Last Argument of Kings (66 page)

“Bah.” Bayaz dismissed it with a wave. “Forcing a clutch of primitives together under that cretin Harod and making them act like civilised men. Keeping the Union in one piece through the civil war and bringing that fool Arnault to the throne. Guiding that coward Casamir to the conquest of Angland. Those were hands well played. This was nothing. I hold all the cards and always will do. I have—”

I tire of this.
“And blah, blah, fucking blah. The stench of self-satisfaction is becoming quite suffocating. If you mean to kill me, blast me to a cinder now and let’s be done, but, for pity’s sake, subject me to no more of your boasting.”

They sat still for a long moment, gazing at each other in silence across the darkened table. Long enough for Glokta’s leg to start trembling, for his eye to start blinking, for his toothless mouth to turn dry as the desert.
Sweet anticipation. Will it be now? Will it be now? Will it be—
“Kill you?” asked Bayaz mildly. “And rob myself of your winning sense of humour?”

Not now.
“Then… why reveal your game to me?”

“Because I will soon be leaving Adua.” The Magus leaned forwards, his hard face sliding into the light. “Because it is necessary that you understand where the power lies, and always will lie. It is necessary that you, unlike Sult, unlike Marovia, have a proper perspective. It is necessary… if you are to serve me.”

“To serve you?”
I would sooner spend two years in the stinking darkness. I would sooner have my leg chopped to mincemeat. I would sooner have my teeth pulled from my head. But since I have done all those things already…

“You will take the task that Feekt once had. The task that a score of great men bore before him. You will be my representative, here in the Union. You will manage the Closed Council, the Open Council, and our mutual friend the king. You will ensure him heirs. You will maintain stability. In short, you will watch the board, while I am gone.”

“But the rest of the Closed Council will never—”

“Those that survive have been spoken to. They all will bow to your authority. Under mine, of course.”

“How will I—”

“I will be in touch. Frequently. Through my people at the bank. Through my apprentice, Sulfur. Through other means. You will know them.”

“I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter?”

“Not unless you can repay the million marks I leant you. Plus interest.”

Glokta patted at the front of his shirt. “Damn it. I left my purse at work.”

“Then I fear you have no choice. But why would you refuse me? I offer you the chance to help me forge a new age.”
To bury my hands to the elbow in your dirty work.
“To be a great man. The very greatest of men.”
To bestride the Closed Council like a crippled colossus.
“To leave your likeness set in stone on the Kingsway.”
Where its hideousness can make the children cry. Once they clear away the rubble and the corpses, of course.
“To shape the course of a nation.”

“Under your direction.”

“Naturally. Nothing is free, you know that.” Again the Magus flicked his hand and something clattered spinning across the squares board. It came to rest in front of Glokta, gold glinting. The Arch Lector’s ring.
So many times I bent to kiss this very jewel. Who could have dreamed that I might one day wear it?
He picked it up, turned it thoughtfully round and round.
And so I finally shake off a dark master, only to find my leash in the fist of another, darker and more powerful by far. But what choice do I have? What choices do any of us truly have?
He slid the ring onto his finger. The great stone shone in the lamplight, full of purple sparks.
From a dead man to the greatest in the realm, and all in one evening.

“It fits,” murmured Glokta.

“Of course, your Eminence. I always knew it would.”

The Wounded

West woke with a start and tried to jerk up to sitting. Pain shot up one leg, across his chest, through his right arm, and stayed there, throbbing. He dropped back with a groan and stared at the ceiling. A vaulted stone ceiling, covered in thick shadows.

Sounds crept at him now from all around. Grunts and whimpers, coughs and sobs, quick gasping, slow growling. The occasional outright shriek of pain. Sounds between men and animals. A voice whispered throatily from somewhere to his left, droning endlessly away like a rat scratching at the walls. “I can’t see. Bloody wind. I can’t see. Where am I? Somebody. I can’t see.”

West swallowed, feeling the pain growing worse. In the hospitals in Gurkhul there had been sounds like that, when he had come to visit wounded soldiers from his company. He remembered the stink and noise of those horrible tents, the misery of the men in them, and above all the overpowering desire to leave and be among the healthy. But it was already awfully clear that leaving would not be so easy this time.

He was one of the wounded. A different, contemptible and disgusting species. Horror crept slowly through his body and mingled with the pain. How badly was he injured? Did he have all his limbs, still? He tried to move his fingers, wriggle his toes, clenched his teeth as the aching in his arm and leg grew worse. He brought his left hand trembling up before his face, turned it over in the dimness. It seemed intact, at least, but it was the only limb that he could move, and even that was a crushing effort. Panic slithered up his throat and clutched at him.

“Where am I? Bloody wind. I can’t see. Help. Help. Where am I?”

“Fucking shut up!” West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.

“Shhhh.” A soft touch on his chest. “Just be still.”

