The Blade Itself

Alright? Alright, you old fool? Just when do you think I was last alright? “No, damn it! I’ve soiled the bed!”

“I’ve boiled water for a bath, sir. Can you get up?”

Once before Frost had had to break the door down. Maybe I should let it stand open all night, but then how could I sleep? “I think I can manage,” Glokta hissed, tongue pressed into his empty gums, arms trembling as he hauled himself out of the bed and onto the chair beside it.

His grotesque, toeless left leg twitched to itself, still beyond his control. He glared down at it with a burning hatred. Fucking horrible thing. Revolting, useless lump of flesh. Why didn’t they just cut you off? Why don’t I still? But he knew why not. With his leg still on he could at least pretend to be half a man. He punched his withered thigh, then immediately regretted it. Stupid, stupid. The pain crept up his back, a little more intense than before, and growing with every second. Come now, come now, let’s not fight. He started to rub gently at the wasted flesh. We are stuck with each other, so why torment me?

“Can you get to the door, sir?” Glokta wrinkled his nose at the smell then took hold of his cane and slowly, agonisingly, pushed himself to his feet. He hobbled across the room, almost slipping halfway there but righting himself with a searing twinge. He turned the key in the lock, leaning against the wall for balance, and hauled the door open.

Barnam was standing on the other side, his arms outstretched, ready to catch him. The ignominy of it. To think that I, Sand dan Glokta, the greatest swordsman the Union has ever seen, must be carried to my bath by an old man so that I can wash my own shit off. They must be laughing loud now, all those fools I beat, if they still remember me. I’d be laughing too, if it didn’t hurt so much. But he let the weight off his left leg and put his arm round Barnam’s shoulders without complaint. What’s the use after all? Might as well make it easy for myself. As easy as it can be.

Glokta took a deep breath. “Go gently, the leg hasn’t woken up yet.” They hopped and stumbled down the corridor, slightly too narrow for both of them together. The bathroom seemed a mile away. Or more. I’d rather walk a hundred miles as I used to be, than to the bathroom as I am. But that’s my bad luck isn’t it? You can’t go back. Not ever.

The steam felt deliciously warm on Glokta’s clammy skin. With Barnam holding him under the arms he slowly lifted his right leg and put it gingerly into the water. Damn it, that’s hot. The old servant helped him get the other leg in, then, taking him under the armpits, lowered him like a child, until he was immersed up to his neck.

“Ahhh.” Glokta cracked a toothless smile. “Hot as the Maker’s forge, Barnam, just the way I like it.” The heat was getting into the leg now, and the pain was subsiding. Not gone. Never gone. But better. A lot better. Glokta began to feel almost as if he could face another day. You have to learn to love the small things in life, like a hot bath. You have to love the small things, when you’ve nothing else.

Practical Frost was waiting for him downstairs in the tiny dining room, his bulk wedged into a low chair against the wall. Glokta sagged into the other chair and caught a whiff from the steaming porridge bowl, wooden spoon sticking up at an angle without even touching the side. His stomach rumbled and his mouth began watering fiercely. All the symptoms, in fact, of extreme nausea.

“Hurray!” shouted Glokta. “Porridge again!” He looked over at the motionless Practical. “Porridge and honey, better than money, everything’s funny, with porridge and honey!”

The pink eyes did not blink.

“It’s a rhyme for children. My mother used to sing it to me. Never actually got me to eat this slop though. But now,” and he dug the spoon in, “I can’t get enough of it.”

Frost stared back at him.