The Blade Itself: The First Law: Book One

Bremer dan Gorst was leaning against the barrier, watching his opponent dance through barely open eyes. His steels were unusually heavy-looking, weighty and worn and well-used, too heavy to be quick perhaps. Gorst himself looked too heavy to be quick, come to that, a great thick-necked bull of a man, more like a wrestler than a swordsman. He looked the underdog in this bout. The majority of the crowd seemed to think so. But I know better.

Nearby a bet-maker was shouting odds, taking money from the babbling people around him. Nearly all of the bets were for Kurster. Glokta leaned across from his bench. ‘What odds are you giving on Gorst now?’

‘On Gorst?’ asked the bet-maker, ‘evens.’

‘I’ll take two hundred marks.’

‘Sorry, friend, I can’t cover that.’

‘A hundred then, at five to four.’

The bet-maker thought about it for a moment, looking skywards as he worked out the sums in his head. ‘Done.’

Glokta sat back as the referee introduced the contestants, watching Gorst roll up his shirt-sleeves. The man’s forearms were thick as tree trunks, heavy cords of muscle squirming as he worked his meaty fingers. He stretched his thick neck to one side and the other, then he took his steels from his second and loosed a couple of practice jabs. Few in the crowd noticed. They were busy cheering Kurster as he took his mark. But Glokta saw. Quicker than he looks. A lot, lot quicker. Those heavy steels no longer seem so clumsy.

‘Bremer dan Gorst!’ shouted the referee, as the big man trudged to his mark. The applause was meagre indeed. This lumbering bull was no one’s idea of a swordsman.

‘Begin!’

It wasn’t pretty. From the very start Gorst swung his heavy long steel in great heedless sweeps, like a champion woodsman chopping logs, giving throaty growls with every blow. It was a strange sight. One man was in a fencing contest, the other seemed to think he was fighting to the death. You only have to touch him, man, not split him in half! But as Glokta watched, he realised the mighty cuts were not nearly so clumsy as they seemed. They were well-timed, and highly accurate. Kurster laughed as he danced away from the first great swing, smiled as he dodged the third, but by the fifth his smile was long gone. And it doesn’t look like coming back.

It wasn’t pretty at all. But the power is undeniable. Kurster ducked desperately under another great arcing cut. That one was hard enough to take his head off, blunted steels or no.

The crowd’s favourite did his best to seize the initiative, jabbing away for all he was worth, but Gorst was more than equal to it. He grunted as he turned the jabs efficiently away with his short steel, then growled again as he brought his long whistling around and over. Glokta winced as it smashed into Kurster’s sword with a resounding crash, snapping the man’s wrist back and nearly tearing the steel from his fingers. He stumbled back from the force of it, grimacing with pain and shock.

Now I realise why Gorst’s steels seem so worn. Kurster dodged around the circle, trying to escape the onslaught, but the big man was too quick. Far too quick. Gorst had the measure of him now, anticipating every movement, harrying his opponent with relentless blows. There was no escape.

Two heavy thrusts drove the hapless officer back towards the edge of the circle, then a scything cut ripped his long steel from his hand and embedded it, wobbling wildly back and forth, in the turf. He staggered for a moment, eyes wide, his empty hand trembling, then Gorst was on him, letting go a roar and ramming full-tilt into his defenceless ribs with a heavy shoulder.

Glokta spluttered with laughter. I never saw a swordsman fly before. Kurster actually turned half a somersault, shrieking like a girl as he tumbled through the air, crashing to the ground with his limbs flopping and sliding away on his face. He finally came to rest in the sand outside the circle, a good three strides from where Gorst had hit him, groaning weakly.

The crowd was in shock, so quiet that Glokta’s cackling had to be audible on the back row. Kurster’s trainer rushed from his enclosure and gently turned his stricken student over. The young man kicked weakly, whimpered and clutched at his ribs. Gorst watched for a moment, emotionless, then shrugged and strolled back to his mark.

Kurster’s trainer turned to the referee. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but my pupil cannot continue.’

Glokta could not help himself. He had to clamp his mouth shut with his hands. His whole body was shaking with laughter. Each gurgle caused a painful spasm in his neck, but he didn’t care. It seemed the majority of the crowd had not found the spectacle quite so amusing. Angry mutterings sprang up all around him. The grumbling turned to boos as Kurster was helped from the circle, draped between his trainer and his second, then the boos to a chorus of angry shouts.

