The Blade Itself (40 page)

“What is it written in?”

“The old tongue. Few can read this now.” The old man pointed to the first line. “An account of the fall of Kanedias, this says, the third of three.”

“Third of three?”

“Of three scrolls, I presume.”

“Where are the other two?”

“Lost.”

“Huh.” Glokta peered into the endless darkness of the stacks.
It’s a wonder anything can be found down here.
“What does this one say?”

The ancient librarian peered down at the strange writing, poorly illuminated by the single flickering candle, his trembling forefinger tracing across the parchment, his lips moving silently. “Great was their fury.”

“What?”

“That’s how it begins. Great was their fury.” He began slowly to read. “The Magi pursued Kanedias, driving his faithful before them. They broke his fortress, laying ruin to his buildings and killing his servants. The Maker himself, sore wounded in the battle with his brother Juvens, took refuge in his House.” The old man unrolled a little more. “Twelve days and twelve nights, the Magi threw their wrath against the gates, but could not mark them. Then Bayaz found a way inside…” The Adeptus swept his hand over the parchment in frustration. Damp, or something, had blurred the characters in the next section. “I can’t make this out… something about the Makers daughter?”

“You sure?”

“No!” snapped the old man. “There’s a whole section missing!”

“Ignore it then! What’s the next thing you can be sure of?”

“Well, let’s see… Bayaz followed him to the roof, and cast him down.” The old man noisily cleared his throat. “The Maker fell burning, and broke upon the bridge below. The Magi searched high and low for the Seed, but could not find it.”

“Seed?” asked Glokta, baffled.

“That’s all that’s written.”

“What the hell does it mean?”

The old man sagged back in his chair, evidently enjoying this rare opportunity to hold forth on his area of expertise. “The end of the age of myth, the beginning of the age of reason. Bayaz, the Magi, they represent order. The Maker is a god-like figure: superstition, ignorance, I don’t know. There must be some truth to him. After all, someone built that big bloody tower,” and he wheezed with breathy laughter.

Glokta could not be bothered to point out that the Adeptus had made the very same joke a few minutes before.
And it wasn’t funny then. Repetition—the curse of the old.
“What about this Seed?”

“Magic, secrets, power? It’s all a metaphor.”

I will not impress the Arch Lector with metaphors. Especially bad ones.
“Is there no more?”

“It goes on a bit, let’s see.” He looked back at the symbols. “He broke on the bridge, they searched for the Seed…”

“Yes, yes.”

“Patience, Inquisitor.” His withered finger traced across the characters. “They sealed up the House of the Maker. They buried the fallen, Kanedias and his daughter among them. That’s all.” He peered at the page, his finger hovering over the last few letters. “And Bayaz took the key. That’s all.”

Glokta’s eyebrows went up. “What? What was that last bit?”

“They sealed the gates, they buried the fallen, and Bayaz took the key.”

“The key? The key to the House of the Maker?”

The Adeptus Historical squinted back at the page. “That’s what it says.”

There is no key. That tower has stood sealed for centuries, everyone knows it. Our impostor will have no key, that’s sure.
Slowly, Glokta began to smile.
It is thin, it is very thin, but with the right setting, the right emphasis, it might be enough. The Arch Lector will be pleased.

“I’ll be taking this.” Glokta pulled the ancient scroll over and started to roll it up.

“What?” The eyes of the Adeptus were wide with horror. “You can’t!” He staggered up from his chair, even more painfully than Glokta might have done. His crow scrambled up with him, flapping around near the ceiling and croaking in a fury, but Glokta ignored them both. “You can’t take it! It’s irreplaceable,” wheezed the old man, making a hopeless grab for the scroll.

Glokta spread his arms out wide. “Stop me! Why don’t you? I’d like to see it! Can you imagine? We two cripples, floundering around in the stacks with a bird loosing its droppings on us, tugging this old piece of paper to and fro?” He giggled to himself. “That wouldn’t be very dignified, would it?”

The Adeptus Historical, exhausted by his pitiful efforts, crumpled back into his chair, breathing hard. “No one cares about the past any more,” he whispered. “They don’t see that you can’t have a future without a past.”

