Old Friends

There was a thumping knock at the door, and Glokta jerked his head up, left eye suddenly twitching. Who the hell comes knocking at this hour? Frost? Severard? Or someone else? Superior Goyle, maybe, come to pay me a visit with his circus freaks? Might the Arch Lector have grown tired of his toy cripple already? One could hardly say the feast went according to plan, and his Eminence is hardly the forgiving type. Body found floating by the docks…

The knocking came again. Loud, confident knocking. The kind that demands the door be opened, before it’s broken down. “I’m coming!” he shouted, voice cracking slightly as he prised himself out from behind his table, legs wobbly. “I’m just coming!” He snatched up his cane and limped to the front door, took a deep breath and fumbled with the latch.

It was not Frost, or Severard. Nor was it Goyle, or one of his freakish Practicals. It was someone much more unexpected. Glokta raised an eyebrow, then leaned against the door frame. “Major West, what a surprise.”

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. “Inquisitor Glokta,” mumbled West—hesitant, awkward, embarrassed. “I’m sorry to bother you so late.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Glokta with icy formality.

The Major nearly winced. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Glokta shut the front door behind him, then limped after West into his dining room. The Major squeezed himself into one of the chairs and Glokta took another. They sat there facing each other for a moment, without speaking. What the hell does he want, at this hour or any other? Glokta scrutinised his old friend’s face in the glow from the fire and the one, flickering candle. Now that he could see him more clearly, he realised West had changed. He looks old. His hair was thinning at the temples, going grey round his ears. His face was pale, pinched, slightly hollow. He looks worried. Ground down. Close to the edge. West looked round at the mean room, the mean fire, the mean furniture, cautiously up at Glokta, then quickly down at the floor. Nervous, as if he had something picking at his mind. He looks ill at ease. As well he might.

He did not seem ready to break the silence, so Glokta did it for him. “So, how long has it been, eh? Apart from that night in town, and we can hardly count that, can we?”

The memory of that unfortunate meeting hung between them for a moment like a fart, then West cleared his throat. “Nine years.”

“Nine years. Imagine that. Since we stood on the ridge, old friends together, looking down towards the river. Down towards the bridge and all those Gurkish on the other side. Seems a lifetime ago, doesn’t it? Nine years. I can remember you pleading with me not to go down there, but I was having none of it. What a fool I was, eh? Thought I was our only hope. Thought I was invincible.”

“You saved us all that day, saved the whole army.”

“Did I? How wonderful. I daresay if I’d died on that bridge there’d be statues of me all over the place. Shame I didn’t, really. Shame for everyone.”

West winced and shifted in his chair, looking ever more uncomfortable. “I looked for you, afterwards…” he mumbled.

You looked for me? How hugely fucking noble. What a true friend. Precious little good it did me, dragged off in agony with my leg hacked to mincemeat. And that was just the beginning. “You did not come to discuss old times, West.”

“No… no, I didn’t. I came about my sister.”

Glokta paused. He had certainly not expected that answer. “Ardee?”

“Ardee, yes. I’m leaving for Angland soon and… I was hoping that, perhaps, you could keep an eye on her for me, while I’m away.” West’s eyes flickered up nervously. “You always had a way with women… Sand.” Glokta grimaced at the sound of his first name. No one called him that anymore. No one besides my mother. “You always knew just what to say. Do you remember those three sisters? What were their names? You had them all eating out of your hand.” West smiled, but Glokta couldn’t.

He remembered, but the memories were weak now, colourless, faded. The memories of another man. A dead man. My life began in Gurkhul, in the Emperor’s prisons. The memories since then are much more real. Stretched out in bed like a corpse after I came back, in the darkness, waiting for friends who never came. He looked at West, and he knew that his glance was terribly cold. Do you think to win me with your honest face and your talk of old times? Like a long-lost dog, at last come faithfully home? I know better. You stink, West. You smell like betrayal. That memory at least is mine.

Glokta leaned back slowly in his chair. “Sand dan Glokta,” he murmured, as though recalling a name he once knew. “Whatever became of him, eh, West? You know, that friend of yours, that dashing young man, handsome, proud, fearless? Magic touch with the women? Loved and respected by all, destined for great things? Wherever did he go?”

West looked back, puzzled and unsure of himself, and said nothing.

Glokta lurched towards him, hands spread out on the table, lips curling back to show his ruined mouth. “Dead! He died on the bridge! And what remains? A fucking ruin with his name! A limping, skulking shadow! A crippled ghost, clinging to life the way the smell of piss clings to a beggar. He has no friends, this loathsome fucking remnant, and he wants none! Get you gone, West! Go back to Varuz, and to Luthar, and the rest of those empty bastards! There’s no one here you know!” Glokta’s lips trembled and spat with revulsion. He wasn’t sure who disgusted him more—West, or himself.

The Major blinked, his jaw muscles working silently. He got shakily to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said, over his shoulder.

“Tell me!” shouted Glokta, bringing him up short of the door. “The rest of them, they stuck to me so long as I was useful, so long as I was going up. I always knew it. I wasn’t so very surprised they wanted nothing to do with me when I came back. But you, West, I always thought you were a better friend than that, a better man. I always thought that you at least—you alone—would come to visit me.” He shrugged. “I suppose I was wrong.” Glokta turned away, frowning towards the fire, waiting for the sound of the front door closing.

“She didn’t tell you?”

Glokta looked back. “Who?”

“Your mother.”

He snorted. “My mother? Tell me what?”

“I did come. Twice. As soon as I learned that you were back, I came. Your mother turned me away at the gates of your estate. She said that you were too ill to take visitors, and that in any case you wanted nothing more to do with the army, and nothing more to do with me in particular. I came back again, a few months later. I thought I owed you that much. That time a servant came to see me off. Later I heard that you had joined the Inquisition, and left for Angland. I put you out of my mind… until we met… that night in the city…” West trailed off.

It took a while for his words to sink in, and by the time they had, Glokta realised that his mouth was hanging open. So simple. No conspiracy. No web of betrayal. He almost wanted to laugh at the stupidity of it. My mother turned him away at the gate, and I never thought to doubt that no one came. She always hated West. A most unsuitable friend, far beneath her precious son. No doubt she blamed him for what happened to me. I should have guessed, but I was too busy wallowing in pain and bitterness. Too busy being tragic. He swallowed. “You came?”

West shrugged. “For what it’s worth.”

Well. What can we do, except try to do better? Glokta blinked, and took a deep breath. “Tm, er… I’m sorry. Forget what I said, if you can. Please. Sit down. You were saying something about your sister.”