The Blade Itself Read Online Free PDF Page A

each other
across the table.
    Is this where I beg for mercy? Is this
where I crawl on the ground and kiss your feet? Well, I don’t care enough to
beg and I’m far too stiff to crawl. Your Practicals will have to kill me sitting
down. Cut my throat. Bash my head in. Whatever. As long as they get on with it.
    But Sult was in no rush. The white-gloved hands moved
neatly, precisely, the pages hissed and crackled. ‘We have few men like you in
the Inquisition, Glokta. A nobleman, from an excellent family. A champion
swordsman, a dashing cavalry officer. A man once groomed for the very top.’
Sult looked him up and down as though he could hardly believe it.
    ‘That was before the war, Arch Lector.’
    ‘Obviously. There was much dismay at your capture, and
little hope that you would be returned alive. As the war dragged on and the
months passed, hope diminished to nothing, but when the treaty was signed, you
were among those prisoners returned to the Union.’ He peered at Glokta through
narrowed eyes. ‘Did you talk?’
    Glokta couldn’t help himself, he spluttered with
shrill laughter. It echoed strangely in the cold room. Not a sound you often
heard down here. ‘Did I talk? I talked until my throat was raw. I told them
everything I could think of. I screamed every secret I’d ever heard. I babbled
like a fool. When I ran out of things to tell them I made things up. I pissed
myself and cried like a girl. Everyone does.’
    ‘But not everyone survives. Two years in the Emperor’s
prisons. No one else lasted half that long. The physicians were sure you would
never leave your bed again, but a year later you made your application to the
Inquisition.’ We both know it. We were both there. What do
you want from me, and why not get on with it? I suppose some men just love the
sound of their own voices.
    ‘I was told that you were crippled, that you were
broken, that you could never be mended, that you could never be trusted. But I
was inclined to give you a chance. Some fool wins the Contest every year, and
wars produce many promising soldiers, but your achievement in surviving those
two years was unique. So you were sent to the North, and put in charge of one
of our mines there. What did you make of Angland?’
    A filthy sink of violence and corruption.
A prison where we have made slaves of the innocent and guilty alike in the name
of freedom. A stinking hole where we send those we hate and those we are
ashamed of to die of hunger, and disease, and hard labour. ‘It was cold,’ said Glokta.
    ‘And so were you. You made few friends in Angland. Precious
few among the Inquisition, and none among the exiles.’ He plucked a tattered
letter from among the papers and cast a critical eye over it. ‘Superior Goyle
told me that you were a cold fish, had no blood in you at all. He thought you’d
never amount to anything, that he could make no use of you.’ Goyle. That bastard. That butcher. I’d rather have no blood than
no brains.
    ‘But after three years, production was up. It was
doubled in fact. So you were brought back to Adua, to work under Superior
Kalyne. I thought perhaps you would learn discipline with him, but it seems I
was wrong. You insist on going your own way.’ The Arch Lector frowned up at
him. ‘To be frank, I think that Kalyne is afraid of you. I think they all are.
They don’t like your arrogance, they don’t like your methods, they don’t like
your . . . special insight into our work.’
    ‘And what do you think, Arch Lector?’
    ‘Honestly? I’m not sure I like your methods much
either, and I doubt that your arrogance is entirely deserved. But I like your results.
I like your results very much.’ He slapped the bundle of papers closed and
rested one hand on top of it, leaning across the table towards Glokta. As I might lean towards my prisoners when I ask them to confess. ‘I have a task for you. A task that should make better use of your talents than
chasing around after petty smugglers. A