Last Argument of Kings (24 page)

“Can you be so naive? Lord Brock is doubtless already plotting against you. Lord Isher will not be put off indefinitely. Others on the Open Council supported you out of fear, or were paid to do so.”

“Paid?” gasped Jezal.

“Such support does not last forever. You must marry, and your wife must bring you powerful allies.”

“But I have…” Jezal licked his lips, uncertain of how to broach the subject. “Some commitments… in that line.”

“Ardee West?” Jezal half opened his mouth to ask Bayaz how he knew so much about his romantic entanglements, but quickly thought better of it. The old man seemed to know far more about him than he did himself, after all. “I know how it is, Jezal. I have lived a long life. Of course you love her. Of course you would give up anything for her, now. But that feeling, trust me, will not last.”

Jezal shifted his weight uncomfortably. He tried to picture Ardee’s uneven smile, the softness of her hair, the sound of her laugh. The way that had given him such comfort, out on the plain. But it was hard to think of her now without remembering her teeth sinking into his lip, his face tingling from her slap, the sound of the table creaking back and forward underneath them. The shame, and the guilt, and the complexity. Bayaz’ voice continued: mercilessly calm, brutally realistic, ruthlessly reasonable.

“It is only natural that you made commitments, but your past life is gone, and your commitments have gone with it. You are a king, now, and your people demand that you behave like one. They need something to look up to. Something effortlessly higher than themselves. We are talking of the High Queen of the Union. A mother to kings. A farmer’s daughter with a tendency towards unpredictable behaviour and a penchant for heavy drinking? I think not.” Jezal flinched to hear Ardee described that way, but he could hardly argue the point.

“You are a natural son. A wife of unimpeachable breeding would lend your line far greater weight. Far greater respect. There is a world full of eligible women, your Majesty, all born to high station. Dukes’ daughters, and kings’ sisters, beautiful and cultured. A world of princesses to choose from.”

Jezal felt his eyebrows rising. He loved Ardee, of course, but Bayaz made a devastating argument. There was so much more to think of now than his own needs, if the idea of himself as a king was absurd, the idea of Ardee as a queen was triply so. He loved her, of course. In a way. But a world of princesses to choose from? That was a phrase it was decidedly hard to find fault with.

“You see it!” The First of the Magi snapped his fingers in triumph. “I will send to Duke Orso of Talins, that his daughter Terez should be introduced to you.” He held up a calming hand. “Just to begin with, you understand. Talins would make a powerful ally.” He smiled, and leaned forward to murmur in Jezal’s ear. “But you need not leave everything behind, if you truly are attached to this girl. Kings often keep mistresses, you know.”

And that, of course, decided the matter.

Prepared for the Worst

Glokta sat in his dining room, staring down at his table, rubbing at his aching thigh with one hand. His other stirred absently at the fortune in jewels spread out on the black leather case.

Why do I do this? Why do I stay here, and ask questions? I could be gone on the next tide, and no one any worse off. Perhaps a tour of the beautiful cities of Styria? A cruise round the Thousand Isles? Finally to faraway Thond, or distant Suljuk, to live out my twisted days in peace among people who do not understand a word I say? Hurting no one? Keeping no secrets? Caring no more for innocence or guilt, for truth or for lies, than do these little lumps of rock.

The gems twinkled in the candlelight, clicking against each other, tickling at his fingers as he pushed them through one way, and back the other.
But his Eminence would weep and weep at my sudden disappearance. So, one imagines, would the banking house of Valint and Balk. Where in all the wide Circle of the World would I be safe from the tears of such powerful masters? And why? So I can sit on my crippled arse all the long day, waiting for the killers to come? So I can lie in bed, and ache, and think about all that I’ve lost?

He frowned down at the jewels: clean, and hard, and beautiful.
I made my choices long ago. When I took Valint and Balk’s money. When I kissed the ring of office. Before the Emperor’s prisons, even, when I rode down to the bridge, sure that only magnificent Sand dan Glokta could save the world…

A thumping knock echoed through the room and Glokta jerked his head up, toothless mouth hanging open.
As long as it is not the Arch Lector—

“Open up, in the name of his Eminence!”

He grimaced at a spasm through his back as he dragged himself out of his chair, clawing the stones into a heap. Priceless, glittering handfuls of them. Sweat had broken out across his forehead.

What if the Arch Lector were to discover my little treasure trove?
He giggled to himself as he snatched at the leather case.
I was going to mention all this, really I was, but the timing never seemed quite right. A small matter, after all—no more than a king’s ransom.
His fingers fumbled with the jewels, and in his haste he flicked one astray and it dropped sparkling to the floor with a sharp click, click.

