The Blade Itself

Glokta raised his eyebrows. I wonder when I was last asked that question? He had half a mind to say no, but in the end he held his hand out, if only for the novelty. Her fingers closed round it, started to pull. Her eyes were narrowed, he could hear her breath hissing as she unfolded herself slowly from the chair. It hurt, having her pull on him like that, in his arm, in his back. But it hurts her more. Behind her mask, he was pretty sure, her teeth were gritted with pain. She moved her limbs one at a time, cautiously, not sure what would hurt and how much. Glokta had to smile. A routine I go through myself every morning. Strangely invigorating, to see someone else doing it.

Eventually she was standing, her bandaged hand clutched against her ribs. “You able to walk?” asked Glokta.

“I’ll loosen up.”

“What happened? Dogs?”

She gave a bark of laughter. “No. A big Northman knocked the shit out of me.”

Glokta snorted. Well, forthright at least. “Shall we go?”

She looked down at his cane. “Don’t suppose you’ve got one of those spare, have you?”

“I’m afraid not. I only have the one, and I can’t walk without it.”

“I know how you feel.”

Not quite. Glokta turned and began to limp away from the Arch Lector’s office. Not quite. He could hear the woman hobbling along behind. Strangely invigorating to have someone trying to keep up with me. He upped the pace, and it hurt him. But it hurts her more.

Back to the South, then. He licked at his empty gums. Hardly a place of happy memories. To fight the Gurkish, after what it cost me last time. To root out disloyalty in a city where no one can be trusted, especially those sent to help me. To struggle in the heat and the dust, at a thankless task almost certain to end in failure. And failure, more than likely, will mean death.

He felt his cheek twitch, his eyelid flicker. At the hands of the Gurkish? At the hands of plotters against the crown? At the hands of his Eminence, or his agents? Or simply to vanish, as my predecessor did? Has one man ever had such a range of deaths to choose from? The corner of his mouth twitched up. I can hardly wait to get started.

That same question came into his head, over and over, and he still had no answer.

Why do I do this?

Why?

Acknowledgments

Four people without whom…

Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it

Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it

Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages

Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up

And also…

Matthew Amos, for solid advice at a shaky time

Gillian Redfearn, who read past the beginning and made me change it

Simon Spanton, who bought it before he got to the end