How very deep.
Glokta slipped the rolled-up parchment into his coat and turned to leave.

“Who’s going to look after the past, when I’m gone?”

“Who cares?” asked Glokta as he stalked towards the steps, “as long as it isn’t me.”

The Remarkable Talents of Brother Longfoot

The cheering had woken Logen every morning for a week. It started early, ripping him from his sleep, loud as a battle close at hand. He’d thought it was a battle when he first heard it, but now he knew it was just their damn stupid sport. Closing the window brought some relief from the noise, but the heat soon became unbearable. It was sleep a little, or sleep not at all. So he left the window open.

Logen rubbed his eyes, cursing, and hauled himself from his bed. Another hot, tedious day in the City of White Towers. On the road, in the wild, he’d be alert as soon as his eyes opened, but here things were different. The boredom and the heat were making him slow and lazy. He stumbled across the threshold into the living room, yawning wide and rubbing at his jaw with one hand. He stopped.

There was someone in there, a stranger. Standing at the window, bathed in sunlight with his hands clasped behind him. A small, slight man, with hair shaved close to his knobbly skull and strange, travel-worn clothes—faded, baggy cloth wrapped round and round his body.

Before Logen had a chance to speak, the man turned and sprang nimbly over to him. “And you are?” he demanded. His smiling face was deeply tanned and weather-beaten, like the creased leather on a favourite pair of boots. It made it impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere from twenty-five to fifty.

“Ninefingers,” muttered Logen, taking a cautious step back towards the wall.

“Ninefingers, yes.” The little man pressed forwards and seized Logen’s hand in both of his, gripping it tightly. “It is an honour and privilege most profound,” he said, closing his eyes and bowing his head, “to make your acquaintance!”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Alas, no, but all God’s creatures are worthy of the deepest respect.” He bowed his head again. “I am Brother Longfoot, a traveller of the illustrious order of Navigators. There are few lands beneath the sun upon which my feet have not trodden.” He pointed down towards his well-worn boots then spread his arms wide. “From the mountains of Thond to the deserts of Shamir, from the plains of the Old Empire to the silver waters of the Thousand Isles, all the world is my home! Truly!”

He spoke the northern tongue well, better than Logen himself perhaps. “And the North too?”

“One brief visit, in my youth. I found the climate somewhat harsh.”

“You speak the language well enough.”

“There are few tongues that I, Brother Longfoot, cannot speak. An effortless skill with languages is but one among my many remarkable talents.” The man beamed. “God has truly blessed me,” he added.

Logen wondered if this might be some elaborate joke. “What brings you here?”

“I have been sent for!” His dark eyes sparkled.

“Sent for?”

“Indeed I have! By Bayaz, the First of the Magi! I have been sent for, and I have come! That is my way! A most generous contribution to the coffers of the order has been made in return for my remarkable talents, but I would have come without it. Indeed. Without it!”

“Really?”

“Indeed!” The small man stepped away and started to stride around the room at a terrific pace, rubbing his hands together. “The challenge of this assignment spoke as much to the pride of the order, as to its well-documented greed! And it was I! I who was selected, from all the Navigators within the Circle of the World, for this task! I, Brother Longfoot! I, and no other! Who in my position, of my reputation, could resist such a challenge?”

He stopped before Logen and looked up at him expectantly, as if waiting for an answer to his question. “Er—”

“Not I!” shouted Longfoot, setting off on another circuit of the room. “I did not resist it! Why would I? That would not be my way! To journey to the very edge of the World? What a tale that will make! What an inspiration to others! What an—”

“The edge of the World?” asked Logen suspiciously.

“I know!” The strange man clapped him on the arm. “We are equally excited!”

“This must be our Navigator.” Bayaz emerged from his room.

“I am indeed. Brother Longfoot, at your service. And you are, I presume, none other than my illustrious employer, Bayaz, the First of the Magi.”

“I am he.”

“It is an honour and a privilege most profound!” cried Longfoot, springing forward and seizing the Magus by the hand, “to make your acquaintance!”

