Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

Bayaz breathed a long, slow breath. “A most terrible one, my friend. A weapon against which no steel, no stone, no magic can protect you. Do not even tread near it, I warn you. There are dangers. The Divider, Kanedias called it, and with it he killed his brother Juvens, my master. He once told me it has two edges. One here, one on the Other Side.”

“What the hell does that mean?” muttered Logen. He couldn’t even see one edge you could cut with.

Bayaz shrugged. “If I knew that I suppose that I’d be the Master Maker, instead of merely the First of the Magi.” He reached forward and lifted the box, wincing as though it was a great weight. “Could you help me with this?”

Logen hooked his hands under it, and gasped. It could hardly have weighed more if it was a block of solid iron. “Heavy,” he grunted.

“Kanedias forged it to be strong. As strong as all his great skill could make it. Not to keep its contents safe from the World.” He leaned close and spoke softly. “To keep the World safe from its contents.”

Logen frowned down. “What’s in it?”

“Nothing,” muttered Bayaz. “Yet.”

Jezal was trying to think of three men in the world he hated more. Brint? He was simply a swollen-headed idiot. Gorst? He had merely done his meagre best to beat Jezal in a fencing match. Varuz? He was just a pompous old ass.

No. These three were at the top of his list. The arrogant old man with his idiotic prattle and his self-important air of mystery. The hulking savage with his ugly scars and his menacing frown. The patronising cripple with his smug little comments and his pretensions of knowing all about life. The three of them, combined with the stagnant air and perpetual gloom of this horrible place, were almost enough to make Jezal puke again. The only thing he could imagine worse than his present company was no company at all. He looked into the shadows all around, and shuddered at the thought.

Still, his spirits rose as they turned a corner. There was a small square of daylight up ahead. He hurried towards it, overtaking Glokta as he shambled along on his cane, mouth watering with anticipation at the thought of being back out under the sky.

Jezal closed his eyes with pleasure as he stepped into the open air. The cold wind stroked his face and he gasped in great lungfulls of it. The relief was terrific, as though he had been trapped down there in the darkness for weeks, as though fingers clamped around his throat had just now been released. He walked forward across a wide, open space, paved with stark, flat stones. Ninefingers and Bayaz stood side by side up ahead, behind a parapet, waist high, and beyond them…

The Agriont came into view below. A patchwork of white walls, grey roofs, glinting windows, green gardens. They were nowhere near the summit of the Maker’s House, only on one of the lowest roofs, above the gate, but still terrifyingly high. Jezal recognised the crumbling University, the shining dome of the Lord’s Round, the squat mass of the House of Questions. He could see the Square of Marshals, a bowl of wooden seating in amongst the buildings, perhaps even the tiny yellow flash of the fencing circle in its centre. Beyond the citadel, surrounded by its white wall and twinkling moat, the city was a sprawling grey mass under the dirty grey sky, stretching all the way to the sea.

Jezal laughed with disbelief and delight. The Tower of Chains was a step ladder compared to this. He was so high above the world that all seemed somehow still, frozen in time. He felt like a king. No man had seen this, not for hundreds of years. He was huge, grand, far more important than the tiny people that must live and work in the little buildings down there. He turned to look at Glokta, but the cripple was not smiling. He was even paler than ever, frowning at the toy city, his left eye twitching with worry.

“Scared of heights?” laughed Jezal.

Glokta turned his ashen face toward him. “There were no steps. We climbed no steps to get here!” Jezal’s grin began to fade. “No steps, do you understand? How could it be? How? Tell me that!”

Jezal swallowed as he thought over the way they had come. The cripple was right. No steps, no ramps, they had gone neither up nor down. Yet here they were, far above the tallest tower of the Agriont. He felt sick, again. The view now seemed dizzying, disgusting, obscene. He backed unsteadily away from the parapet. He wanted to go home.

“I followed him through the darkness, alone, and here I faced him. Kanedias. The Master Maker. Here we fought. Fire, and steel, and flesh. Here we stood. He threw Tolomei from the roof before my eyes. I saw it happen, but I could not stop him. His own daughter. Can you imagine? No one could have deserved that less than she. There never was a more innocent spirit.” Logen frowned. He hardly knew what to say to this.

“Here we struggled,” muttered Bayaz, his meaty fists clenched tight on the bare parapet. “I tore at him, with fire and steel, and flesh, and he at me. I cast him down. He fell burning, and broke upon the bridge below. And so the last of the sons of Euz passed from the world, so many of their secrets lost forever. They destroyed each other, all four of them. What a waste.”

Bayaz turned to look at Logen. “But that was a long time ago, eh, my friend? Long ago.” He puffed out his cheeks and hunched his shoulders. “Let us leave this place. It feels like a tomb. It is a tomb. Let us seal it up once more, and the memories with it. That is all in the past.”

“Huh,” said Logen. “My father used to say the seeds of the past bear fruit in the present.”

“So they do.” Bayaz reached out slowly, and his fingers brushed against the cold, dark metal of the box in Logen’s hands. “So they do. Your father was a wise man.”

Glokta’s leg was burning, his twisted spine was a river of fire from his arse to his skull. His mouth was dry as sawdust, his face sweaty and twitching, the breath hissing in his nose, but he pressed on through the darkness, away from the vast hall with its black orb and its strange contraption, on towards the open door. And into the light.

He stood there with his head tipped back, on the narrow bridge before the narrow gateway, his hand trembling on the handle of his cane, blinking and rubbing his eyes, gasping in the free air and feeling the cool breeze on his face. Who would have thought that wind could feel so fine? Maybe it’s just as well there weren’t any steps. I might never have made it out.

Luthar was already halfway back across the bridge, hurrying as though he had a devil a stride behind. Ninefingers was not far away, breathing hard and muttering something in Northern over and over. “Still alive,” Glokta thought it might be. His big hands were clenched tight around that square metal box, tendons standing out as though it weighed as much as an anvil. There was more to this trip than just proving a point. What is it that they brought out from there? What weighs so heavily? He glanced back into the darkness, and shivered. He was not sure he even wanted to know.

Bayaz strolled out of the tunnel and into the open air, looking smug as ever. “So, Inquisitor,” he said breezily. “How did you find your trip into the House of the Maker?”

A twisted, strange and horrible nightmare. I might even have preferred to return to the Emperor’s prisons for a few hours. “Something to do of a morning,” he snapped.

“I’m so glad you found it diverting,” chuckled Bayaz, as he pulled the rod of dark metal out from his shirt. “And tell me, do you still believe that I’m a liar? Or have your suspicions finally been laid to rest?”

Glokta frowned at the key. He frowned at the old man. He frowned into the crushing darkness of the Maker’s House. My suspicions grow with every passing moment. They are never laid to rest. They only change shape. “Honestly? I don’t know what to believe.”