The Blade Itself Read Online Free PDF Page B

Don’t forget to pack something
warm.’ The door cracked shut behind him. Glokta looked at the list of names in
his hands. Sepp dan Teufel’s sat at the bottom. One name.
On the face of it, just like the others. Teufel. Just one more name. But such a
perilous one.
    Severard was waiting outside in the corridor, smiling
as always. ‘Shall I put the fat man in the canal?’
    ‘No, Severard. Put him in the next boat to Angland.’
    ‘You’re in a merciful mood today, Inquisitor.’
    Glokta snorted. ‘Mercy would be the canal. That swine
won’t last six weeks in the North. Forget him. We have to arrest Sepp dan
Teufel tonight.’
    Severard’s eyebrows rose. ‘Not the Master of the
Mints?’
    ‘None other. On the express orders of his Eminence the
Arch Lector. It seems he’s been taking money from the Mercers.’
    ‘Oh, for shame.’
    ‘We’ll leave as soon as it gets dark. Tell Frost to be
ready.’
    The thin Practical nodded, his long hair swaying.
Glokta turned and hobbled up the corridor, cane tapping on the grimy tiles,
left leg burning.
    Why do I do this? He asked himself again.
    Why do I do this?

No
Choice at All
     
    L ogen woke with a painful jolt. He
was lying awkwardly, head twisted against something hard, knees drawn up towards
his chest. He opened his eyes a bleary crack. It was dark, but there was a
faint glow coming from somewhere. Light through snow.
    Panic stabbed at him. He knew where he was now. He’d
piled some snow in the entrance to the tiny cave, to try and keep in the
warmth, such as it was. It must have snowed while he was sleeping, and sealed
him in. If the fall had been a heavy one there could be a lot of snow out
there. Drifts deeper than a man was tall. He might never get out. He could have
climbed all the way up out of the high valleys just to die in a hole in the
rock, too cramped for him to even stretch out his legs.
    Logen twisted round in the narrow space as best he
could, dug away at the snow with his numb hands, floundering at it, grappling
with it, hacking through it, mouthing breathless curses to himself. Light
spilled in suddenly, searing bright. He shoved the last of the snow out of the
way and dragged himself through into the open air.
    The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun was blazing overhead.
He turned his face towards it, closed his stinging eyes and let the light wash
over him. The air was painful cold in his throat. Cutting cold. His mouth was
dry as dust, his tongue a piece of wood, badly carved. He scooped up snow and
shoved it into his mouth. It melted, he swallowed. Cold, it made his head hurt.
    There was a graveyard stink coming from somewhere. Not
just his own damp and sour sweat smell, though that was bad enough. It was the
blanket, starting to rot. He had two pieces of it wrapped round his hands like
mittens, tied round his wrists with twine, another round his head, like a
dirty, foul-smelling hood. His boots were stuffed tight with it. The rest was
wrapped round and round his body, under his coat. It smelled bad, but it had
saved his life last night, and that was a good trade to Logen’s mind. It would
stink a good deal more before he could afford to get rid of it.
    He floundered to his feet and stared about. A narrow
valley, steep sided and choked with snow. Three great peaks surrounded it,
piles of dark grey stone and white snow against the blue sky. He knew them. Old
friends, in fact. The only ones he had left. He was up in the High Places. The
roof of the world. He was safe.
    ‘Safe,’ he croaked to himself, but without much joy.
Safe from food, certainly. Safe from warmth, without a doubt. Neither of those
things would be troubling him up here. He’d escaped the Shanka, maybe, but this
was a place for the dead, and if he stayed he’d be joining them.
    He was brutal hungry as it was. His belly was a great,
painful hole that called to him with piercing cries. He fumbled in his pack for
the last strip of meat. An old, brown, greasy thing like a dry