‘I suppose . . . I suppose that I could do that.’
Glokta snorted. ‘You had better.’
‘I will need money—’
‘Your assets have been seized by the Inquisition.’
‘Everything?’
‘You may have noticed that there is a great deal of rebuilding to do. The king needs every mark he can lay his hands on, and confessed traitors can hardly expect to keep their chattels in such times as these. I have arranged passage for you. When you arrive, make contact with the banking house of Valint and Balk. They will arrange a loan to get you started.’
‘Valint and Balk?’ Eider looked even more scared than before, if that was possible. ‘I would rather be in debt to anyone but them.’
‘I know the feeling. But it’s that or nothing.’
‘How will I—’
‘A woman of your resourcefulness? I am sure that you will find a way.’ He winced as he pushed himself up from his chair. ‘I want to be snowed in by your letters. What happens in the city. What Orso is about. Who he makes war with, who he makes peace with. Who are his allies and his enemies. You leave on the next tide.’ He turned back, briefly, at the door. ‘I’ll be watching.’
She nodded dumbly, wiping away the tears of relief with the back of one trembling hand. First it is done to us, then we do it to others, then we order it done. Such is the way of things.
‘Are you always drunk by this time in the morning?’
‘Your Eminence, you wound me.’ Nicomo Cosca grinned. ‘Usually I have been drunk for hours by now.’
Huh. We each find our ways of getting through the day. ‘I should thank you for all your help.’
The Styrian gave a flamboyant wave of one hand. A hand, Glokta noticed, flashing with a fistful of heavy rings. ‘To hell with your thanks, I have your money.’
‘And I think every penny well spent. I hope that you will remain in the city, and enjoy Union hospitality for a while longer.’
‘Do you know? I believe I will.’ The mercenary scratched thoughtfully at the rash on his neck leaving red fingernail marks through the flaky skin. ‘At least until the gold runs out.’
‘How quickly can you possibly spend what I have paid you?’
‘Oh, you would be amazed. I have wasted ten fortunes in my time and more besides. I look forward to wasting another.’ Cosca slapped his hands down on his thighs, pushed himself up, strolled, somewhat unsteadily, to the door, and turned with a flourish. ‘Make sure you call on me when you next have a desperate last stand organised.’
‘My first letter will bear your name.’
‘Then I bid you . . . farewell!’ Cosca swept off his enormous hat and bowed low. Then, with a knowing grin, he stepped through the doorway, and was gone.
Glokta had moved the Arch Lector’s office to a large hall on the ground floor of the House of Questions. Closer to the real business of the Inquisition – the prisoners. Closer to the questions, and the answers. Closer to the truth. And, of course, the real clincher . . . no stairs.
There were well-tended gardens outside the large windows. The faint sound of a fountain splashing beyond the glass. But inside the room there was none of the ugly paraphernalia of power. The walls were plastered and painted simple white. The furniture was hard and functional. The whetstone of discomfort has kept me sharp this long. No reason to let the edge grow dull, simply because I have run out of enemies. New enemies will present themselves, before too long.
There were some heavy bookcases of dark wood. Several leather-covered desks, already stacked high with documents requiring his attention. Aside from the great round table with its map of the Union and its pair of bloody nail-marks, there was only one item of Sult’s furniture that Glokta had brought downstairs with him. The dark painting of bald old Zoller glowered down from above the simple fireplace. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain Magus I once knew. It is fitting, after all, that we maintain the proper perspective. Every man answers to somebody.
There was a knocking at the door, and the head of Glokta’s secretary appeared at the gap. ‘The Lord Marshals have arrived, Arch Lector.’
‘Show them in.’
Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were, all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. Collem West was scarcely recognisable. His hair had fallen out in ugly patches. His face was shrunken, had a yellow tinge about it. His uniform hung slack from his bony shoulders, stained around the collar. He shuffled into the room, bent over in an old man’s stoop, leaning heavily on a stick. He looked like nothing so much as a walking corpse.
