The Blade Itself

“There’s always something dark about a man with money,” said Severard. “Who are these two?”

Glokta frowned, peering forward. Two small, vague figures could be seen under the arms of the Maker, one on each side. “Who knows?” asked Glokta, “maybe they’re his Practicals.”

Severard laughed. A vague exhalation of air even came from behind Frost’s mask, though his eyes showed no sign of amusement. My, my, he must be thoroughly tickled.

Glokta shuffled toward the table in the centre of the room. Two chairs faced each other across the smooth, polished surface. One was a spare, hard affair of the sort you found in the cellars of the House of Questions, but the other was altogether more impressive, throne-like almost, with sweeping arms and a high back, upholstered in brown leather.

Glokta placed his cane against the table and lowered himself carefully, back aching. “Oh, this is an excellent chair,” he breathed, sinking slowly back into the soft leather, stretching out his leg, throbbing from the long walk here. There was a slight resistance. He looked beneath the table. There was a matching footstool there.

Glokta tipped his head back and laughed. “Oh this is fine! You shouldn’t have!” He settled his leg down on the stool with a comfortable sigh.

“It was the least we could do,” said Severard, folding his arms and leaning against the wall next to the bleeding body of Juvens. “We did well from your friend Rews, very well. You’ve always seen us right, and we don’t forget that.”

“Unhhh,” said Frost, nodding his head.

“You spoil me.” Glokta stroked the polished wood on the arm of the chair. My boys. Where would I be without you? Back home in bed with mother fussing over me, I suppose, wondering how she’ll ever find a nice girl to marry me now. He glanced over the instruments on the table. His case was there, of course, and a few other things, well-used, but still highly serviceable. A pair of long-handled tongs particularly caught his eye. He glanced up at Severard. “Teeth?”

“Seemed a good place to start.”

“Fair enough.” Glokta licked at his own empty gums then cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Teeth, it is.”

As soon as the gag was off the assassin started screaming at them in Styrian, spitting and cursing, struggling pointlessly at his chains. Glokta didn’t understand a word of it. But I think I catch the meaning, more or less. Something very offensive indeed, I imagine. Something about our mothers, and so on. But I am not easily offended. He was a rough looking sort, face pockmarked with acne scars, nose broken more than once and bent out of shape. How disappointing. I was hoping the Mercers might have gone up-market on this occasion at least, but that’s merchants for you. Always looking for the bargain.

Practical Frost ended the torrent of unintelligible abuse by punching the man heavily in the stomach. That’ll take his breath away for a moment. Long enough to get the first word in.

“Now then,” said Glokta, “we’ll have none of that nonsense here. We know you’re a professional, sent to blend in and do a job. You wouldn’t blend in too well if you couldn’t even speak the language, now would you?”

The prisoner had got his breath back. “Pox on all of you, you bastards!” he gasped.

“Excellent! The common tongue will do nicely for our little chats. I have a feeling we may end up having several. Is there anything you would like to know about us before we begin? Or shall we get straight to it?”

The prisoner stared up suspiciously at the painted figure of the Master Maker, looming over Glokta’s head. “Where am I?”

“We’re just off the Middleway, down near the water.” Glokta winced as the muscles in his leg suddenly convulsed. He stretched it out cautiously, waiting until he heard the knee click before he carried on. “You know, the Middleway is one of the very arteries of the city, it runs straight through its heart, from the Agriont to the sea. It passes through many different districts, has all manner of notable buildings. Some of the most fashionable addresses in the whole city are just up the lane. To me though, it’s nothing but a road between two dentists.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed, then darted over the instruments on the table. But no more cursing. It seems the mention of dentistry has got his attention.