Last Argument of Kings (47 page)

Malzagurt cleared his throat. “Firstly, if you surrender the city of Adua to the Emperor, he is prepared to allow you to retain your throne, as his subject, of course, paying regular tribute.”

“How generous of him. What of the traitor, Lord Brock? We understood that you have promised him the crown of the Union.”

“We are not altogether committed to Lord Brock. He does not hold the city, after all. You do.”

“And we have scant respect for those who turn on their own masters,” added Mamun, with a dark look up at Bayaz.

“Secondly, the citizens of the Union will be permitted to continue to live according to their own laws and customs. They will continue to live in freedom. Or as close to it as they have ever really been, at least.”

“Your generosity is astonishing.” Jezal had meant to sneer it, but in the end it escaped without much irony.

“Thirdly,” shouted the General, with a nervous glance sideways towards Mamun, “the man known as Bayaz, the First of the Magi, be delivered over to us, bound and in chains, that he may be conveyed to the Temple of Sarkant, for judgement by the Prophet Khalul. Those are our terms. Refuse them, and the Emperor has decreed that Midderland shall be treated as any other conquered province. Many will be killed, and many more made slaves, Gurkish governors will be installed, your Agriont will be made a temple, and your current rulers… conveyed to cells beneath the Emperor’s palace.”

Jezal half opened his mouth to refuse on an instinct. Then he paused. Harod the Great, no doubt, would have spat his defiance at any odds, and probably pissed on the emissary to boot. The slightest notion of negotiating with the Gurkish was against every long-held belief he possessed.

But, thinking about it, the terms were far more generous than he had ever expected. Jezal would probably have enjoyed more authority as a subject of Uthman-ul-Dosht than he did with Bayaz staring over his shoulder every moment of every day. He could save lives by saying a word. Real lives, of real people. He reached up and rubbed gently at his scarred lips with a fingertip. He had experienced enough suffering on the endless plains of the Old Empire to think long and hard about risking so much pain to so many, and himself in particular. The notion of cells beneath the Emperor’s palace caused him some pause.

It was bizarre that such a vital decision should fall to him. A man who, no more than a year ago, had proudly confessed to knowing nothing about anything, and caring still less. But then Jezal was beginning to doubt that anyone in a position of high authority ever really knew what they were doing. The best one could hope for was to maintain some shred of an illusion that one might. And occasionally, perhaps, try to give the mindless flood of events the slightest push in one direction or another, hoping desperately that it would turn out to be the right one.

But what was the right one?

“Give me your answer!” shouted Malzagurt. “I have preparations to make!”

Jezal frowned. He was sick of being dictated to by Bayaz, but at least the old bastard had played some role in his ascension to the throne. He was sick of being slighted by Terez, but at least she was his wife. Quite aside from any other consideration, his patience was stretched very thin. He simply refused to be ordered around at sword-point by some posturing Gurkish General and his damn fool priest.

“I reject your terms!” he called airily down from the walls. “I reject them utterly and completely. I am not in the habit of surrendering my advisers, or my cities, or my sovereignty simply when asked. Particularly not to a pack of Gurkish curs with small manners and even smaller wits. You are not in Gurkhul now, General, and here your arrogance becomes you even less than that absurd helmet. I suspect that you will learn a harsh lesson before you leave these shores. Might I add, before you scuttle off, that I encourage you and your priest to fuck each other? Who knows? Perhaps you could persuade the great Uthman-ul-Dosht—and the all-knowing Prophet Khalul too for that matter—to join you!”

General Malzagurt frowned. He conferred quickly with an aide, evidently having not entirely understood the finer points of that last utterance. Once he had finally taken them in he gave an angry slash of his dark hand and barked an order in Kantic. Jezal saw men moving among the buildings scattered outside the walls, torches in their hands. The Gurkish General took one last look up at the gatehouse. “Damn pinks!” he snarled. “Animals!” And he tore at the reins of his horse and sprang away, his officers clattering after him.

The priest Mamun sat there a moment longer, a sadness on his perfect face. “So be it. We will put on our armour. May God forgive you, Bayaz.”

“You need forgiveness more than I, Mamun! Pray for yourself!”