A blurry face swam into view. A woman’s face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“You were wounded.”

“I know that. I mean… in the city. The wind.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.”

“Did we win?”

“I suppose that… the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.”

Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. “Who are you?”

“My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.”

“Ariss…” West fumbled with the name. “I knew your cousin. Knew him well… a good man. He always used to talk about… how beautiful you were. And rich,” he muttered, vaguely aware he should not be saying this, but unable to stop his mouth from working. “Very rich. He died. In the mountains.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Trying to help with the wounded. It would be best for you to sleep now, if you—”

“Am I whole?”

A pause. “Yes. Sleep now, if you can.”

Her dark face grew blurry, and West let his eyes close. The noises of agony slowly faded around him. He was whole. All would be well.

Someone was sitting next to his bed. Ardee. His sister. He blinked, worked his sour mouth, unsure where he was for a moment.

“Am I dreaming?” She reached forward and dug her nails into his arm. “Ah!”

“Painful dream, eh?”

“No,” he was forced to admit. “This is real.”

She looked well. Far better than the last time he had seen her, that was sure. No blood on her face for one thing. No look of naked hatred, for another. Only a thoughtful frown. He tried to bring himself up to sitting, failed, and slumped back down. She did not offer to help. He had not really expected her to. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Nothing too serious, apparently. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, and a leg badly bruised, they tell me. Some cuts on your face that may leave a scar or two, but then I got all the looks in the family anyway.”

He gave a snort of laughter and winced at the pain across his chest. “True enough. The brains too.”

“Don’t feel badly about it. I’ve used them to make the towering success of my life that you see before you. The kind of achievement that you, as a Lord Marshal of the Union, can only dream of.”

“Don’t,” he hissed, clamping his good hand across his ribs. “It hurts.”

“No less than you deserve.”

His laughter quickly stuttered out, and they were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Even that much was difficult. “Ardee…” His voice caught in his sore neck. “Can you… forgive me?”

“I already did. The first time I heard you were dead.” She was trying to smile, he could tell. But she still had that twist of anger to her mouth. Probably she would have liked to dig her nails into his face rather than his arm. He was almost glad then, for a moment, that he was wounded. She had no choice but to be soft with him. “It’s good that you’re not. Dead, that is…” She frowned over her shoulder. There was some manner of commotion at one end of the long cellar. Raised voices, the clatter of armoured footsteps.

“The king!” Whoever it was nearly squealed it in their excitement. “The king is come again!”

In the beds all around men turned their heads, propped themselves up. A nervous excitement spread from cot to cot. “The king?” they whispered, faces anxious and expectant, as though they were privileged to witness a divine visitation.

Several figures moved through the shadows at the far end of the hall. West strained to look, but could see little more than metal gleaming in the darkness. The foremost shape stopped beside a wounded man a few beds down.

“They are treating you well?” A voice strangely familiar, strangely different.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“A kiss from a good woman?”

“I would love to oblige you, but I fear I’m only a king. We’re a great deal more common than good women.” Men laughed, even though it was not funny. West supposed that people laughing at your poor jokes was one advantage of being a monarch. “Anything else?”

“Maybe… maybe another blanket, sir. Getting cold down here, at night.”

“Of course.” The figure jerked his thumb at a man behind. Lord Hoff, West realised now, dragging along at a respectful distance. “Another blanket for every man here.”

The Lord Chamberlain, that fearsome scourge of the audience chamber, humbly nodded his head like a meek child. The king stood, and moved into the light.

Jezal dan Luthar, of course, and yet it was hard to believe that it was the same man, and not only because of the rich fur mantle and the golden circlet on his forehead. He seemed taller. Handsome, still, but no longer boyish. A deep scar on his bearded jaw had given him an air of strength. The sneer of arrogance had become a frown of command. The carefree swagger had become a purposeful stride. He worked his way on slowly down the aisle between the cots, speaking to each man, pressing their hands, giving them thanks, promising them help. No one was overlooked.

“A cheer for the king!” someone gurgled through gritted teeth.

“No! No. The cheering should be for you, my brave friends! You who have made sacrifices in my name. I owe you everything. It was only with your help that the Gurkish were defeated. Only with your help that the Union was saved. I do not forget a debt, that I promise you!”

West stared. Whoever this strange apparition was who looked so like Jezal dan Luthar, he spoke like a monarch. West almost felt a preposterous desire to drag himself from his bed and kneel. One casualty was trying to do just that as the king passed his bed. Jezal restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest, smiled and patted his shoulder as though he had been offering succour to the wounded his entire life, instead of getting drunk in shit-holes with the rest of the officers, and whining about such meagre tasks as he was given.

He drew close and saw West, lying there. His face lit up, though there was a tooth missing from his smile. “Collem West!” he said, hastening over. “I can honestly say that I have never in my life been so pleased to see your face.”

“Er…” West moved his mouth around a bit, but hardly knew what to say.

