The Blade Itself (49 page)

“This really is an excellent soup,” he said, slurping noisily from his spoon.

The House of the Maker

It was a stormy day, and the House of the Maker stood stark and grim, a huge dark shape against the ragged clouds. A cold wind whipped between the buildings and through the squares of the Agriont, making the tails of Glokta’s black coat flap around him as he shuffled after Captain Luthar and the would-be Magus, the scarred Northman at his side. He knew they were watched.
Watched the whole way. Behind the windows, in the doorways, on the roofs.
The Practicals were everywhere, he could feel their eyes.

Glokta had half expected, half hoped, that Bayaz and his companions would have disappeared in the night, but they had not. The bald old man seemed as relaxed as if he had undertaken to open a fruit cellar, and Glokta did not like it.
When does the bluff end? When does he throw his hands up and admit it’s all a game? When we reach the University? When we cross the bridge? When we stand before the very gate of the Maker’s House and his key does not fit?
But somewhere in the back of his mind the thought lurked:
What if it does not end? What if the door opens? What if he truly is as he claims to be?

Bayaz chattered to Luthar as they strolled across the empty courtyard towards the University.
Every bit as much at ease as a grandfather with his favourite grandson, and every bit as boring.
“…of course, the city is so much larger than when I last visited. That district you call the Three Farms, all teeming bustle and activity. I remember when that whole borough
was
three farms! Indeed I do! And far beyond the city walls!”

“Erm…” said Luthar.

“And as for the Spicers’ new guildhall, I never saw such ostentation…”

Glokta’s mind raced as he limped after the two of them, trawling for hidden meanings in the sea of blather, grasping for order in the chaos. The questions tumbled over each other.
Why pick me as a witness? Why not the Arch Lector himself? Does this Bayaz suppose that I can be easily fooled? And why Luthar? Because he won the Contest? And how did he win? Is he apart of this deception?
But if Luthar was party to some sinister plan, he was giving no sign. Glokta had never seen the slightest hint that he was anything other than the self-obsessed young fool he appeared to be.

And then we come to this puzzle.
Glokta glanced sidelong at the big Northman. There were no signs of deadly intent on his scarred face, little sign that anything was going on in there at all.
Is he very stupid or very clever? Is he to be ignored, or feared? Is he the servant, or the master?
There were no answers to any of it. Yet.

“Well, this place is a shadow of its former self,” said Bayaz as they halted outside the door to the University, raising an eyebrow at the grimy, tilting statues. He rapped briskly on the weathered wood and the door swayed on its hinges. To Glokta’s surprise, it opened almost immediately.

“You’re expected,” croaked the ancient porter. They stepped around him into the gloom. “I will show you to—” began the old man as he wrestled the creaking door shut.

“No need,” called Bayaz over his shoulder, already striding briskly off down the dusty corridor, “I know the way!” Glokta struggled to keep up, sweating despite the cold weather, leg burning all the way. The effort of maintaining the pace scarcely gave him time to consider how the bald bastard might be so familiar with the building.
But familiar he certainly is.
He swept down the corridors as though he had spent every day of his life there, clicking his tongue in disgust at the state of the place and prattling all the while.

“…I’ve never seen such dust, eh, Captain Luthar? I wouldn’t be surprised if the damn place hadn’t been cleaned since I was last here! I’ve no idea how a man can think under such conditions! No idea at all…” Centuries of dead and justly forgotten Adepti stared gloomily down from their canvases, as though upset by all the noise.

The corridors of the University rolled past, an ancient, dusty, forsaken-seeming place, with nothing in it but grimy old paintings and musty old books. Jezal had precious little use for books.

He had read a few about fencing and riding, a couple about famous military campaigns, once opened the covers on a great big history of the Union he found in his father’s study, and got bored after three or four pages.

Bayaz droned on. “Here we fought with the Maker’s servants. I remember it well. They cried out to Kanedias to save them, but he would not come down. These halls ran with blood, rang with screams, rolled with smoke that day.”

Jezal had no idea why the old fool would single him out to tell his tall stories to, and still less how to reply. “That sounds… violent.”

Bayaz nodded. “It was. I am not proud of it. But good men must sometimes do violent things.”

“Uh,” said the Northman suddenly. Jezal had not been aware that he was even listening.

“Besides, that was a different age. A violent age. Only in the Old Empire were people advanced beyond the primitive. Midderland, the heart of the Union, believe it or not, was a sty. A wasteland of warring, barbaric tribes. The luckiest among them were taken into the Maker’s service. The rest were painted-face savages, without writing, without science, with barely anything to separate them from the beasts.”

Jezal glanced furtively up at Ninefingers. It was not at all difficult to picture a barbaric state with that big brute beside him, but it was ridiculous to suppose that his beautiful home had once been a wasteland, that he was descended from primitives. This bald old man was a blathering liar, or a madman, but some important people seemed to take him seriously.

And Jezal thought it best always to do what the important people said.

Logen followed the others into a broken-down courtyard, bounded on three sides by the crumbling buildings of the University, on the fourth by the inner face of the sheer wall of the Agriont. All was covered in old moss, thick ivy, dry brambles. A man sat on a rickety chair among the weeds, watching them come closer.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, pushing himself up with some difficulty. “Damn knees, I’m not what I used to be.” An unremarkable man past middle-age, in a threadbare shirt with stains down the front.

Bayaz frowned at him. “You are the Chief Warden?”

“I am.”

“And where are the rest of your company?”

“My wife is getting the breakfast ready, but not counting her, well, I am the whole company. It’s eggs,” he said happily, patting his stomach.