“So I do. Every day. But I have seen no sign in all my long life that God is the forgiving kind.” Mamun turned his horse away from the gates and rode slowly back towards the Gurkish lines, through the abandoned buildings, flames already licking hungrily at their walls.

Jezal took a long, ragged breath as his eyes flicked up to the mass of men moving through the fields. Damn his mouth, it got him in all kinds of trouble. But it was a little late now for second thoughts. He felt Bayaz’ fatherly touch on his shoulder, that steering touch that had become so very annoying to him over the past few weeks. He had to grit his teeth to keep from shaking free.

“You should address your people,” said the Magus.

“What?”

“The right words could make all the difference. Harod the Great could speak at a moment’s notice. Did I tell you of the time he—”

“Very well!” snapped Jezal, “I am going.”

He walked towards the opposite parapet with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man to his scaffold. The crowd was spread out below in all its disturbing variety. Jezal had to stop himself fussing with his belt-buckle. He kept worrying for some reason that his trousers would fall down in front of all those people. A ridiculous notion. He cleared his throat. Someone saw him, pointed.

“The king!”

“King Jezal!”

“The king speaks!”

The crowd shifted and stretched, drawn towards the gatehouse, a sea of hopeful, fearful, needy faces. The noise in the square slowly died and a breathless silence fell.

“My friends… my countrymen… my subjects!” His voice rang out with pleasing authority. A good beginning, very… rhetorical. “Our enemies may be many… very many…” Jezal cursed to himself. That was hardly an admission to give courage to the masses. “But I urge you to take heart! Our defences are strong!” He slapped at the firm stones under his hand. “Our courage is indomitable!” He thumped at his polished breastplate. “We will hold firm!” This was better! He had discovered a natural talent for speaking. The crowd was warming to him now, he could feel it. “We need not hold out forever! Lord Marshal West is even now bringing his army to our assistance—”

“When?” someone screamed out. There was a wave of angry muttering.

“Er…” Jezal, wrong-footed, glanced nervously across at Bayaz, “er…”

“When will they come? When?” The First of the Magi hissed at Glokta, and the cripple made a sharp gesture to someone below.

“Soon! You may depend upon it!” Curse Bayaz, this had been an awful notion. Jezal did not have the ghost of an idea of how to put heart into a rabble.

“What about our children? What about our homes? Will your house burn? Will it?” A swell of unhappy calls went up.

“Do not fear! I beg of you… please…” Damn it! He had no business pleading, he was a king. “The army is on its way!” Jezal noticed black figures forcing through the press. Practicals of the Inquisition. They converged, somewhat to his relief, on the point where the heckles were coming from. “They are even now leaving the North! Any day they will come to our aid, and teach these Gurkish dogs a—”

“When? When will—” Black sticks rose and fell in the midst of the crowd and the question was cut off in a high-pitched shriek.

Jezal did his best to shout over it. “In the meantime, will we let these Gurkish scum ride free over our fields? Over the fields of our fathers?”

“No!” someone roared, to Jezal’s great relief.

“No! We will show these Kantic slaves how a free Union citizen can fight!” A volley of lukewarm agreements. “We will fight as bravely as lions! As fiercely as tigers!” He was warming to his work, now, the words were spilling out as if he really meant them. Perhaps he did. “We will fight as we did in the days of Harod! Of Arnault! Of Casamir!” A rousing cheer went up. “We will not rest until these Gurkish devils are driven back across the Circle Sea! There will be no negotiation!”

“No negotiation!” someone called.

“Damn the Gurkish!”

“We will never surrender!” Jezal bellowed, striking the parapet with his fist. “We will fight for every street! For every house! For every room!”

“For every house!” someone squealed with rabid excitement, and the citizens of Adua bellowed their approval.

Feeling the moment upon him, Jezal slid his sword from its sheath with a suitably warlike ringing and held it high above his head. “And I will be proud to draw my sword beside you! We will fight for each other! We will fight for the Union! Every man… every woman… a hero!”

There was a deafening cheer. Jezal waved his sword and a glittering wave surged out among the spears as they were shaken in the air, thumped against armoured chests, hammered down against the stone. Jezal smiled wide. The people loved him, and were more than willing to fight for him. Together they would be victorious, he felt it. He had made the right decision.