Jezal turned to his sister. “Ardee… I hope you are well.”

“Yes.” She said nothing else. They stared at each other, for a long and intensely awkward moment, not speaking.

Lord Hoff frowned at the king, then at West, then at Ardee. He insinuated himself somewhat between the two of them. “Your Majesty, we should—”

Jezal silenced him effortlessly with one raised hand. “I trust that you will soon join me in the Closed Council, West. I am in some need of a friendly face there, in truth. Not to mention good advice. You always were a mine of good advice. I never did thank you for it. Well, I can thank you now.”

“Jezal… I mean, your Majesty—”

“No, no. Always Jezal to you, I hope. You will have a room in the palace, of course. You will have the royal surgeon. Everything possible. See to that, please, Hoff.”

The Lord Chamberlain bowed. “Of course. Everything will be arranged.”

“Good. Good. I am glad you are well, West. I cannot afford to lose you.” The king nodded, to him, and to his sister. Then he turned and moved on, pressing hands, speaking soft words. A pool of hope seemed to surround him as he passed. Despair crowded in behind it. Smiles faded as he moved away. Men dropped back onto their beads, faces clouding over with pain.

“Responsibility seems to have improved him,” muttered West. “Almost beyond recognition.”

“How long will it last, do you think?”

“I’d like to think that it could stick, but then I’ve always been an optimist.”

“That’s good.” Ardee watched the magnificent new king of the Union striding away, wounded men straining from their cots for the slightest touch of his cloak. “That one of us can be.”

“Marshal West!”

“Jalenhorm. Good to see you.” West pulled back the blankets with his good hand, eased his legs over the edge of the bed and winced his way up to sitting. The big man reached out and gave his hand a squeeze, clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’re looking well!”

West smiled weakly. “Better ever day, Major. How’s my army?”

“Fumbling on without you. Kroy’s holding things together. Not such a bad sort, the General, once you get used to him.”

“If you say so. How many did we lose?”

“Still hard to say. Things are somewhat chaotic. Whole companies missing. Impromptu units still chasing Gurkish stragglers across half the countryside. I don’t think we’ll have numbers for a while. I don’t know if we’ll ever get them. No one did well, but the ninth regiment were the ones fighting at the western end of the Agriont. They took the worst of…” He fumbled for the words. “It.”

West grimaced. He remembered that black column of whirling matter reaching from the tortured earth to the circling clouds. The debris lashing at his skin, the screaming of the wind all around him. “What was… it?”

“I’m damned if I know.” Jalenhorm shook his head. “Damned if anyone does. But the rumour is that this Bayaz was involved, somehow. Half the Agriont’s in ruins, and they’ve barely started shifting the rubble. You never saw anything like it, that I promise you. A lot of people dead in all that. Bodies stacked up in the open…” Jalenhorm took a long breath. “And there are more dying every day. A lot of people getting ill.” He shuddered. “This… sickness.”

“Disease. Always a part of war.”

“Not like this. Hundreds of cases, now. Some die in a day, almost before your eyes. Some take longer. They wither to skin and bone. They have whole halls full of them. Stinking, hopeless places. But you don’t need to worry about that.” He shook himself. “I have to go.”

“Already?”

“Flying visit, sir. I’m helping to arrange Poulder’s funeral, would you believe? He’s being buried in state, by order of the king… that is to say Jezal. Jezal dan Luthar.” He blew out his cheeks. “Strange business.”

“The strangest.”

“All that time. A king’s son sitting in the midst of us. I knew there had to be a reason why he was so bloody good at cards.” He slapped West on the back again. “Good to see you looking so well, sir. Knew they wouldn’t be able to keep you down for long!”

“Keep out of trouble!” West called after him as he made for the door.

“Always!” The big man grinned as he pulled it shut.

West took his stick from the side of the bed, gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up to standing. He hobbled across the expanse of chequered tiles to the window, one painstaking step at a time, and finally stood blinking into the morning sunlight.

Looking down on the palace gardens it was hard to believe that there had been any war, that there were any acres of ruins, any heaps of dead. The lawns were neatly trimmed, the gravel well-raked. The last few brown leaves had fallen from the trees, leaving the smooth wood black and bare.

It had been autumn when he set out for Angland. Could it really have been only a year ago? He had lived through four great battles, a siege, an ambush, a bloody melée. He had witnessed a duel to the death. He had stood at the centre of great events. He had survived a slog of hundreds of miles through the bleak Angland winter. He had found new comrades in unlikely places, and he had seen friends dead before his eyes. Burr, Kaspa, Cathil, Threetrees, all back to the mud, as the Northmen said. He had faced death, and he had delivered it. He shifted his aching arm uncomfortably in the sling. He had murdered the heir to the throne of the Union with his own hands. He had risen, by a stroke of chance that verged on the impossible, to one of the highest posts in the nation.