Glokta had expected something of the kind, of course, from what Ardee had told him. But the sick shock of disappointment and horror he felt at the sight still caught him by surprise. Like returning to the happy haunt of one’s youth, and finding it all in ruins. Deaths. They happen every day. How many lives have I wrecked with my own hands? What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was. He found himself lurching up from his chair, starting painfully forwards as if to lend some help.
‘Your Eminence.’ West’s voice was fragile and jagged as broken glass. He made a weak effort at a smile. ‘Or I suppose . . . I should call you brother.’
‘West . . . Collem . . . it is good to see you.’ Good, and awful both at once.
A cluster of officers followed West into the room. The wonderfully competent Lieutenant Jalenhorm I remember, of course, but a Major now. And Brint too, made a Captain by his friend’s swift advancement. Marshal Kroy we know and love from the Closed Council. Congratulations, all, on your advancement. Another man brought up the rear of the party. A lean man with a face horribly burned. But we, of all people, should hardly hold a repulsive disfigurement against him. Each one of them frowned nervously towards West, as though ready to pounce forward if he should slump to the floor. Instead he shuffled to the round table and sagged trembling into the nearest chair.
‘I should have come to you,’ said Glokta. I should have come to you far sooner.
West made another effort at a smile, even more bilious than the last. Several of his teeth were missing. ‘Nonsense. I know how busy you are, now. And I am feeling much better today.’
‘Good, good. That is . . . good. Is there anything that I can get you?’ What could possibly help? ‘Anything at all.’
West shook his head. ‘I do not think so. These gentlemen you know, of course. Apart from Sergeant Pike.’ The burned man nodded to him.
‘A pleasure.’ To meet someone even more maimed than myself, always.
‘I hear . . . happy news, from my sister.’
Glokta winced, almost unable to meet his old friend’s eye. ‘I should have sought your permission, of course. I surely would have, had there been time.’
‘I understand.’ West’s bright eyes were fixed on his. ‘She has explained it all. It is some kind of comfort to know that she’ll be well taken care of.’
‘On that you can depend. I will see to it. She will never be hurt again.’
West’s gaunt face twisted. ‘Good. Good.’ He rubbed gently at the side of his face. His fingernails were black, edged with dried blood, as though they were peeling from the flesh beneath. ‘There’s always a price to be paid, eh, Sand? For the things we do?’
Glokta felt his eye twitching. ‘It would seem so.’
‘I have lost some of my teeth.’
‘I see that, and can sympathise. Soup, I find . . .’ I find utterly disgusting.
‘I am . . . scarcely able to walk.’
‘I sympathise with that also. Your cane will be your best friend.’ As it will soon be mine, I think.
‘I am a pitiable shell of what I was.’
‘I truly feel your pain.’ Truly. Almost more keenly than my own.
West slowly shook his withered head. ‘How can you stand it?’
‘One step at a time, my old friend. Steer clear of stairs where possible, and mirrors,
always.’
‘Wise advice.’ West coughed. An echoing cough, from right down beneath his ribs. He swallowed noisily. ‘I think my time is running out.’
‘Surely not!’ Glokta’s hand reached out for a moment, as if to rest on West’s shrunken shoulder, as if to offer comfort. He jerked it back, awkwardly. It is not suited to the task.
West licked at his empty gums. ‘This is how most of us go, isn’t it? No final charge. No moment of glory. We just . . . fall slowly apart.’
Glokta would have liked to say something optimistic. But that rubbish comes from other mouths than mine. Younger, prettier mouths, with all their teeth, perhaps. ‘Those who die on the battlefield are in some ways the lucky few. Forever young. Forever glorious.’
West nodded, slowly. ‘Here’s to the lucky few, then . . .’ His eyes rolled back, he swayed, then slumped sideways. Jalenhorm was the first forward, catching him before he hit the ground. He flopped in the big man’s arms, a long string of thin vomit splattering against the floor.
‘Back to the palace!’ snapped Kroy. ‘At once!’