“Nicely done,” murmured Bayaz in his ear. “Nicely—”

Jezal’s patience was worn out. He rounded on the Magus with his teeth bared. “I know how it was done! I have no need of your constant—”

“Your Majesty.” It was Gorst’s piping voice.

“How dare you interrupt me? What the hell is—”

Jezal’s tirade was cut off by a ruddy glare at the corner of his eye, followed a moment later by a roaring detonation. He jerked his head round to see flames springing up above the jumble of roofs some distance away on his right. Below in the square there was a collective gasp, a wave of nervous movement through the crowd.

“The Gurkish bombardment has begun,” said Varuz.

A streak of fire shot up into the white sky above the Gurkish lines. Jezal watched it open-mouthed as it plummeted down towards the city. It crashed into the buildings, this time on Jezal’s left, bright fire shooting high into the air. The terrifying boom assaulted his ears an instant afterward.

Shouts came from below. Orders, perhaps, or screams of panic. The crowd began to move in every direction at once. People rushed for the walls, or for their homes, or nowhere in particular, a chaotic tangle of pressing bodies and waving polearms.

“Water!” someone shouted.

“Fire!”

“Your Majesty.” Gorst was already leading Jezal back towards the stairway. “You should return to the Agriont at once.”

Jezal started at another thunderous explosion, this one even closer. Smoke was already rising in oily smudges over the city. “Yes,” he muttered, allowing himself to be led to safety. He realised that he still had his sword drawn, and sheathed it somewhat guiltily. “Yes of course.”

Fearlessness, as Logen Ninefingers had once observed, is a fool’s boast.

A Rock and a Hard Place

Glokta shook with laughter, wheezing gurgles slobbering through his empty gums, the hard chair creaking under his bony arse. His coughs and his whimpers echoed dully from the bare walls of his dim living room. In a way, it sounded very much like weeping.
And perhaps it is, just a little.

Every shake of his twisted shoulders drove nails into his neck. Every jerk of his rib-cage sent flashes of pain down to the very tips of such toes as he had left. He laughed, and the laughter hurt, and the pain made him laugh all the more.
Oh, the irony! I titter with hopelessness. I chuckle with despair.

Bubbles of spit blew from his lips as he gave one last long whine.
Like a sheep’s death rattle, but less dignified.
Then he swallowed, and wiped his running eyes.
I have not laughed so hard in years. Since before the Emperor’s torturers did their work, I shouldn’t wonder. And yet it is not so very difficult to stop. After all, nothing is really very funny here, is it?
He lifted the letter, and read it again.

Superior Glokta,

My employers at the banking house of Valint and Balk are more than disappointed with your progress. It is some time now since I asked you, in person, to inform us of Arch Lector Sult’s plans. In particular, the reasons for his continuing interest in the University. Since then we have received no communication from you.

It may be that you believe the sudden arrival of the Gurkish beyond the city walls has altered the expectations of my employers.

It has not, in any way whatsoever. Nothing will.

You will report to us within the week, or his Eminence will be informed of your divided loyalties.

I need hardly add that it would be wise for you to destroy this letter.

Mauthis.

Glokta stared at the paper for a long while by the light of the single candle, his ruined mouth hanging open.
For this, I lived through months of agony in the darkness of the Emperor’s prisons? Tortured my savage way through the Guild of Mercers? Slaughtered my bloody path through the city of Dagoska? To end my days in ignominy, trapped between a bitter old bureaucrat and a tank full of treacherous swindlers? All my twisting, my lying my bargains, and my pain. All those corpses left beside the road… for this?

A new wave of laughter rocked his body, twisted him up and made his aching back rattle.
His Eminence and these bankers deserve each other! Even with the city burning down around them, their games cannot stop for an instant. Games which may very well prove fatal to poor Superior Glokta, who only tried to do his crippled best.
He had to wipe a little snot from under his nose he laughed so hard at that last thought.

It almost seems a shame to burn such a horribly hilarious document. Perhaps I should take it to the Arch Lector instead? Would he see the funny side, I wonder? Would we chuckle over it together?
He reached out and held the corner of the letter to the twisting candle flame, watched fire flicker up the side, creep out through the writing, white paper curling up into black ashes.

