be done now except to do better, eh?” What? Can it really be me talking? Inquisitor Glokta, comforter of the needy? But West seemed reassured. He lifted his head, wiped his runny nose, stared up hopefully at Glokta with wet eyes.

“You’re right, you’re right, of course. I have to make amends. Have to! Will you help me, Sand? Will you look after her, while I’m gone?”

“I’ll do whatever I can for her, Collem, you can depend on me. I was once proud to call you my friend and… I would be again.” Strange, but Glokta could almost feel a tear in his own eye. Me? Can it be? Inquisitor Glokta, trustworthy friend? Inquisitor Glokta, protector of vulnerable young women? He almost laughed out loud at the idea, and yet here he was. He never would have thought that he needed one, but it felt good to have a friend again.

“Hollit,” said Glokta.

“What?”

“Those three sisters, their name was Hollit.” He chuckled to himself, the memory filtering through a little clearer than before. “They had a thing about fencing. Loved it. Something about the sweat, maybe.”

“I think that was when I decided to take it up.” West laughed, then screwed up his face as if he was trying to remember something. “What was our quartermaster’s name? He had a thing for the youngest one, was out of his mind with jealousy. What the hell was that man’s name? Fat man.”

The name was not so very difficult for Glokta to recall. “Rews. Salem Rews.”

“Rews, that’s the one! I’d forgotten all about him. Rews! He could tell a story like no one else, that man. We’d sit up all night listening to him, all of us rolling with laughter! Whatever became of him?”

Glokta paused for a moment. “I think he left the army… to become a merchant of some sort.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I heard he moved north.”

Back to the Mud

Carleon weren’t at all how the Dogman remembered it, but then he tended to remember it burning. A memory like that stays with you. Roofs falling in, windows cracking, crowds of fighters everywhere, all drunk on pain and winning and, well, drink—looting, killing, setting fires, all the unpleasant rest of it. Women screaming, men shouting, stinking with smoke and fear. In short, a sack, with him and Logen at the heart of it.