Free The Blade Itself by Joe Abercrombie Page A

considering. He bent down with an effort and snatched up
his cane between two fingers, drew himself up once more, wiped the
snot and tears on the back of his hand. Truly a thrill. Did I
enjoy it? For most people stairs are a mundane affair. For me, an
adventure! He limped off down the corridor, giggling quietly to
himself. He was still smiling ever so faintly when he reached his own
door and shuffled inside.
    A grubby white
box with two doors facing each other. The ceiling was too low for
comfort, the room too brightly lit by blazing lamps. Damp was
creeping out of one corner and the plaster had erupted with flaking
blisters, speckled with black mould. Someone had tried to scrub a
long bloodstain from one wall, but hadn’t tried nearly hard
enough.
    Practical Frost
was standing on the other side of the room, big arms folded across
his big chest. He nodded to Glokta, with all the emotion of a stone,
and Glokta nodded back. Between them stood a scarred, stained wooden
table, bolted to the floor and flanked by two chairs. A naked fat man
sat in one of them, hands tied tightly behind him and with a brown
canvas bag over his head. His quick, muffled breathing was the only
sound. It was cold down here, but he was sweating. As well he
should be.
    Glokta limped
over to the other chair, leaned his cane carefully against the edge
of the table top and slowly, cautiously, painfully sat down. He
stretched his neck to the left and right, then allowed his body to
slump into a position approaching comfort. If Glokta had been given
the opportunity to shake the hand of any one man, any one at all, he
would surely have chosen the inventor of chairs. He has made my
life almost bearable.
    Frost stepped
silently out of the corner and took hold of the loose top of the bag
between meaty, pale finger and heavy, white thumb. Glokta nodded and
the Practical ripped it off, leaving Salem Rews blinking in the harsh
light.
    A mean,
piggy, ugly little face. You mean, ugly pig, Rews. You disgusting
swine. You’re ready to confess right now, I’ll bet, ready
to talk and talk without interruption, until we’re all sick of
it. There was a big dark bruise across his cheek and another on
his jaw above his double chin. As his watering eyes adjusted to the
brightness he recognised Glokta sitting opposite him, and his face
suddenly filled with hope. A sadly, sadly misplaced hope.
    â€œGlokta,
you have to help me!â€

No Choice at All
    Logen 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