Burn, as my hopes, and my dreams, and my glorious future burned beneath the Emperor’s palace! Burn, as Dagoska did and Adua surely will before the Emperor’s fury! Burn, as I would love to burn King Jezal the Bastard, and the First of the Magi, and Arch Lector Sult, and Valint and Balk, and the whole damned—

“Gah!” Glokta flailed his singed fingertips in the air then stuck them in his toothless mouth, his laughter quickly cut off.
Strange. However much pain we experience, we never become used to it. We always scramble to escape it. We never become resigned to more.
The corner of the letter was still smouldering on the floor. He frowned, and ground it out with a savage poke of his cane.

The air was heavy with the sharp tang of wood smoke.
Like a hundred thousand burnt dinners.
Even here in the Agriont, there was the slightest grey haze of it, a messy blending together of the buildings at the end of each street. Fires had been raging in the outer districts for several days now, and the Gurkish bombardment had not let up a hair, night or day. Even as Glokta walked, the breath wheezing through the gaps in his teeth with the effort of putting one foot in front of the other, there came the muffled boom of an incendiary landing somewhere in the city, the tiniest murmur of vibration through the soles of his boots.

The people in the lane froze, staring up in alarm.
Those few unlucky folk who found themselves without excuses to flee the city when the Gurkish came. Those unlucky folk who were too important, or not important enough. An optimistic handful who thought the Gurkish siege would be another passing fad—like a rain storm or short trousers. Too late they discover their grave error.

Glokta kept hobbling, head lowered. He had not lost a wink of sleep for the explosions rocking the city in the darkness the past week.
I was too busy losing sleep for my mind spinning round and round like a cat in a sack, trying to find some way clear of this trap. I became well-used to explosions during my holiday in charming Dagoska.
For him, the pain lancing through his arse and up his spine was considerably more worrisome.

Oh, arrogance! Who would ever have dared suggest that Gurkish boots would one day trample across the fertile fields of Midderland? That the pretty farms and sleepy villages of the Union would dance with Gurkish fire? Who could ever have expected that beautiful, thriving Adua would turn from a little piece of heaven into a little piece of hell?
Glokta felt himself smiling.
Welcome, everyone! Welcome! I’ve been here all along. How nice of you to join me.

He heard armoured boots tramping down the road behind him, shuffled too late out of the way of a hurrying column of soldiers and was barged roughly onto the grassy verge, left foot sliding in the mud and sending a stab of agony up his leg. The column clattered past, heedless, and Glokta grimaced after them.
People no longer have the proper level of fear for the Inquisition. They are all a great deal too afraid of the Gurkish for that.
He stepped away from the wall with a wince and a curse, stretched his neck out and carried on limping.

High Justice Marovia was framed in the largest window of his echoing office, hands clasped behind his back. His windows faced west.
The direction of the main Gurkish assault.
Above the rooftops in the distance, columns of dark smoke rose into the pale sky, blending together into a gritty pall that rendered the autumn half-light still more funereal. Marovia turned when he heard Glokta’s toeless foot creaking on the dark boards, his lined old face alive with a welcoming smile.

“Ah, Superior Glokta! You cannot imagine my delight to hear you announced! I have missed you since your last visit. I do so enjoy your… forthright style. I do so admire your… commitment to your work.” He flapped one lazy hand towards the window. “The law, I must admit, tends to be sleepy in times of war. But even with the Gurkish at the gates the noble business of his Majesty’s Inquisition continues, eh? I assume you have come once again on behalf of his Eminence?”

Glokta paused.
But only out of habit. I must turn my twisted back on the Inquisition. What would Sult call me? A traitor? No doubt, and worse besides. But every man’s first loyalty must be to himself. I have made my sacrifices.
“No, your Worship. I have come on behalf of Sand dan Glokta.” He limped up to a chair, slid it out and dumped himself into it without being asked.
I am far past the niceties, now.
“Frankly, I need your help.”
Frankly, you are my last hope.

“My help? Surely you are not without powerful friends of your own?”

“It is my regrettable experience that powerful men can afford no friends.”

“All too unfortunately true. You do not reach my position, or even yours, without understanding that each man stands alone, in the end.” Marovia gazed down beneficently as he settled into his own tall chair.
Though I am far from put at ease. His smiles are every bit as deadly as Sult’s frowns, I think.
“Our friends must be those that can make themselves useful to us. With that in mind, what help can I offer you? And more importantly, what can you offer me in return?”