Gorst swept the audience with his lazy, half-open eyes, then shrugged again and trudged slowly back to his enclosure. Glokta was still sniggering as he limped from the arena, his purse a good deal heavier than when he arrived. He hadn’t had that much fun in years.

The roofs were sagging in the middle, a couple of them close to outright collapse. The delicate spires were crumbling, threatening to topple off into the unkempt gardens below. The render on the walls was tired and grimy, and in places whole sections had fallen away to reveal the bare stones and crumbling mortar beneath. In one spot a great brown stain flared out down the wall from a section of broken guttering. There had been a time when the study of sciences had attracted some of the foremost men in the Union, when this building had been among the grandest in the city. And Sult thinks the Inquisition is out of fashion.

Two statues flanked the crumbling gate. Two old men, one with a lamp, one pointing at something in a book. Wisdom and progress or some such rubbish. The one with the book had lost his nose some time during the past century, the other was leaning at an angle, his lamp stuck out despairingly as though clutching for support.

Glokta raised his fist and hammered on the ancient doors. They rattled, moved noticeably, as if they might at any moment drop from their hinges. Glokta waited. Waited some time.

There was a sudden clatter of bolts being drawn back, and one half of the door wobbled open a few inches. An ancient face wedged itself into the gap and squinted out at him, lit underneath by a meagre taper clutched in a withered hand. Dewy old eyes peered up and down. ‘Yes?’

‘Inquisitor Glokta.’

‘Ah, from the Arch Lector?’

Glokta frowned, surprised. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ They cannot be half so cut off from the world as they appear. He seems to know who I am.

It was perilously dark within. Two enormous brass candelabras stood on either side of the door, but they were stripped of candles and had long gone unpolished, shining dully in the weak light from the porter’s little taper. ‘This way, sir,’ wheezed the old man, shambling off, bent nearly double. Even Glokta had little trouble keeping up with him as he crept away through the gloom.

They shuffled together down a shadowy hallway. The windows on one side were ancient, made with tiny panes of glass so dirty that they would have let in little enough light on the sunniest of days. They let in none whatever as the sullen evening came on. The flickering candleflame danced over dusty paintings on the opposite wall, pale old men in dark gowns of black and grey, gazing wild-eyed from their flaking frames, flasks and cog-wheels and pairs of compasses clutched in their aged hands.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Glokta, after they had shambled through the murk for several minutes.

‘The Adepti are at dinner,’ wheezed the porter, glancing up at him with eyes infinitely tired.

The University’s dining hall was an echoing cavern of a room, lifted one degree above total darkness by a few guttering candles. A small fire flickered in an enormous fireplace, casting dancing shadows among the rafters. A long table stretched the length of the floor, polished by long years of use, flanked by rickety chairs. It could easily have accommodated eighty but there were only five there, crowded up at one end, huddled in around the fireplace. They looked over as the taps of Glokta’s cane echoed through the hall, pausing in their meals and peering over with great interest. The man at the head of the table got to his feet and hurried over, holding the hem of his long black gown up with one hand.

‘A visitor,’ wheezed the porter, waving his candle in Glokta’s direction.

‘Ah, from the Arch Lector! I am Silber, the University Administrator!’ And he shook Glokta’s hand. His companions had meanwhile lurched and tottered to their feet as though the guest of honour had just arrived.

‘Inquisitor Glokta.’ He stared round at the eager old men. A good deal more deference than I was expecting, I must say. But then, the Arch Lector’s name opens all kinds of doors.

‘Glokta, Glokta,’ mumbled one of the old men, ‘seems that I remember a Glokta from somewhere.’

‘You remember everything from somewhere, but you never remember where,’ quipped the administrator, to half-hearted laughter. ‘Please let me make the introductions.’

He went round the four black-gowned scientists, one by one. ‘Saurizin, our Adeptus Chemical.’ A beefy, unkempt old fellow with burns and stains down the front of his robe and more than one bit of food in his beard. ‘Denka, the Adeptus Metallic.’ The youngest of the four by a considerable margin, though by no means a young man, had an arrogant twist to his mouth. ‘Chayle, our Adeptus Mechanical.’ Glokta had never seen a man with so big a head but so small a face. His ears, in particular, were immense, and sprouting grey hairs. ‘And Kandelau, the Adeptus Physical.’ A scrawny old bird with a long neck and spectacles perched on his curving beak of a nose. ‘Please join us, Inquisitor,’ and the administrator indicated an empty chair, wedged in between two of the Adepti.