Brint hurried to swing the doors open while Jalenhorm and Kroy steered West out of the room, draped between them with his arms over their shoulders. His limp shoes scraped against the floor, his piebald head lolling. Glokta watched them go, standing helpless, his toothless mouth half open, as if to speak. As if to wish his friend good luck, or good health, or a merry afternoon. None of them seem quite to fit the circumstance, however.
The doors clattered shut and Glokta was left staring at them. His eyelid flickered, he felt wet on his cheek. Not tears of compassion, of course. Not tears of grief. I feel nothing, fear nothing, care for nothing. They cut away the parts of me that could weep in the Emperor’s prisons. This can only be salt water, and nothing more. Merely a broken reflex in a mutilated face. Farewell, brother. Farewell, my only friend. And farewell to the ghost of beautiful Sand dan Glokta, too. Nothing of him remains. All for the best, of course. A man in my position can afford no indulgences.
He took a sharp breath, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He limped to his desk, sat, composed himself for a moment, assisted by a sudden twinge in his toeless foot. He turned his attention to his documents. Papers of confession, tasks outstanding, all the tedious business of government—
He looked up. A figure had detached itself from the shadows behind one of the high bookcases and now stepped out into the room, arms folded. The man with the burned face who had come in with the officers. In the excitement of their exit, it seemed that he had remained behind.
‘Sergeant Pike, was it?’ murmured Glokta, frowning.
‘That’s the name I’ve taken.’
‘Taken?’
The scarred face twisted into a mockery of a smile. One even more hideous than my own, if that’s possible. ‘Not surprising, that you shouldn’t recognise me. My first week, there was an accident in a forge. Accidents often happen, in Angland.’ Angland? That voice . . . something about that voice . . . ‘Still nothing? Perhaps if I come closer?’
He sprang across the room without warning. Glokta was still struggling up from his seat as the man dived across the desk. They tumbled to the floor together in a cloud of flying paper, Glokta underneath, the back of his skull cracking against the stone, his breath all driven out in a long, agonised wheeze.
He felt the brush of steel against his neck. Pike’s face was no more than a few inches from his, the mottled mass of burns picked out in particularly revolting detail.
‘How about now?’ he hissed. ‘Anything seem familiar?’
Glokta felt his left eye flickering as recognition washed over him like a wave of freezing water. Changed, of course. Changed utterly and completely. And yet I know him.
‘Rews,’ he breathed
‘None other.’ Rews bit off the words with grim satisfaction.
‘You survived.’ Glokta whispered it, first with amazement, then with mounting amusement. ‘You survived! You’re a far harder man than I gave you credit for! Far, far harder.’ He started to chuckle, tears running down the side of his cheek again.
‘Something funny?’
‘Everything! You have to appreciate the irony. I have overcome so many powerful enemies, and it’s Salem Rews with the knife at my neck! It’s always the blade you don’t see coming that cuts you deepest, eh?’
‘You’ll get no deeper cuts than this one.’
‘Then cut away, my man, I am ready.’ Glokta tipped his head back, stretched his neck out, pressing it up against the cold metal. ‘I’ve been ready for a long time.’
Rews’ fist worked around the grip of his knife. His burned face trembled, eyes narrowing to bright slits in their pink sockets. Now.
His mottled lips slid back from his teeth. The sinews in his neck stood out as he made ready to wield the blade. Do it.
Glokta’s breath hissed quickly in and out, his throat tingling with anticipation. Now, at last . . . now . . .
But Rews’ arm did not move.
‘And yet you hesitate,’ whispered Glokta through his empty gums. ‘Not out of mercy, of course, not out of weakness. They froze all that out of you, eh? In Angland? You pause because you realise, in all that time dreaming of killing me, you never thought of what would be next. What will you truly have gained, with all your endurance? With all your cunning and your effort? Will you be hunted? Will you be sent back? I can offer you so much more.’
Rews’ melted frown grew even harder. ‘What could you give me? After this?’
‘Oh, this is nothing. I suffer twice the pain and ten times the humiliation getting up in the morning. A man like you could be very useful to me. A man . . . as hard as you have proved yourself to be. A man who has lost everything, including all his scruples, all his mercy, all his fear. We both have lost everything. We both have survived. I understand you, Rews, as no one else ever can.’
