Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

The arch opened into a crumbling hall, rotten plaster falling away in sheets, showing the damp bricks beneath. Gloomy doorways passed by on either side. The sort of place that would make a man nervous, if he was prone to nervousness. He might imagine unpleasant things in these chambers, just beyond the lamp light, and horrible acts taking place in the darkness. He looked up at Severard, ambling jauntily along in front, tuneless whistling vaguely audible from behind his mask, and frowned. But we are not prone to nervousness. Perhaps we are the unpleasant things. Perhaps the acts are ours.

“How big is this place?” asked Glokta as he hobbled along.

“Thirty-five rooms, not counting the servant’s quarters.”

“A palace. How the hell did you find it?”

“I used to sleep here, some nights. After my mother died. I found a way in. The roof was still mostly on back then, and it was a dry place to sleep. Dry and safe. More or less.” Ah, what a hard life it’s been. Thug and torturer is a real step up for you, isn’t it? Every man has his excuses, and the more vile the man becomes, the more touching the story has to be. What is my story now, I wonder?

“Ever resourceful, eh, Severard?”

“That’s what you pay me for, Inquisitor.”

They passed into a wide space: a drawing room, a study, a ball-room even, it was big enough. Once beautiful panels were sagging from the walls, covered in mould and flaking gilt paint. Severard moved over to one, still attached, and pushed it firmly at one side. There was a soft click as it swung open, revealing a dark archway beyond. A hidden door? How delightful. How sinister. How very appropriate.

“This place is as full of surprises as you are,” said Glokta, limping painfully towards the opening.

“And you wouldn’t believe the price I got.”

“We bought this?”

“Oh no. I did. With Rews’ money. And now I’m renting it to you.” Severard’s eyes sparkled in the lamplight. “It’s a gold mine!”

“Hah!” laughed Glokta, as he shuffled carefully down the steps. All this, and a head for business too. Perhaps I’ll be working for Arch Lector Severard one of these days. Stranger things have happened. Glokta’s shadow loomed out ahead of him into the darkness as he laboured crab-like down the steps, his right hand feeling out the gaps between the rough stone blocks to lend him some support.

“The cellars go on for miles,” muttered Severard from behind. “We have our own private access to the canals, and to the sewers too, if you’re interested in sewers.” They passed a dark opening on their left, then another on their right, always going slowly downwards. “Frost tells me you can get all the way from here to the Agriont, without once coming up for air.”

“That could be useful.”

“I’d say so, if you can stand the smell.”

Severard’s lamp found a heavy door with a small, barred opening. “Home again,” he said, and gave four quick knocks. A moment later Practical Frost’s masked face loomed abruptly out of the darkness at the little window. “Only us.” The albino’s eyes showed no sign of warmth or recognition. But then they never do. Heavy bolts slid back on the other side of the door, and it swung smoothly open.

There was a table and chair, and fresh torches on the walls, but they were unlit. It must have been pitch black in here until our little lamp arrived. Glokta looked over at the albino. “Have you just been sitting here in the dark?” The hulking Practical shrugged, and Glokta shook his head. “Sometimes I worry about you, Practical Frost, I really do.”

“He’s down here,” said Severard, ambling off down the hall, heels making clicking echoes on the stone flags of the floor. This must once have been a wine cellar: there were several barrel-vaulted chambers leading off to either side, sealed with heavy gratings.

“Glokta!” Salem Rews’ fingers were gripped tightly round the bars, his face pressed up between them.

Glokta stopped in front of the cell and rested his throbbing leg. “Rews, how are you? I hardly expected to see you again so soon.” He had lost weight already, his skin was slack and pale, still marked with fading bruises. He does not look well, not well at all.

“What’s happening, Glokta? Please, why am I here?”

Well, where’s the harm? “It seems the Arch Lector still has a use for you. He wants you to give evidence.” Glokta leaned towards the bars. “Before the Open Council,” he whispered.

Rews grew paler still. “Then what?”

“We’ll see.” Angland, Rews, Angland.

“What if I refuse?”

“Refuse the Arch Lector?” Glokta chuckled. “No, no, no, Rews. You don’t want to do a thing like that.” He turned away and shuffled after Severard.

“For pity’s sake! It’s dark down here!”

“You’ll get used to it!” Glokta called over his shoulder. Amazing, what one can get used to.

The last of the chambers held their latest prisoner. Chained up to a bracket in the wall, naked and bagged of course. He was short and stocky, tending slightly to fat, with fresh grazes on his knees, no doubt from being flung into the rough stone cell.

“So this is our killer, eh?” The man rolled himself up onto his knees when he heard Glokta’s voice, straining forward against his chains. A little blood had soaked through the front of the bag and dried there, making a brown stain on the canvas.

“A very unsavoury character indeed,” said Severard. “Doesn’t look too fearsome now, though, does he?”

“They never do, once they’re brought to this. Where do we work?”

Severard’s eyes smiled even more. “Oh, you’re going to like this, Inquisitor.”

“It’s a touch theatrical,” said Glokta, “but none the worse for that.”

The room was large and circular with a domed ceiling, painted with a curious mural that ran all the way round the curved walls. The body of a man lay on the grass, bleeding from many wounds, with a forest behind him. Eleven other figures walked away, six on one side, five on the other, painted in profile, awkwardly posed, dressed in white but their features indistinct. They faced another man, arms stretched out, all in black and with a sea of colourfully daubed fire behind him. The harsh light from six bright lamps didn’t make the work look any better. Hardly of the highest quality, more decoration than art, but the effect is quite striking, nonetheless.

“No idea what it’s supposed to be,” said Severard.

“The Mather Ma’er,” mumbled Practical Frost.

“Of course,” said Glokta, staring up at the dark figure on the wall, and the flames behind. “You should study your history, Practical Severard. This is the Master Maker, Kanedias.” He turned and pointed to the dying man on the opposite wall. “And this is great Juvens, whom he has killed.” He swept his hand over the figures in white. “And these are Juvens’ apprentices, the Magi, marching to avenge him.” Ghost stories, fit to scare children with.

“What kind of man pays to have shit like this on the walls of his cellar?” asked Severard, shaking his head.

“Oh, this sort of thing was quite popular at one time. There’s a room painted like this in the palace. This is a copy, and a cheap one.” Glokta looked up at the shadowed face of Kanedias, staring grimly down into the room, and the bleeding corpse on the opposite wall. “Still, there’s something quite unsettling about it, isn’t there?” Or there would be, if I gave a damn. “Blood, fire, death, vengeance. No idea why you’d want it in the cellar. Perhaps there was something dark about our friend the merchant.”