The Blade Itself

never heal. He was Ninefingers still, the
Bloody-Nine, and always would be. Unless he lost any more fingers. He
did smell better though, that had to be admitted.
    â€œDid you
sleep well, Master Ninefingers?â€

A Road Between Two Dentists
    Past midnight,
and it was dark in the Middleway. Dark and it smelled bad. It always
smelled bad down by the docks: old salt water, rotten fish, tar and
sweat and horse shit. In a few hours time this street would be
thronging with noise and activity. Tradesmen shouting, labourers
cursing under their loads, merchants hurrying to and fro, a hundred
carts and wagons rumbling over the dirty cobbles. There would be an
endless tide of people, thronging off the ships and thronging on,
people from every part of the world, words shouted in every language
under the sun. But at night it was still. Still and silent. Silent
as the grave, and even worse smelling.
    â€œIt’s
down here,â€

Flatheads
    Grey morning
time, out in the cold, wet woods, and the Dogman was just sat there,
thinking about how things used to be better. Sat there, minding the
spit, turning it round every once in a while and trying not to get
too nervous with the waiting. Tul Duru wasn’t helping any with
that. He was striding up and down the grass, round the old stones and
back, wearing his great boots out, about as patient as a wolf on
heat. Dogman watched him stomping—clomp, clomp, clomp. He’d
learned a long time ago that great fighters are only good for one
thing. Fighting. At pretty much everything else, and at waiting in
particular, they’re fucking useless.
    â€œWhy don’t
you sit yourself down, Tul?â€

The Course of True Love
    Jezal trudged
miserably across the grey Agriont with his fencing steels in his
hand: yawning, stumbling, grumbling, still horribly sore from his
endless run the day before. He hardly saw anyone as he dragged
himself to his daily bullying from Lord Marshal Varuz. Apart from the
odd premature tweeting of some bird in amongst the gables and the
tired scraping of his own reluctant boots, all was quiet. No one was
up at this time. No one should be up at this time. Him least of all.
    He hauled his
aching legs through the archway and up the tunnel. The sun was barely
above the horizon and the courtyard beyond was full of deep shadows.
Squinting into the darkness he could see Varuz sat at the table,
waiting for him. Damn it. He had hoped to be early for once. Did the
old bastard sleep at all?
    â€œLord
Marshal!â€

How Dogs are Trained
    Practical Frost
stood by the wall, utterly motionless, utterly silent, barely visible
in the deep shadows, a part of the building. The albino hadn’t
moved an inch in an hour or more, hadn’t shifted his feet,
hadn’t blinked, hadn’t breathed that Glokta had noticed,
his eyes fixed on the street before them.
    Glokta himself
cursed, shifted uncomfortably, winced, scratched his face, sucked at
his empty gums. What’s keeping them? A few minutes more and
I might fall asleep, drop into that stinking canal and drown. How
very apt that would be. He watched the oily, smelly water below
him flap and ripple. Body found floating by the docks, bloated by
seawater and far, far beyond recognition…
    Frost touched
his arm in the darkness, pointed down the street with a big white
finger. Three men were moving slowly toward them, walking with the
slightly bow-legged stance of men who spend a lot of time aboard
ship, keeping their balance on a swaying deck. So that’s one
half of our little party. Better late than never. The three
sailors came halfway across the bridge over the canal then stopped
and waited, no more than twenty strides away. Glokta could hear the
tone of their conversation: brash, confident, common accents. He
shuffled slightly further into the shadows clinging to the building.
    Now footsteps
came from the opposite direction, hurried footsteps. Two more men
appeared, walking quickly down the street. One, a very tall, thin
fellow in an expensive-looking fur coat was glancing suspiciously
around him. That must be Gofred Hornlach, senior Mercer. Our man. His companion had a sword at his hip, and was struggling with a big
wooden trunk over one shoulder. Servant, or bodyguard, or both. He
is of no interest. Glokta felt the hairs on the back of his neck
prickling as they neared the bridge. Hornlach exchanged a few quick
words with one of the sailors, a man with a big brown