The Blade Itself

Is he very stupid or very clever? Is he to be ignored, or feared? Is he the servant, or the master? There were no answers to any of it. Yet.

“Show us magic, Bayaz, or show us the key!”

Bayaz was starting to sound angry. “I have supplied you with all the proofs you’ve asked for, Arch Lector!”

“This really is an excellent soup,” he said, slurping noisily from his spoon.

Perhaps the vengeance could wait, at least until he had a bigger blade to work with. You have to be realistic, after all.

Home. That was where his family was. His father—wise and strong, a good man, a good leader to his people. His wife, his children. They were a good family. They deserved a better son, a better husband, a better father. His friends were there too. Old and new together. It would be good to see them all again, very good. To speak to his father in the long hall. To play with his children, to sit with his wife by the river. To talk of tactics with Threetrees. To hunt with the Dogman in the high valleys, crashing through the forest with a spear, laughing like a fool.

How could a man whose business has been concealment find it impossible to hide his emotions in this room? But Glokta knew how. It’s hard to stay calm when you’re terrified, helpless, alone, at the mercy of men with no mercy at all. Who could know that better than me?

If Glokta had been given the opportunity to torture any one man, any one at all, he would surely have chosen the inventor of steps. When he was young and widely admired, before his misfortunes, he had never really noticed them. He had sprung down them two at a time and gone blithely on his way. No more. They’re everywhere. You really can’t change floors without them. And down is worse than up, that’s the thing people never realise. Going up, you usually don’t fall that far.

Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than to live with the fear of it.

The Magi searched high and low for the Seed, but could not find it.'