‘A glass of wine then?’ wheedled Chayle, a prim smile on his tiny mouth, already leaning forward with a decanter and sloshing some into a glass.

‘Very well.’

‘We were just discussing the relative merits of our various fields of study,’ murmured Kandelau, peering at Glokta through his flashing spectacles.

‘As always,’ lamented the Administrator.

‘The human body is, of course, the only area worthy of true scrutiny,’ continued the Adeptus Physical. ‘One must appreciate the mysteries within, before turning one’s attention to the world without. We all have a body, Inquisitor. Means of healing it, and of harming it, are of paramount interest to us all. It is the human body that is my area of expertise.’

‘Bodies! Bodies!’ whined Chayle, pursing his little lips and pushing food around his plate. ‘We are trying to eat!’

‘Quite so! You are unsettling the Inquisitor with your ghoulish babble!’

‘Oh, I am not easily unsettled.’ Glokta leered across the table, giving the Adeptus Metallic a good view of his missing teeth. ‘My work for the Inquisition demands a more than passing knowledge of anatomy.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, then Saurizin took hold of the meat plate and offered it out. Glokta looked at the red slices, glistening on the plate. He licked at his empty gums. ‘Thank you, no.’

‘Is it true?’ asked the Adeptus Chemical, peering over the meat, voice hushed. ‘Will there be more funds? Now that this business with the Mercers is settled, that is?’

Glokta frowned. Everyone was staring at him, waiting for his reply. One of the old Adepti had his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. So that’s it. Money. But why would they be expecting money from the Arch Lector? The heavy meat plate was beginning to wobble. Well . . . if it gets them listening. ‘Money might be made available, depending, of course, on results.’

A hushed murmur crept around the table. The Adeptus Chemical carefully set down the plate with a trembling hand. ‘I have been having a great deal of success with acids recently . . .’

‘Hah!’ mocked the Adeptus Metallic. ‘Results, the Inquisitor asked for, results! My new alloys will be stronger than steel when they are perfected!’

‘Always the alloys!’ sighed Chayle, turning his tiny eyes towards the ceiling. ‘No one appreciates the importance of sound mechanical thinking!’

The other three Adepti rounded fiercely on him, but the Administrator jumped in first. ‘Gentlemen, please! The Inquisitor is not interested in our little differences! Everyone will have time to discuss their latest work and show its merits. This is not a competition, is it Inquisitor?’ Every eye turned toward Glokta. He looked slowly round at those old, expectant faces, and said nothing.

‘I have developed a machine for—’

‘My acids—’

‘My alloys—’

‘The mysteries of the human body—’

Glokta cut them off. ‘Actually, it is in the area of . . . I suppose you would call them explosive substances, that I am currently taking a particular interest—’

The Adeptus Chemical jumped from his seat. ‘That would be my province!’ he cried, staring in triumph at his colleagues. ‘I have samples! I have examples! Please follow me, Inquisitor!’ And he tossed his cutlery onto his plate and set off towards one of the doors.

The benches in the middle of the room were even more confused, covered in towering constructions of glass and old brown copper: tubes, flasks and dishes, lamps – one with a naked flame burning. All gave the appearance of being ready at any moment to collapse, dousing anyone unfortunate enough to stand nearby with lethal, boiling poisons.

The Adeptus Chemical rummaged in amongst this mess like a mole in its warren. ‘Now then,’ he mumbled to himself, pulling at his dirty beard with one hand, ‘blasting powders are somewhere here . . .’

Glokta limped into the room after him, glancing suspiciously around at the mess of tubing that covered every surface. He wrinkled his nose. There was a revolting, acrid smell to the place.

‘Here it is!’ crowed the Adeptus, brandishing a dusty jar half-full of black granules. He cleared a space on one of the benches, shoving the clinking and clanking glass and metal out of the way with a sweep of his meaty forearm. ‘This stuff is terribly rare, you know, Inquisitor, terribly rare!’ He pulled out the stopper and tipped a line of black powder onto the wooden bench. ‘Few men have been fortunate enough to see this stuff in action! Very few! And you are about to become one of them!’