Another knock, louder this time, the heavy lock shuddering from the force of it. “Open up!”

“I’m just coming!” He forced himself down onto his hands and knees with a moan, casting about across the floor, his neck burning with pain. He saw it—a flat green one sitting on the boards, shining bright in the firelight.

Got you, you bastard!
He snatched it up, pulled himself to his feet by the edge of the table, folded up the case, once, twice.
No time to hide it away.
He shoved it inside his shirt, right down so it was behind his belt, then he grabbed his cane and limped towards the front door, wiping his sweaty face, adjusting his clothes, doing his best to present an unruffled appearance.

“I’m coming! There’s no need to—”

Four huge Practicals shoved past him into his apartments, almost knocking him over. Beyond them, in the corridor outside, stood his Eminence the Arch Lector, frowning balefully, two more vast Practicals at his back.
A surprising hour for such a gratifying visit.
Glokta could hear the four men stomping around his apartments, throwing open doors, pulling open cupboards.
Never mind me, gentlemen, make yourself at home.
After a moment they marched back in.

“Empty,” grunted one, from behind his mask.

“Huh,” sneered Sult, moving smoothly over the threshold, staring about him with a scowl of contempt.
My new lodgings, it would seem, are scarcely more impressive than my old ones.
His six Practicals took up positions around the walls of Glokta’s dining room, arms folded across their chests, watching.
An awful lot of great big men, to keep an eye on one little cripple.

Sult’s shoes stabbed at the floor as he strode up and down, his blue eyes bulging, a furious frown twisting his face.
It does not take a masterful judge of character to see that he is not a happy man. Might one of my ugly secrets have come to his attention? One of my little disobediences?
Glokta felt a sweaty trembling slink up his bent spine.
The non-execution of Magister Eider, perhaps? My agreement with Practical Vitari to tell less than the whole truth?
The corner of the leather pouch dug gently into his ribs as he shifted his hips.
Or merely the small matter of the large fortune with which I was purchased by a highly suspect banking house?

An image sprang unbidden into Glokta’s mind, of the jewel-case suddenly splitting behind his belt, gems spilling from his trouser legs in a priceless cascade while the Arch Lector and his Practicals stared in amazement.
I wonder how I’d try to explain that one?
He had to stifle a giggle at the thought.

“That bastard Bayaz!” snarled Sult, his white-gloved hands curling into shaking fists.

Glokta felt himself relax by the smallest hair.
I am not the problem, then. Not yet, at least.
“Bayaz?”

“That bald liar, that smirking impostor, that ancient charlatan! He has stolen the Closed Council!”
Stop, thief.
“He has that worm Luthar dictating to us! You told me he was a spineless nothing!”
I told you he used to be a spineless nothing, and you ignored me.
“This cursed puppy-dog proves to have teeth, and is not afraid to use them, and that First of the bastard Magi is holding his leash! He is laughing at us! He is laughing at me! At me!” screamed Sult, stabbing at his chest with a clawing finger.

“I—”

“Damn your excuses, Glokta! I am drowning in a sea of damned excuses, when what I need are answers! What I need are solutions! What I need is to know more about this liar!”

Then perhaps this will impress you.
“I have already, in fact, taken the liberty of some steps in that direction.”

“What steps?”

“I was able to take his Navigator into custody,” said Glokta, allowing himself the smallest of smiles.

“The Navigator?” Sult gave no sign of being impressed. “And what did that stargazing imbecile tell you?”

Glokta paused. “That he journeyed across the Old Empire to the edge of the World with Bayaz and our new king, before his enthronement.” He struggled for words that would fit cleanly into Sult’s world of logic, and reasons, and neat explanations. “That they were seeking for… a relic, of the Old Time—”

“Relics?” asked Sult, his frown deepening. “Old Time?”

Glokta swallowed. “Indeed, but they did not find it—”

“So we now know one of a thousand things that Bayaz
did not
do? Bah!” Sult ripped angrily at the air with his hand. “He is nobody, and told you less than nothing! More of your myths and rubbish!”

“Of course, your Eminence,” muttered Glokta.
There really is no pleasing some people.

Sult frowned down at the squares board under the window, his white-gloved hand hovering over the pieces as if to make a move. “I lose track of how often you have failed me, but I will give you a final chance to redeem yourself. Look into this First of the Magi once more. Find some weakness, some weapon we can use against him. He is a disease, and we must burn him out.” He prodded angrily at one of the white pieces. “I want him destroyed! I want him finished! I want him in the House of Questions, in chains!”

