Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

“Well,” and Jezal was relieved to see one corner of Ardee’s mouth curl up in a sly smile, “he is at that. Shall we walk?” She slipped her hand through his arm before he had the chance to answer, and started to lead him off towards the Kingsway. Jezal allowed himself to be guided between the frightened, the angry, the excited people.

“So is it true?” she asked.

“Is what true?”

“That the Mercers are finished?”

“So it seems. Your old friend Sand dan Glokta was in the thick of it. He gave quite the performance, for a cripple.”

Ardee looked down at the floor. “You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, crippled or no.”

“No.” Jezal’s mind went back to Salem Rews’ terrified eyes, staring desperately at him as he vanished into the darkness of the archway. “No, you wouldn’t.”

A silence descended on them as they strolled down the avenue, but it was a comfortable one. He liked walking with her. It no longer seemed important whether anyone apologised. Perhaps she had been right about the fencing anyway, just a little. Ardee seemed to read his thoughts. “How’s the swordplay going?” she asked.

“Not bad. How’s the drinking going?”

She raised a dark eyebrow. “Excellent well. If only there was a Contest for that every year, I’d soon come to the attention of the public.” Jezal laughed, looking down at her as she walked beside him, and she smiled back. So clever, so sharp, so fearless. So damn fine looking. Jezal wondered if there had ever been a woman quite like her. If only she had the right blood, he thought to himself, and some money. A lot of money.

“Open the door, in the name of His Majesty!” thundered Lieutenant Jalenhorm for the third time, hammering at the wood with his meaty fist. The great oaf. Why do big men tend to have such little brains? Perhaps they get by on brawn too often, and their minds dry up like plums in the sun.

The Mercers’ Guildhall was an impressive building in a busy square not far from the Agriont. A substantial crowd of onlookers had already gathered around Glokta and his armed escort: curious, fearful, fascinated, growing all the time. They can smell blood, it seems. Glokta’s leg was throbbing from the effort of hurrying down here, but he doubted that the Mercers would be taken entirely by surprise. He glanced round impatiently at the armoured guardsmen, at the masked Practicals, at the hard eyes of Frost, at the young officer beating on the door.

“Open the—”

Enough of this foolishness. “I think they heard you, Lieutenant,” said Glokta crisply, “but are choosing not to answer. Would you be so kind as to break the door down?”

“What?” Jalenhorm gawped at him, and then at the heavy double doors, firmly secured. “How will I—”

Practical Frost hurtled past. There was a deafening crack and a tearing of wood as he crashed into one of the doors with his burly shoulder, tearing it off its hinges and sending it crashing onto the floor of the room beyond.

“Like so,” muttered Glokta as he stepped through the archway, the splinters still settling. Jalenhorm followed him, looking dazed, a dozen armoured soldiers clattering behind.

An outraged clerk blocked the corridor beyond. “You can’t just—oof!” he cried, as Frost flung him out of the way and his face crunched into the wall.

“Arrest that man!” shouted Glokta, waving his cane at the dumbstruck clerk. One of the soldiers grabbed him roughly with gauntleted fists and shoved him tumbling out into the daylight. Practicals began to pour through the broken doors, heavy sticks in their hands, eyes fierce above their masks. “Arrest everyone!” shouted Glokta over his shoulder, limping down the corridor as fast as he could, following Frost’s broad back into the bowels of the building.

Through an open door Glokta saw a merchant in colourful robes, face covered with a sheen of sweat as he desperately heaped documents onto a blazing fire. “Seize him!” screamed Glokta. A pair of Practicals leaped past into the room and began clubbing the man with their sticks. He fell with a cry, upsetting a table and kicking over a pile of ledgers. Loose papers and bits of burning ash fluttered through the air as the sticks rose and fell.

Glokta hurried on, crashes and cries spreading out into the building around him. The place was full of the smell of smoke, and sweat, and fear. The doors are all guarded, but Kault might have a secret means of escape. He’s a slippery one. We must hope we are not too late. Curse this leg of mine! Not too late…

Glokta gasped and winced in pain, tottering as someone clutched at his coat. “Help me!” shrieked the man, “I am innocent!” Blood on a plump face. Fingers clutched at Glokta’s clothes, threatening to drag him to the floor.

“Get him off me!” shouted Glokta, beating at him weakly with his cane, clawing at the wall in his efforts to stay upright. One of the Practicals leaped forward and clubbed the man across the back.

“I confess!” the merchant whimpered as the stick rose again, then it cracked down on his head. The Practical caught hold of his slumping body under the arms and dragged him back towards the door. Glokta hurried on, Lieutenant Jalenhorm wide-eyed at his shoulder. They reached a broad staircase, and Glokta eyed it with hatred. My old enemies, always here ahead of me. He laboured up as best he could, waving Practical Frost forward with his free hand. A baffled merchant was dragged past them and away, squawking something about his rights, heels kicking against the stairs.

Glokta slipped and nearly fell on his face, but someone caught him by the elbow and kept him upright. It was Jalenhorm, a look of confusion still splattered across his heavy, honest face. So big men have their uses after all. The young officer helped him up the rest of the steps. Glokta did not have the energy to refuse him. Why bother? A man should know his limitations. There’s nothing noble in falling on your face. I should know that.

There was a large ante-chamber at the top of the stairs, richly decorated with a thick carpet and colourful hangings on the walls. Two guards stood before a large door with their swords drawn, dressed in the livery of the Guild of Mercers. Frost was facing them, hands rolled into white fists. Jalenhorm pulled out his own sword as he reached the landing, stepping forward to stand next to the albino. Glokta had to smile. The tongueless torturer and the flower of chivalry. An unlikely alliance.

“I have a warrant for Kault, signed by the King himself.” Glokta held out the paper so the guards could see it. “The Mercers are finished. You have nothing to gain by getting in our way. Put up your swords! You have my word, you will not be harmed!”

The two guards glanced at each other uncertainly. “Put them up!” shouted Jalenhorm, edging a little closer.

“Alright!” One of the men bent down and slid his sword along the boards. Frost caught it under one foot.

“And you!” shouted Glokta to the other one. “Now!” The guard obeyed, throwing his sword to the floor and putting up his hands. A moment later Frost’s fist crunched into the point of his jaw, knocking him cold and sending him crashing into the wall.

“But—” shouted the first guard. Frost grabbed him by the shirt and flung him down the stairs. He turned over and over, banging on the steps, flopping to the bottom, lying still. I know what that feels like.

Jalenhorm was standing motionless and blinking, his sword still raised. “I thought you said—”

“Never mind about that. Frost, look for another way in.”

“Thhh.” The albino padded away down the corridor. Glokta gave him a moment, then he edged forward and tried the door. The handle turned, much to his surprise, and the door swung open.