My first letter will bear your name.
Then I bid you farewell! Cosca swept off his enormous hat and bowed low. Then, with a knowing grin, he stepped through the doorway, and was gone.
Glokta had moved the Arch Lectors office to a large hall on the ground floor of the House of Questions. Closer to the real business of the Inquisitionthe prisoners. Closer to the questions, and the answers. Closer to the truth. And, of course, the real clincher no stairs.
There were well-tended gardens outside the large windows. The faint sound of a fountain splashing beyond the glass. But inside the room there was none of the ugly paraphernalia of power. The walls were plastered and painted simple white. The furniture was hard and functional. The whetstone of discomfort has kept me sharp this long. No reason to let the edge grow dull, simply because I have run out of enemies. New enemies will present themselves, before too long.
There were some heavy bookcases of dark wood. Several leather-covered desks, already stacked high with documents requiring his attention. Aside from the great round table with its map of the Union and its pair of bloody nail-marks, there was only one item of Sults furniture that Glokta had brought downstairs with him. The dark painting of bald old Zoller glowered down from above the simple fireplace. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain Magus I once knew. It is fitting after all, that we maintain the proper perspective. Every man answers to somebody.
There was a knocking at the door, and the head of Gloktas secretary appeared at the gap. The Lord Marshals have arrived, Arch Lector.
Show them in.
Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were, all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. Collem West was scarcely recognisable. His hair had fallen out in ugly patches. His face was shrunken, had a yellow tinge about it. His uniform hung slack from his bony shoulders, stained around the collar. He shuffled into the room, bent over in an old mans stoop, leaning heavily on a stick. He looked like nothing so much as a walking corpse.
Glokta had expected something of the kind, of course, from what Ardee had told him. But the sick shock of disappointment and horror he felt at the sight still caught him by surprise. Like returning to the happy haunt of ones youth, and finding it all in ruins. Deaths. They happen every day. How many lives have I wrecked with my own hands? What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was. He found himself lurching up from his chair, starting painfully forwards as if to lend some help.
Your Eminence. Wests voice was fragile and jagged as broken glass. He made a weak effort at a smile. Or I suppose I should call you brother.
West Collem it is good to see you. Good, and awful both at once.
A cluster of officers followed West into the room. The wonderfully competent Lieutenant Jalenhorm I remember, of course, but a Major now. And Brint too, made a Captain by his friends swift advancement. Marshal Kroy we know and love from the Closed Council. Congratulations, all, on your advancement. Another man brought up the rear of the party. A lean man with a face horribly burned. But we, of all people, should hardly hold a repulsive disfigurement against him. Each one of them frowned nervously towards West, as though ready to pounce forward if he should slump to the floor. Instead he shuffled to the round table and sagged trembling into the nearest chair.
I should have come to you, said Glokta. I should have come to you far sooner.
West made another effort at a smile, even more bilious than the last. Several of his teeth were missing. Nonsense. I know how busy you are, now. And I am feeling much better today.
Good, good. That is good. Is there anything that I can get you? What could possibly help? Anything at all.
West shook his head. I do not think so. These gentlemen you know, of course. Apart from Sergeant Pike. The burned man nodded to him.
A pleasure. To meet someone even more maimed than myself, always.
I hear happy news, from my sister.
Glokta winced, almost unable to meet his old friends eye. I should have sought your permission, of course. I surely would have, had there been time.
I understand. Wests bright eyes were fixed on his. She has explained it all. It is some kind of comfort to know that shell be well taken care of.
On that you can depend. I will see to it. She will never be hurt again.
Wests gaunt face twisted. Good. Good. He rubbed gently at the side of his face. His fingernails were black, edged with dried blood, as though they were peeling from the flesh beneath. Theres always a price to be paid, eh, Sand? For the things we do?
Glokta felt his eye twitching. It would seem so.
I have lost some of my teeth.
I see that, and can sympathise. Soup, I find I find utterly disgusting.
I am scarcely able to walk.
I sympathise with that also. Your cane will be your best friend. As it will soon be mine, I think.
I am a pitiable shell of what I was.
I truly feel your pain. Truly. Almost more keenly than my own.
West slowly shook his withered head. How can you stand it?
One step at a time, my old friend. Steer clear of stairs where possible, and mirrors, always.
Wise advice. West coughed. An echoing cough, from right down beneath his ribs. He swallowed noisily. I think my time is running out.
Surely not! Gloktas hand reached out for a moment, as if to rest on Wests shrunken shoulder, as if to offer comfort. He jerked it back, awkwardly. It is not suited to the task.
West licked at his empty gums. This is how most of us go, isnt it? No final charge. No moment of glory. We just fall slowly apart.
Glokta would have liked to say something optimistic. But that rubbish comes from other mouths than mine. Younger, prettier mouths, with all their teeth, perhaps. Those who die on the battlefield are in some ways the lucky few. Forever young. Forever glorious.
West nodded, slowly. Heres to the lucky few, then His eyes rolled back, he swayed, then slumped sideways. Jalenhorm was the first forward, catching him before he hit the ground. He flopped in the big mans arms, a long string of thin vomit splattering against the floor.
Back to the palace! snapped Kroy. At once!
Brint hurried to swing the doors open while Jalenhorm and Kroy steered West out of the room, draped between them with his arms over their shoulders. His limp shoes scraped against the floor, his piebald head lolling. Glokta watched them go, standing helpless, his toothless mouth half open, as if to speak. As if to wish his friend good luck, or good health, or a merry afternoon. None of them seem quite to fit the circumstance, however.
The doors clattered shut and Glokta was left staring at them. His eyelid flickered, he felt wet on his cheek. Not tears of compassion, of course. Not tears of grief. I feel nothing, fear nothing, care for nothing. They cut away the parts of me that could weep in the Emperors prisons. This can only be salt water, and nothing more. Merely a broken reflex in a mutilated face. Farewell, brother. Farewell, my only friend. And farewell to the ghost of beautiful Sand dan Glokta, too. Nothing of him remains. All for the best, of course. A man in my position can afford no indulgences.
He took a sharp breath, and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He limped to his desk, sat, composed himself for a moment, assisted by a sudden twinge in his toeless foot. He turned his attention to his documents. Papers of confession, tasks outstanding, all the tedious business of government