“What?”

“For breakfast. I like eggs.”

“Good for you,” muttered Bayaz, looking slightly put out. “In King Casamir’s reign, the bravest fifty men of the Bang’s Own were appointed Wardens of the House, to guard this gate. There was considered to be no higher honour.”

“That was a long time ago,” said the one and only Warden, plucking at his dirty shirt. “There were nine of us when I was a lad, but they went on to other things, or died, and were never replaced. Don’t know who’ll take over when I’m gone. There haven’t been too many applicants.”

“You surprise me.” Bayaz cleared his throat. “Oh, Chief Warden! I, Bayaz, First of the Magi, seek your leave to pass up the stair to the fifth gate, beyond the fifth gate and onto the bridge, across the bridge and to the door of the Maker’s House.”

The Chief Warden squinted back. “You sure?”

Bayaz was growing impatient. “Yes, why?”

“I remember the last fellow who tried it, way back when I was a lad. Some big man, I reckon, some thinker. He went up those steps with ten strong workmen, chisels and hammers and picks and what-have-you, telling us how he was going to open up the House, bring out its treasures and all. Five minutes and they were back, saying nothing, looking like they saw the dead walk.”

“What happened?” murmured Luthar.

“Don’t know, but they had no treasures with them, I can tell you that.”

“Without doubt a daunting story,” said Bayaz, “but we’re going.”

“Your business, I suppose.” And the old man turned and slouched across the miserable courtyard. Up a narrow stair they went, the steps worn down in the middle, up to a tunnel through the high wall of the Agriont, on to a narrow gate in the darkness.

Logen felt an odd sense of worry as the bolts slid back. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to get rid of it, and the Warden grinned at him. “You can feel it already, eh?”

“Feel what?”

“The Maker’s breath, they call it.” He gave the doors the gentlest shove. They swung open together, light spilling through into the darkness. “The Maker’s breath.”

Glokta tottered across the bridge, teeth clenched tight on gums, painfully aware of the volume of empty air beneath his feet. It was a single, delicate arch, leaping from high up on the wall of the Agriont to the gate of the Maker’s House. He had often admired it from down in the city, on the other side of the lake, wondering how it had stayed up all these years. A spectacular, remarkable, beautiful thing.
It does not seem so beautiful now.
Not much wider than a man lying down, too narrow by far for comfort, and with a terrifying drop to the water below. Worse still, it had no parapet. Not so much as a wooden handrail.
And the breeze is rather fresh today.

Luthar and Ninefingers seemed worried enough by it.
And they have the free and painless use of both their legs.
Only Bayaz made the long trip across without apparent worry, as confident as if his feet were on a country lane.

They walked always in the vast shadow of the House of the Maker, of course. The closer they came, the more massive it seemed, its lowest parapet far higher than the wall of the Agriont. A stark black mountain, rising sheer from the lake below, blotting out the sun. A thing from a different age, built on a different scale.

Glokta glanced back towards the gate behind him. Did he catch a glimpse of something between the battlements on the wall above?
A Practical watching?
They would see the old man fail to open the door. They would be waiting to take him on their way back through.
But until then, I am helpless.
It was not a comforting thought.

And Glokta was in need of comfort. As he tottered further across the bridge, a niggling fear swelled inside him. It was more than the height, more than the strange company, more than the great tower looming above. A base fear, without reason. The animal terror of a nightmare. With every shuffling step the feeling grew. He could see the door now, a square of dark metal set back into the smooth stones of the tower. A circle of letters was etched into the centre of it. For some reason they made Glokta want to vomit, but he dragged himself closer. Two circles: large letters and small letters, a spidery script he did not recognise. His guts churned. Many circles: letters and lines, too detailed to take in. They swam before his stinging, weeping eyes. Glokta could go no further. He stood there, leaning on his cane, fighting with every ounce of will against the need to fall to his knees, turn and crawl away.

Ninefingers was faring little better, breathing hard through his nose, a look of the most profound horror and disgust on his face. Luthar was in considerably worse shape: teeth gritted, white-faced and palsied. He dropped slowly down on one knee, gasping, as Glokta edged past him.

Bayaz did not seem afraid. He stepped right up to the door and ran his fingers over the larger symbols. “Eleven wards, and eleven wards reversed.” He traced the circle of smaller characters. “And eleven times eleven.” His finger followed the fine line outside them.
Can it be that line is made of tiny letters too?
“Who can say how many hundreds here? Truly, a most potent enchantment!”

The sense of awe was only slightly diminished by the sound of Luthar puking noisily over the side of the bridge. “What does it say?” croaked Glokta, swallowing some bile of his own.

The old man grinned at him. “Can you not feel it, Inquisitor? It says turn away. It says get you gone. It says… none… shall… pass. But the message is not for us.” He reached into his collar and pulled out the rod of metal. The same dark metal as the door itself.

“We shouldn’t be here,” growled Ninefingers from behind. “This place is dead. We should go.” But Bayaz did not seem to hear.

“The magic has leaked out of the world,” Glokta heard him murmuring, “and all the achievements of Juvens lie in ruins.” He weighed the key in his hand, brought it slowly upwards. “But the Maker’s works stand strong as ever. Time has not diminished them… nor ever will.” There did not even seem to be a hole, but the key slid slowly into the door. Slowly, slowly, into the very centre of the circles. Glokta held his breath.

Click.

And nothing happened. The door did not open.
That is all then. The game is over.
He felt a surge of relief as he turned back towards the Agriont, raising a hand to signal to the Practicals on the wall above.
I need not go further. I need not.
Then an answering echo came from deep within.

Click.