Glokta swallowed. “Your Eminence, Bayaz is ensconced in the palace, and well beyond my reach… his protégé is now our King…”
Thanks in part to our own desperate efforts.
Glokta almost winced, but he could not stop himself from asking the question. “How am I to do it?”

“How?” shrieked Sult, “how, you crippled worm?” He swept his hand furiously across the board and dashed the pieces spinning across the floor.
And I wonder who will have to bend down to pick those up?
The six Practicals, as though controlled by the pitch of the Arch Lector’s voice, detached themselves from the walls and loomed menacingly into the room. “If I wished to attend to every detail myself I would have no need of your worthless services! Get out there and get it done, you twisted slime!”

“Your Eminence is too kind,” muttered Glokta, humbly inclining his head once more.
But even the lowest dog needs a scratch behind the ears, from time to time, or he might go for his master’s throat…

“And look into his story while you’re about it.”

“Story, Arch Lector?”

“This fairytale of Carmee dan Roth!” Sult’s eyes went narrower still, hard creases cutting into the bridge of his nose. “If we cannot take the leash ourselves, we must have the dog put down, do you understand?”

Glokta felt his eye twitching, in spite of his efforts to make it be still.
We find a way to bring King Jezal’s reign to an abrupt end. Dangerous. If the Union is a ship, it has but lately come through a storm, and is listing badly. We have lost one captain. Replace another now, and the boat might break apart entirely. We will all be swimming in some deep, cold, unknown waters then. Civil War, anyone?
He frowned down at the squares pieces scattered across his floor.
But his Eminence has spoken. What is it that Shickel said? When your master gives you a task, you do your best at it. Even if the task is a dark one. And some of us are only suited to dark tasks…

“Carmee dan Roth, and her bastard. I shall find the truth of it, your Eminence, you can depend on me.”

Sult’s sneer curled to even greater heights of contempt. “If only!”

The House of Questions was busy, for an evening. Glokta saw no one as he limped down the corridor, his excuses for teeth pressed into his lip, his hand clenched tight around the handle of his cane, slippery with sweat. He saw no one, but he heard them.

Voices bubbled from behind the iron-bound doors. Low and insistent.
Asking the questions.
High and desperate.
Spilling the answers.
From time to time a shriek, or a roar, or a howl of pain would cut through the heavy silence.
Those hardly need explaining.
Severard was leaning against the dirty wall as Glokta limped towards him, one foot up on the plaster, whistling tunelessly behind his mask.

“What’s all this?” asked Glokta.

“Some of Lord Brock’s people got drunk, then they got noisy. Fifty of ’em, made quite a mess up near the Four Corners. Moaning about rights, whining on how the people were cheated, mouthing off how Brock should’ve been king. They say it was a demonstration. We say it was treason.”

“Treason, eh?”
The definition is notoriously flexible.
“Pick out some ringleaders and get some paper signed. Angland is back in Union hands. High time we started filling the place up with traitors.”

“They’re already at it. Anything else?”

“Oh, of course.”
Juggling knives. One comes down, two go up. Always more blades spinning in the air, and each one with a deadly edge.
“I had a visit from his Eminence earlier today. A brief visit, but too long for my taste.”

“Work for us?”

“Nothing that will make you a rich man, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“I’m always hoping. I’m what you call an optimist.”

“Lucky for you.”
I rather tend the other way.
Glokta took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “The First of the Magi and his bold companions.”

“Again?”

“His Eminence wants information.”

“This Bayaz, though. Isn’t he tight with our new king?”

Glokta raised an eyebrow as a muffled roar of pain echoed down the corridor.
Tight? He might as well have made him out of clay.
“That is why we must keep our eyes upon him, Practical Severard. For his own protection. Powerful men have powerful enemies, as well as powerful friends.”

“Think that Navigator knows anything else?”

“Nothing that will do the trick.”

“Shame. I was getting used to having the little bastard around. He tells a hell of a story about a huge fish.”

Glokta sucked at his empty gums. “Keep him where he is for now. Perhaps Practical Frost will appreciate his tall tales.”
He has a fine sense of humour.

“If the Navigator’s no use, who do we squeeze?”

Who indeed? Ninefingers is gone. Bayaz himself is tucked up tight in the palace, and his apprentice hardly leaves his side. The erstwhile Jezal dan Luthar, we must concede, is now far beyond our reach…
“What about that woman?”