‘Pike is my name, now.’
‘Of course it is. Let me up, Pike.’
Slowly the knife slid away from his throat. The man who had been Salem Rews stood over him, frowning down. Who could ever anticipate the turns that fate can take? ‘Up, then.’
‘Easier said than done.’ Glokta dragged in a few sharp breaths, then growling with a great and painful effort he rolled over onto all fours. A heroic achievement indeed. He slowly tested his limbs, wincing as his twisted joints clicked. Nothing broken. No more broken than usual, anyway. He reached out and took the handle of his fallen cane between two fingers, dragged it towards him through the scattered papers. He felt the point of the blade pressing into his back.
‘Don’t take me for a fool, Glokta. If you try anything—’
He clutched at the edge of the desk and dragged himself up. ‘You’ll cut my liver out and all the rest. Don’t worry. I am far too crippled to try anything worse than shit myself. I have something to show you, though. Something that I feel sure you will appreciate. If I’m wrong, well . . . you can slit my throat a little later.’
Glokta lurched out of the heavy door of his office, Pike sticking as close to his shoulder as a shadow, the knife kept carefully out of sight.
‘Stay,’ he snapped at the two Practicals in the anteroom, hobbling on past the frowning secretary at the huge desk. Out into the wide hallway running through the heart of the House of Questions and Glokta limped faster, cane clicking against the tiles. It hurt him to do it, but he held his head back, gave a cold wrinkle to his lip. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw the Clerks, the Practicals, the Inquisitors, bowing, sliding backwards, clearing away. How they fear me. More than any man in Adua, and with good reason. How things have changed. And yet, how they have stayed the same. His leg, his neck, his gums. These things were as they had always been. And always will be. Unless I am tortured again, of course.
‘You look well,’ Glokta tossed over his shoulder. ‘Aside from your hideous facial burns, of course. You lost weight.’
‘Starving can do that.’
‘Indeed, indeed
. I lost a great deal of weight in Gurkhul. And not just from the pieces they cut out of me. This way.’
They turned through a heavy door flanked by frowning Practicals, past an open gate of iron bars. Into a long and windowless corridor, sloping steadily downwards, lit by too few lanterns and filled with slow shadows. The walls were rendered and whitewashed, though none too recently. There was a seedy feel to the place, and a smell of damp. Just as there always is. The clicking of Glokta’s cane, the hissing of his breath, the rustling of his white coat, all fell dead on the chill, wet air.
‘Killing me will bring you scant satisfaction, you know.’
‘We shall see.’
‘I doubt it. I was hardly the one responsible for your little trip northwards. I did the work perhaps, but others gave the orders.’
‘They were not my friends.’
Glokta snorted. ‘Please. Friends are people one pretends to like in order to make life bearable. Men like us have no need of such indulgences. It is our enemies by which we are measured.’ And here are mine. Sixteen steps confronted him. That old, familiar flight. Cut from smooth stone, a little worn towards the centre.
‘Steps. Bastard things. If I could torture one man, do you know who it would be?’ Pike’s face was a single, expressionless scar. ‘Well, never mind.’ Glokta struggled to the bottom without incident, limped on a few more painful strides to a heavy wooden door, bound with iron.
‘We are here.’ Glokta slid a bunch of keys from the pocket of his white coat, flicked through them until he found the right one, unlocked the door, and went in.
Arch Lector Sult was not the man he used to be. But then none of us are, quite. His magnificent shock of white hair was plastered greasily to his gaunt skull, dry blood matted in a yellow-brown mass on one side. His piercing blue eyes had lost their commanding sparkle, sunken as they were in deep sockets and rimmed with angry pink. He had been relieved of his clothes, and his sinewy old man’s body, somewhat hairy around the shoulders, was smeared with the grime of the cells. He looked, in fact, like nothing so much as a mad old beggar. Can this truly once have been one of the most powerful men in the wide Circle of the World? You would never guess. A salutary lesson to us all. The higher you climb, the further there is to fall.
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 188