The Blade Itself

“Thank you, Practical Severard,” said Glokta. “You may go.” The Superior was stroking thoughtfully at his side whiskers as Severard strolled out, his face returning gradually to its usual shade of pink. “Confiscated from Rews. The property of the Crown now, of course. I thought that I should give it to you, as my direct superior, so that you could pass it on to the Treasury.” Or buy a bigger desk, you leech.

Glokta leaned forward, hands on his knees. “You could say, perhaps, that Rews went too far, that questions had been asked, that an example had to be made. We can’t be seen to do nothing, after all. It’ll make the big guilds nervous, keep them in line.” It’ll make them nervous and you can screw more out of them. “Or you could always tell them that I’m a mad cripple, and blame me for it.”

The Superior was starting to like it now, Glokta could tell. He was trying not to show it, but his whiskers were quivering at the sight of all that money. “Alright, Glokta. Alright. Very well.” He reached out and carefully shut the lid of the box. “But if you ever think of doing something like this again… talk to me first, would you? I don’t like surprises.”

Glokta struggled to his feet, limped towards the door. “Oh, and one more thing!” He turned stiffly back. Kalyne was staring at him severely from beneath his big, fancy brows. “When I go to see the Mercers, I’ll need to take Rews’ confession.”

Glokta smiled broadly, showing the yawning gap in his front teeth. “That shouldn’t be a problem, Superior.”

Kalyne had been right. There was no way that Rews could have gone back in this condition. His lips were split and bloody, his sides covered in darkening bruises, his head lolled sideways, face swollen almost past recognition. In short, he looks like a man ready to confess.

“I don’t imagine you enjoyed the last half hour, Rews, I don’t imagine you enjoyed it much at all. Perhaps it was the worst half hour of your life, I really couldn’t say. I’m thinking about what we have for you here, though, and the sad fact is… that’s about as good as it gets. That’s the high life.” Glokta leaned forward, his lace just inches from the bloody pulp of Rews’ nose. “Practical Frost’s a little girl compared to me,” he whispered. “He’s a kitten. Once I get started with you, Rews, you’ll be looking back on this with nostalgia. You’ll be begging me to give you half an hour with the Practical. Do you understand?” Rews was silent, except for the air whistling through his broken nose.

“Show him the instruments,” whispered Glokta.

Frost stepped forward and opened the polished case with a theatrical flourish. It was a masterful piece of craftsmanship. As the lid was pulled back, the many trays inside lifted and fanned out, displaying Glokta’s tools in all their gruesome glory. There were blades of every size and shape, needles curved and straight, bottles of oil and acid, nails and screws, clamps and pliers, saws, hammers, chisels. Metal, wood and glass glittered in the bright lamplight, all polished to mirror brightness and honed to a murderous sharpness. A big purple swelling under Rews’ left eye had closed it completely, but the other darted over the instruments: terrified, fascinated. The functions of some were horribly obvious, the functions of others were horribly obscure. Which scare him more, I wonder?

“We were talking about your tooth, I think,” murmured Glokta. Rews’ eye flicked up to look at him. “Or would you like to confess?” I have him, here he comes. Confess, confess, confess, confess…

There was a sharp knock at the door. Damn it again! Frost opened it a crack and there was a brief whispering. Rews licked at his bloated lip. The door shut, the albino leaned to whisper in Glokta’s ear.

“Ith the Arth Ector.” Glokta froze. The money was not enough. While I was shuffling back from Kalyne’s office, the old bastard was reporting me to the Arch Lector. Am I finished then? He felt a guilty thrill at the thought. Well, I’ll see to this fat pig first.

“Tell Severard I’m on my way.” Glokta turned back to talk to his prisoner, but Frost put a big white hand on his shoulder.

“O. The Arth Ector,” Frost pointed to the door, “he’th ere. Ow.”

Here? Glokta could feel his eyelid twitching. Why? He pushed himself up using the edge of the table. Will they find me in the canal tomorrow? Dead and bloated, far… far beyond recognition? The only emotion that he felt at the idea was a flutter of mild relief. No more stairs.