Glokta took a cautious step back, the size of the ragged hole in the wall of the Tower of Chains still fresh in his mind. ‘We are safe, I hope, at this distance?’

‘Absolutely,’ murmured Saurizin, gingerly holding a burning taper out at arm’s length and touching it to one end of the line of powder. ‘There is no danger whatso—’

There was a sharp pop and a shower of white sparks. The Adeptus Chemical leaped back, nearly blundering into Glokta and dropping his lighted taper on the floor. There was another pop, louder, more sparks. A foul-smelling smoke began to fill the laboratory. There was a bright flash and a loud bang, a weak fizzling, and that was all.

Saurizin flapped the long sleeve of his gown in front of his face, trying to clear the thick smoke that had now thrown the whole chamber into gloom. ‘Impressive, eh, Inquisitor?’ he asked, before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

Not really. Glokta ground the still-flaming taper out under his boot and stepped through the murk towards the bench. He brushed aside a quantity of grey ash with the side of his hand. There was a long, black burn on the surface of the wood, but nothing more. The foul-smelling fumes were indeed the most impressive effect, already clawing at the back of Glokta’s throat. ‘It certainly produces a great deal of smoke,’ he croaked.

‘It does,’ coughed the Adeptus proudly, ‘and reeks to high heaven.’

Glokta stared at that blackened smear on the bench. ‘If one had a large enough quantity of this powder, could it be used to, say, knock a hole through a wall?’

‘Possibly . . . if one could accumulate a large enough quantity, who knows what could be done? As far as I know no one has ever tried.’

‘A wall, say, four feet thick?’

The Adeptus frowned. ‘Perhaps, but you’d need barrels of the stuff! Barrels! There isn’t that much in the whole Union, and the cost, even if it could be found, would be colossal! Please understand, Inquisitor, that the components must be imported from the distant south of Kanta, and are rarities even there. I would be happy to look into the possibility, of course, but I would need considerable funding—’

‘Thank you again for your time.’ Glokta turned and began to limp through the thinning smoke towards the door.

‘I have made some significant progress with acids recently!’ cried the Adeptus, voice cracking. ‘You really should see those as well!’ He took a shuddering breath. ‘Tell the Arch Lector . . . significant progress!’ He dissolved into another fit of coughing, and Glokta shut the door tightly behind him.

Silber was lurking in the hallway outside. ‘Is there anything else that we can show you, Inquisitor?’

Glokta paused for a moment. ‘Does anyone here know anything about magic?’

The Administrator’s jaw muscles clenched. ‘A joke of course. Perhaps—’

‘Magic, I said.’

Silber narrowed his eyes. ‘You must understand that we are a scientific institution. The practice of magic, so called, would be most . . . inappropriate.’

Glokta frowned at the man. I’m not asking you to get your wand out, fool. ‘From a historical standpoint,’ he snapped, ‘the Magi, and so on. Bayaz!’

‘Ah, from a historical standpoint, I see.’ Silber’s taut face relaxed slightly. ‘Our library contains a wide range of ancient texts, some of them dating back to the period when magic was considered . . . less remarkable.’

‘Who can assist me?’

The Administrator raised his brows. ‘I am afraid that the Adeptus Historical is, ah, something of a relic.’

‘I need to speak with him, not fence with him.’

‘Of course, Inquisitor, this way.’

Glokta grabbed the handle of an ancient-looking door, studded with black rivets, began to turn it. He felt Silber seize his arm.

‘No!’ he snapped, guiding Glokta away down a corridor beside. ‘The stacks are down here.’

‘Visitors, is it?’ croaked the old man, apparently talking to a large black crow perched on his desk.

‘This is Inquisitor Glokta!’ bellowed the Administrator, leaning down towards the old man’s ear.

‘Glokta?’

‘From the Arch Lector!’

‘Is it?’ The Adeptus Historical squinted up with his ancient eyes.

‘He’s somewhat deaf,’ Silber murmured, ‘but no one knows these books like he does.’ He thought about it for a moment, peering round at the endless stacks, disappearing into the gloom. ‘No one else knows these books at all.’