“Likewise. I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

“Journeys are always pleasant to me! Always! It is the time between them that I find trying. Indeed it is!” Bayaz frowned over at Logen but he could only shrug his shoulders. “May I ask how long it will be until we begin our journey? I am most keen to embark!”

“Soon, I hope, the last member of our expedition will arrive. We will need to charter a ship.”

“Of course! It shall be my particular pleasure to do so! What shall I tell the captain of our course?”

“West across the Circle Sea, to Stariksa, then on to Calcis in the Old Empire.” The little man smiled and bowed low. “You approve?”

“I do, but ships rarely pass to Calcis now. The Old Empire’s endless wars have made the waters dangerous thereabouts. Piracy, alas, is rife. It may be difficult to find a captain willing.”

“This should help.” Bayaz tossed his ever-bulging purse onto the table.

“It should indeed.”

“Make sure the ship is fast. Once we are ready I do not wish to waste a day.”

“On that you may depend,” said the Navigator, scooping up the heavy bag of coins. “To sail in slow vessels is not my way! No! I will find for you the fastest ship in all Adua! Yes! She shall fly like the breath of God! She shall skip over the waves like—”

“Merely fast will do.”

The little man inclined his head. “The time of departure?”

“Within the month.” Bayaz looked at Logen. “Why don’t you go with him?”

“Uh?”

“Yes!” shouted the Navigator, “we will go together!” He grabbed Logen by the elbow and began to pull him towards the door.

“I will expect some change, Brother Longfoot!” called Bayaz, from behind.

The Navigator turned in the doorway. “There will be change, on that you may depend. An eye for value, a flair for barter, a dauntless purpose in negotiation! These are but three,” and he smiled broadly, “of my remarkable talents!”

“It is a fabulous place, this Adua. Truly. Few cities are its equal. Shaffa, perhaps, is larger, but so very dusty. None could deny that Westport and Dagoska have their sights. Some think of Ospria, on its mountain slopes, as the most beautiful city of the world, but Brother Longfoot’s heart, it must be said, belongs to great Talins. Have you been there, Master Ninefingers, have you seen that noble settlement?”

“Er…” Logen was busy trying to keep up with the little man, dodging between the endless flow of people.

Longfoot stopped so suddenly that Logen almost piled into him. The Navigator turned, his hands raised, a faraway look in his eye. “Talins at sunset, seen from the ocean! I have witnessed many remarkable things, believe me, but I declare that to be the most beautiful sight in all the world. The way the sun gleams on the myriad canals, on the glinting domes of the Grand Duke’s citadel, on the graceful palaces of the merchant princes! Where now does the shining sea end, and the shining city begin? Ah! Talins!” He turned and charged off once more and Logen hurried after him.

“But this Adua is a fine place, certainly, and growing every year. Things have changed a great deal here since my last visit, indeed they have. Once there were only noblemen and commoners. The noblemen owned the land so they had the money and therefore the power. Ha. Simple, you see?”

“Well—” Logen was having trouble seeing much further than Longfoot’s back.

“But now they have trade, and so much of it. Merchants, and bankers, and so forth. Everywhere. Armies of them. Now commoners can be rich, you see? And a rich commoner has power. Is he a commoner now, or a nobleman? Or is he something else? Ha. Very complicated all of a sudden, no?”

“Er—”

“So much wealth. So much money. But so much poverty too, eh? So many beggars, so many poor. Hardly healthy, so rich and so poor, so close together, but it’s a fine place still, and always growing.”

“I find it too crowded,” mumbled Logen as a shoulder barged past him, “and too hot.”

“Bah! Crowded? Do you call this crowded? You should see the great temple in Shaffa at morning prayer! Or the grand square before the Emperor’s palace when new slaves are up for auction! And hot? Do you call this hot? In Ul-Saffayn, in the far south of Gurkhul, it gets so hot during the summer months that you can cook an egg on your doorstep. Truly! This way.” He ducked through the passing crowds towards a narrow sidestreet. “This way is the quickest!”

