The Blade Itself Read Online Free PDF

bit as much at ease as a grandfather with his
favourite grandson, and every bit as boring. “…of
course, the city is so much larger than when I last visited. That
district you call the Three Farms, all teeming bustle and activity. I
remember when that whole borough was three farms! Indeed I do!
And far beyond the city walls!â€

Nobody’s Dog
    â€œWhy me?â€

Each Man Worships Himself
    Ferro stared at
the big pink through narrowed eyes, and he stared back. It had been
going on for a good while now, not all the time, but most of it.
Staring. They were all ugly, these soft white things, but this one
was something special.
    Hideous.
    She knew that
she was scarred, and weathered by sun and wind, worn down by years in
the wilderness, but the pale skin on this one’s face looked
like a shield hard used in battle—chopped, gouged, torn,
dented. It was surprising to see the eyes still alive in a face so
battered, but they were, and they were watching her.
    She had decided
he was dangerous.
    Not just big,
but strong. Brutal strong. Twice her weight maybe, and his thick neck
was all sinew. She could feel the strength coming off him. She
wouldn’t have been surprised if he could lift her with one
hand, but that didn’t worry her too much. He’d have to
get a hold on her first. Big and strong can make a man slow.
    Slow and
dangerous don’t mix.
    Scars didn’t
worry her either. They just meant he’d been in a lot of fights,
they didn’t say whether he’d won. It was other things.
The way he sat—still but not quite relaxed. Ready. Patient. The
way his eyes moved—cunning, careful, from her to the rest of
the room, then back to her. Dark eyes, watching, thoughtful. Weighing
her up. Thick veins on the backs of his hands, but long fingers,
clever fingers, lines of dirt under the nails. One finger missing. A
white stump. She didn’t like any of it. Smelled like danger.
    She wouldn’t
want to fight this one unarmed.
    But she’d
given her knife over to that pink on the bridge. She’d been on
the very point of stabbing him, but at the last moment she’d
changed her mind. Something in his eyes had reminded her of Aruf,
before the Gurkish stuck his head on a spear. Sad and level, as if he
understood her. As if she was a person, and not a thing. At the last
moment, despite herself, she’d given the blade away. Allowed
herself to be led in here.
    Stupid!
    She regretted it
now, bitterly, but she’d fight any way she could, if she had
to. Most people never realise how full the world is of weapons.
Things to throw, or throw enemies on to. Things to break, or use as
clubs. Wound-up cloths to strangle with. Dirt to fling in faces.
Failing that, she’d bite his throat out. She curled her lips
back and showed him her teeth to prove it, but he seemed not to
notice. Just sat there, watching. Silent, still, ugly, and dangerous.
    â€œFucking
pinks,â€

Old Friends
    There was a
thumping knock at the door, and Glokta jerked his head up, left eye
suddenly twitching. Who the hell comes knocking at this hour?
Frost? Severard? Or someone else? Superior Goyle, maybe, come to pay
me a visit with his circus freaks? Might the Arch Lector have grown
tired of his toy cripple already? One could hardly say the feast went
according to plan, and his Eminence is hardly the forgiving type.
Body found floating by the docks…
    The knocking
came again. Loud, confident knocking. The kind that demands the
door be opened, before it’s broken down. “I’m
coming!â€

Back to the Mud
    Carleon weren’t
at all how the Dogman remembered it, but then he tended to remember
it burning. A memory like that stays with you. Roofs falling in,
windows cracking, crowds of fighters everywhere, all drunk on pain
and winning and, well, drink—looting, killing, setting fires,
all the unpleasant rest of it. Women