‘Thank you,’ said Glokta. The Administrator nodded and strode off towards the stairs. Glokta took a step towards the old man and the crow leaped from the table and scrambled into the air, shedding feathers, flapping madly around the ceiling. Glokta hobbled painfully back. I was sure the damn thing was stuffed. He watched it suspiciously until it clattered to a halt on top of one of the shelves and perched there motionless, staring at him with its beady yellow eyes.

Glokta pulled out a chair and dropped into it. ‘I need to know about Bayaz.’

‘Bayaz,’ muttered the ancient Adeptus. ‘The first letter in the alphabet of the old tongue, of course.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘The world’s brimming full of what you don’t know, young man.’ The bird gave a sudden harsh caw, horribly loud in the dusty silence of the stacks. ‘Brimming full.’

‘Then let’s begin my education. It’s the man Bayaz, I need to know about. The First of the Magi.’

‘Bayaz. The name great Juvens gave to his first apprentice. One letter, one name. First apprentice, first letter of the alphabet, you understand?’

‘I’m just about keeping up. Did he really exist?’

The ancient Adeptus scowled. ‘Unquestionably. Did you not have a tutor as a young man?’

‘I did, unfortunately.’

‘Did he not teach you history?’

‘He tried, but my mind was on fencing and girls.’

‘Ah. I lost interest in such things a long time ago.’

‘So did I. Let us return to Bayaz.’

The old man sighed. ‘Long ago, before there was a Union, Midderland was made of many petty kingdoms, often at war with one another, rising and falling with the passing years. One of these was ruled by a man called Harod, later to become Harod the Great. You’ve heard of him, I assume?’

‘Of course.’

‘Bayaz came to Harod’s throne room, and promised to make him King of all Midderland if he did as he was told. Harod, being young and headstrong, did not believe him, but Bayaz broke the long table with his Art.’

‘Magic, eh?’

‘So the story goes. Harod was impressed—’

‘Understandable.’

‘—and he agreed to accept the advice of the Magus—’

‘Which was?’

‘To make his capital here, in Adua. To make peace with certain neighbours, war with others, and when and how to do it.’ The old man squinted across at Glokta. ‘Are you telling this story or am I?’

‘You are.’ And you’re taking your time about it.

‘Bayaz was good as his word. In time Midderland was unified, Harod became its first High King, the Union was born.’

‘Then what?’

‘Bayaz served as Harod’s chief counsellor. Our laws and statutes, the very structure of our government, all are said to be his inventions, little changed since those ancient days. He established the Councils, Closed and Open, he formed the Inquisition. On Harod’s death he left the Union, promising one day to return.’

‘I see. How much of this is true, do you think?’

‘Hard to say. Magus? Wizard? Magician?’ The old man looked at the flickering candle flame. ‘To a savage, that candle might be magic. It’s a fine line indeed, between magic and trickery, eh? But this Bayaz was a cunning mind in his day, that’s a fact.’

This is all useless. ‘What about before?’

‘Before what?’

‘Before the Union. Before Harod.’

The old man shrugged. ‘Record-keeping was hardly a priority during the dark ages. The whole world was in chaos after the war between Juvens and his brother Kanedias—’

‘Kanedias? The Master Maker?’

‘Aye.’

‘Kanedias,’ murmured Glokta, the image of that dark figure with the flames behind clear in his mind. ‘The Master Maker. Was he real?’

‘Hard to say. He’s in the ground between myth and history, I suppose. Probably there’s some grain of truth in it. Someone must have built that big bloody tower, eh?’

‘Tower?’

‘The House of the Maker!’ The old man gestured at the room around them. ‘And they say he built all this as well.’

‘What, this library?’

The old man laughed. ‘The whole Agriont, or at least the rock on which it stands. The University too. He built it, appointed the first Adepti to help him with his works, whatever they were, to look into the nature of things. We here are the Maker’s disciples, yes, though I doubt they know it upstairs. He is gone but the work continues, eh?’

‘After a fashion. Where did he go?’

‘Hah. Dead. Your friend Bayaz killed him.’

Glokta raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he really?’

‘So the story goes. Have you not read The Fall of the Master Maker?’

‘That rubbish? I thought it was all invention.’

‘So it is. Sensational claptrap, but based on writings from the time.’

‘Writings? Such things survive?’

The old man narrowed his eyes. ‘Some.’

‘Some? You have them here?’

‘One in particular.’

Glokta fixed the old man with his eye. ‘Bring it to me.’

‘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.

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 Maker’s 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.’