The Blade Itself

“Healthy,” said Glokta, forcing down a mouthful of sweet mush and spooning up another, “delicious,” choking down some more, “and here’s the real clincher,” he gagged slightly on the next swallow, “no chewing required.” He shoved the mostly full bowl away and tossed the spoon after it. “Mmmmm,” he hummed. “A good breakfast makes for a good day, don’t you find?”

It was like staring at a whitewashed wall, but without all the emotion.

“So the Arch Lector wants me again, does he?”

The albino nodded.

“And what might our illustrious leader desire with the likes of us, do you think?”

A shrug.

“Hmmm.” Glokta licked bits of porridge out of his empty gums. “Does he seem in a good mood, do you know?”

Another shrug.

“Come, come, Practical Frost, don’t tell me everything at once, I can’t take it in.”

Silence. Barnam entered the room and cleared away the bowl. “Do you want anything else, sir?”

“Absolutely. A big half-raw slab of meat and a nice crunchy apple.” He looked over at Practical Frost. “I used to love apples when I was a child.”

How many times have I made that joke? Frost looked back impassively, there was no laughter there. Glokta turned to Barnam, and the old man gave a tired smile.

“Oh well,” sighed Glokta. A man has to have hope doesn’t he?”

“Of course sir,” muttered the servant, heading for the door.

Does he?

The Arch Lector’s office was on the top floor of the House of Questions, and it was a long way up. Worse still, the corridors were busy with people. Practicals, clerks, Inquisitors, crawling like ants through a crumbling dung-hill. Whenever he felt their eyes on him Glokta would limp along, smiling, head held high. Whenever he felt himself alone he would pause and gasp, sweat and curse, and rub and slap the tenuous life back into his leg.

Why does it have to be so high? he asked himself as he shuffled up the dim halls and winding stairs of the labyrinthine building. By the time he reached the antechamber he was exhausted and blowing hard, left hand sore on the handle of his cane.

The Arch Lector’s secretary examined him suspiciously from behind a big dark desk that took up half the room. There were some chairs placed opposite for people to get nervous waiting in, and two huge Practicals flanked the great double doors to the office, so still and grim as to appear a part of the furniture.

“Do you have an appointment?” demanded the secretary in a shrill voice. You know who I am, you self-important little shit.

“Of course,” snapped Glokta, “do you think I limped all the way up here to admire your desk?”

The secretary looked down his nose at him. He was a pale, handsome young man with a mop of yellow hair. The puffed up fifth son of some minor nobleman with over-active loins, and he thinks he can patronise me? “And your name is?” he asked with a sneer.

Glokta’s patience was worn out by the climb. He smashed his cane down on the top of the desk and the secretary near jumped out of his chair. “What are you? A fucking idiot? How many crippled Inquisitors do you have here?”

“Er…” said the secretary, mouth working nervously.

“Er? Er? Is that a number? Speak up!”

“Well I—”

“I’m Glokta, you dolt! Inquisitor Glokta!”

“Yes, sir, I—”

“Get your fat arse out of that chair, fool! Don’t keep me waiting!” The secretary sprang up, hurried to the doors, pushed one open and stood aside respectfully. “That’s better,” growled Glokta, shuffling after him. He looked up at the Practicals as he hobbled past. He was almost sure one of them had a slight smile on his face.

The room had hardly changed since he was last there, six years before. It was a cavernous, round space, domed ceiling carved with gargoyle faces, its one enormous window offering a spectacular view over the spires of the University, a great section of the outer wall of the Agriont, and the looming outline of the House of the Maker beyond.

The chamber was mostly lined with shelves and cabinets, stacked high with neatly ordered files and papers. A few dark portraits peered down from the sparse white walls, including a huge one of the current King of the Union as a young man, looking wise and stern. No doubt painted before he became a senile joke. These days there’s usually a bit less authority and a bit more stray drool about him. There was a heavy round table in the centre of the room, its surface painted with a map of the Union in exquisite detail. Every city in which there was a department of the Inquisition was marked with a precious stone, and a tiny silver replica of Adua rose out of the table at its hub.