Logen caught him by the arm. “Down there?” He peered into the gloom. “You sure?”

“Can you doubt it?” demanded Longfoot, suddenly horrified. “Can it be that you could doubt it? Among all my remarkable talents, it is my skill at navigation that is paramount! It is for that talent, above all, that the First of the Magi has made so generous a contribution to the coffers of the order! Could it be that you… but wait.” He held up his hand and began to smile again, then tapped Logen on the chest with his forefinger. “
You
do not know Brother Longfoot. Not yet. You are watchful and cautious, I see it, fine qualities in their place. I cannot expect you to have
my
unshakeable faith in my abilities. No! That would not be fair. Unfairness is not an admirable quality. No! Unfairness is not my way.”

“I meant—”

“I shall convince you!” shouted Longfoot. “Indeed I shall! You will come to trust my word before your own! Yes! This way is the quickest!” And he strode off down the dingy alleyway with remarkable speed, Logen struggling to keep up though his legs were a good half-foot longer.

“Ah, the back streets!” called the Navigator over his shoulder as they passed down dark and grimy lanes, the buildings crowding in ever closer. “The back streets, eh?” The alleys grew narrower, darker, and dirtier still. The little man turned to the left and the right, never pausing for an instant to consider his course. “Do you smell that? Do you smell that, Master Ninefingers? It smells like…” he rubbed his thumbs and fingertips together as he strode along, searching for the words “…mystery! Adventure!”

It smelled like shit to Logen. A man lay on his face in the gutter, dead drunk perhaps, or maybe simply dead. Other men passed by, limping and haggard, or standing in threatening groups in doorways, handing round bottles. There were women here too.

“Four marks and I’ll give you a blessing, Northman!” one of them called to Logen as they passed. “A blessing you won’t soon forget! Three, then!”

“Whores,” whispered Longfoot, shaking his head, “and cheap ones too. You like women?”

“Well—”

“You should go to Ul-Nahb my friend! Ul-Nahb on the shores of the Southern Sea! You could buy a bed-slave there. Indeed you could! They cost a fortune, but they train these girls for years!”

“You can buy a girl?” asked Logen, mystified.

“Boys too, if your taste bends that way.”

“Eh?”

“They train them for years, truly. It’s a whole industry down there. You want skilled? Do you? These girls have skills you wouldn’t believe! Or visit Sipani! There are places in that city—phew! The women are beautiful, beautiful every one! Truly! Like princesses! And clean,” he muttered, peering at one of the scruffy women by the roadside.

A bit of dirt didn’t bother Logen any. Skilled and beautiful all sounded too complicated to him. One girl caught his eye as they passed, leaning against a door-frame with one arm up. Watching them pass with a half-hearted smile. Logen found her pretty, in a desperate sort of a way. Prettier than he was anyway, and it had been a long time. You have to be realistic about these things.

Logen stopped in the street. “Bayaz wanted change?” he muttered.

“He did. He was most specific on the subject.”

“There’s money to spare, then?”

Longfoot raised one eyebrow. “Well, perhaps, let me see…”

He pulled out the purse with a flourish and opened it, rooting around inside. There was a loud jingling of coins.

“You think that’s a good idea?” Logen glanced nervously up and down the street. Several faces had turned towards them.

“What’s that?” asked the Navigator, still poking around in the purse. He pulled some coins out, holding them up to the light and peering at them, then pressed them into Logen’s palm.

“Subtlety isn’t one of your talents, is it?” Some of the shabby men in the alley began to move slowly, curiously towards them, two from in front, one from behind.

“No indeed!” laughed Longfoot. “No indeed! I am a straight-talking man, that is my way! Yes indeed! I am a… ah.” He had noticed the shadowy figures sidling towards them now. “Ah. This is unfortunate. Oh dear.”

Logen turned to the girl. “Do you mind if we…” She slammed the door shut in his face. Other doors up and down the street began to close. “Shit.” he said. “How are you at fighting?”

“God has seen fit to bless me with many remarkable talents,” murmured the navigator, “but combat is not one of them.”