Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie

Questions
    Why do I do
this? Inquisitor Glokta asked himself for the thousandth time as
he limped down the corridor. The walls were rendered and whitewashed,
though none too recently. There was a seedy feel to the place and a
smell of damp. There were no windows, as the hallway was deep beneath
the ground, and the lanterns cast slow flowing shadows into every
corner.
    Why would
anyone want to do this? Glokta’s walking made a steady
rhythm on the grimy tiles of the floor. First the confident click of
his right heel, then the tap of his cane, then the endless sliding of
his left foot, with the familiar stabbing pains in the ankle, knee,
arse and back. Click, tap, pain. That was the rhythm of his walking.
    The dirty
monotony of the corridor was broken from time to time by a heavy
door, bound and studded with pitted iron. On one occasion, Glokta
thought he heard a muffled cry of pain from behind one. I wonder
what poor fool is being questioned in there? What crime they are
guilty, or innocent of? What secrets are being picked at, what lies
cut through, what treasons laid bare? He didn’t wonder long
though. He was interrupted by the steps.
    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.
    He knew this
flight well. Sixteen steps, cut from smooth stone, a little worn
toward the centre, slightly damp, like everything down here. There
was no banister, nothing to cling to. Sixteen enemies. A challenge
indeed. It had taken Glokta a long time to develop the least
painful method of descending stairs. He went sideways like a crab.
Cane first, then left foot, then right, with more than the usual
agony as his left leg took his weight, joined by a persistent
stabbing in the neck. Why should it hurt in my neck when I go down
stairs? Does my neck take my weight? Does it? Yet the pain could
not be denied.
    Glokta paused
four steps from the bottom. He had nearly beaten them. His hand was
trembling on the handle of his cane, his left leg aching like fury.
He tongued his gums where his front teeth used to be, took a deep
breath and stepped forward. His ankle gave way with a horrifying
wrench and he plunged into space, twisting, lurching, his mind a
cauldron of horror and despair. He stumbled onto the next step like a
drunkard, fingernails scratching at the smooth wall, giving a squeal
of terror. You stupid, stupid bastard! His cane clattered to
the floor, his clumsy feet wrestled with the stones and he found
himself at the bottom, by some miracle still standing.
    And here it
is. That horrible, beautiful, stretched out moment between stubbing
your toe and feeling the hurt. How long do I have before the pain
comes? How bad will it be when it does? Gasping, slack-jawed at
the foot of the steps, Glokta felt a tingling of anticipation. Here
it comes…
    The agony was
unspeakable, a searing spasm up his left side from foot to jaw. He
squeezed his watering eyes tight shut, clamped his right hand over
his mouth so hard that the knuckles clicked. His remaining teeth
grated against each other as he locked his jaws together, but a
high-pitched, jagged moan still whistled from him. Am I screaming
or laughing? How do I tell the difference? He breathed in heaving
gasps, through his nose, snot bubbling out onto his hand, his twisted
body shaking with the effort of staying upright.
    The spasm
passed. Glokta moved his limbs cautiously, one by one, testing the
damage. His leg was on fire, his foot numb, his neck clicked with
every movement, sending vicious little stings down his spine. Pretty
good,