“That may take some explaining.” Glokta winced at a cramp in his leg and forced it out straight under the table. “May I speak entirely honestly with you, your Worship?”

Marovia stroked thoughtfully at his beard. “The truth is a very rare and valuable commodity. I am astonished that a man of your experience would simply give it away. Especially to someone on the other side of the fence, so to speak.”

“I was once told that a man lost in the desert must take such water as he is offered, regardless of the source.”

“Lost, are you? Speak honestly, then, Superior, and we will see if I can spare something from my canteen.”

Hardly a promise of succour, but the best I might have hoped for from a man so recently a bitter enemy. And so… my confession.
Glokta turned over the memories of the last couple of years in his mind.
And a filthy, a shameful, an ugly set they are. Where to begin?
“It is some time ago, now, that I began to examine irregularities in the business of the Honourable Guild of Mercers.”

“I well remember the unfortunate affair.”

“During my investigations I discovered that the Mercers were financed by a bank. A very wealthy and powerful bank. Valint and Balk.”

Glokta watched carefully for a reaction, but Marovia’s eyes did not so much as flicker. “I am aware of the existence of such an institution.”

“I suspected that they were implicated in the Mercers’ crimes. Magister Kault told me as much before his unfortunate demise. But his Eminence did not wish me to investigate further. Too many complications at a complicated time.” Glokta’s left eye twitched and he felt it beginning to run. “My apologies,” he muttered as he wiped it with a finger. “Shortly afterwards I was dispatched to Dagoska, to take charge of the defence of the city.”

“Your particular diligence in that matter was a source of some discomfort to me.” Marovia worked his mouth sourly. “My congratulations. You did an extraordinary job.”

“I cannot entirely take the credit. The task the Arch Lector had given me was impossible. Dagoska was riddled with treason and surrounded by the Gurkish.”

Marovia snorted. “One sympathises.”

“If only anyone had sympathised then, but they were busy here, trying to get the better of each other, as they always are. Dagoska’s defences were in a state entirely inadequate for the task. I could not strengthen them without money—”

“His Eminence was not forthcoming.”

“His Eminence would not part with a single mark. But an unlikely benefactor stepped forward in my time of need.”

“A rich uncle? What a happy chance.”

“Not entirely.” Glokta licked at the salty space where his front teeth had once been.
And the secrets begin to spill like turds from a draining latrine-pit.
“My rich uncle was none other than the banking house of Valint and Balk.”

Marovia frowned. “They advanced you money?”

“It was thanks to their generosity that I was able to keep the Gurkish out as long as I did.”

“Bearing in mind that powerful people have no friends, what did Valint and Balk get in return?”

“In essence?” Glokta gave the High Justice an even stare. “Whatever they wanted. Shortly after returning from Dagoska I was investigating the death of Crown Prince Raynault.”

“A terrible crime.”

“Of which the Gurkish ambassador who hung for it was innocent.”

Marovia registered the tiniest hint of surprise. “You say so?”

“Undoubtedly. But the death of the heir to the throne created other problems, problems relating to votes in the Open Council, and his Eminence was happy with the easy answer. I tried to pursue the matter, but was prevented. By Valint and Balk.”

“You suspect that these bankers were involved in the death of the Crown Prince, then?”

“I suspect them of all manner of things, but proof is in short supply.”
Always too many suspicions, and not enough proof.

“Banks,” grunted Marovia. “They are made of air. They spin money out of guesses, and lies, and promises. Secrets are their currency, even more than gold.”

“So I have discovered. But men lost in the desert—”

“Yes, yes! Please continue.”

Glokta found, to his surprise, that he was greatly enjoying himself. He was almost tripping over his own tongue in his eagerness to blurt it all out.
Now I begin throwing away the secrets I have hoarded for so long, I find I cannot stop. I feel like a miser on a spending spree. Horrified, yet liberated. Agonised, yet delighted. Something like cutting your own throat, I imagine—a glorious release, but one you can enjoy only once. And like cutting my own throat, it will very likely end in my ugly death. Ah well. It has been coming some time, has it not? And not even I could claim I don’t deserve it ten times over.