Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  'You remember me, then?'

  'I seem to…' In truth, the Colonel was finding it hard to recall from where. It looked like a woman in the corner, but he could not make out her face.

  'The Maker fell burning… he broke upon the bridge below…' The words were familiar, but Glokta could not have said why. Old stories and nonsense. He winced. Damn it but his leg hurt.

  'I seem to…' His usual confidence was all ebbing away. The room was icy cold now, he could see his breath smoking before his face. He stumbled up from his chair as his unwelcome visitor came closer, his leg aching with a vengeance. 'What do you want?' he managed to croak.

  The face came into the light. It was none other than Mauthis, from the banking house of Valint and Balk. 'The Seed, Colonel.' And he smiled his joyless smile. 'I want the Seed.'

  'I… I…' Glokta's back found the wall. He could go no further.

  'The Seed!' Now it was Goyle's face, now Sult's, now Severard's, but they all made the same demand. 'The Seed! I lose patience!'

  'Bayaz,' he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed, tears running out from underneath his lids. 'Bayaz knows—'

  'Tap, tap, torturer.' The woman's hissing voice again. A finger-tip jabbed at the side of his head, painfully hard. 'If that old liar knew, it would be mine already. No. You will find it.' He could not speak for fear. 'You will find it, or I will tear the price from your twisted flesh. So tap, tap, time to wake.'

  The finger stabbed at his skull again, digging into the side of his head like a dagger blade. 'Tap, tap, cripple!' hissed the hideous voice in his ear, breath so cold it seemed to burn his bare cheek. 'Tap, tap!'

  Tap, tap.

  For a moment Glokta hardly knew where he was. He jerked upright, struggling with the sheets, staring about him, hemmed in on every side by threatening shadows, his own whimpering breath hissing in his head. Then everything fell suddenly into place. My new apartments. A pleasant breeze stirred the curtains in the sticky night, washing through the one open window. Glokta saw its shadow shifting on the rendered wall. It swung shut against the frame, open, then shut again.

  Tap, tap.

  He closed his eyes and breathed a long sigh. Winced as he sagged back in his bed, stretching his legs out, working his toes against the cramps. Those toes the Gurkish left me, at least. Only another dream. Everything is—

  Then he remembered, and his eyes snapped wide open. The King is dead. Tomorrow we elect a new one.

  The three hundred and twenty papers were hanged, lifeless, from their nails. They had grown more and more creased, battered, greasy and grubby over the past few weeks. As the business itself has slid further into the filth. Many were ink smudged, covered with angrily scrawled notes, with fillings-in and crossings-out. As men were bought and sold, bullied and blackmailed, bribed and beguiled. Many were torn where wax had been removed, added, replaced with other colours. As the allegiances shifted, as the promises were broken, as the balance swung this way and that.

  Arch Lector Sult stood glaring at them, like a shepherd at his troublesome flock, his white coat rumpled, his white hair in disarray. Glokta had never before seen him look anything less than perfectly presented. He must, at last, taste blood. His own. I would almost want to laugh, if my own mouth were not so terribly salty.

  'Brock has seventy-five,' Sult was hissing to himself, white gloved hands fussing with each other behind his back. 'Brock has seventy-five. Isher has fifty-five. Skald and Barezin, forty a piece. Brock has seventy-five…' He muttered the numbers over and over, as though they were a charm to protect him from evil. Or from good, perhaps. 'Isher has fifty-five…'

  Glokta had to suppress a smile. Brock, then Isher, then Skald and Barezin, while the Inquisition and Judiciary struggle over scraps. For all our efforts, the shape of things is much the same as when we began this ugly dance. We might as well have led the country then and saved ourselves the trouble. Perhaps it is still not too late…

  Glokta noisily cleared his throat and Sult's head jerked round. 'You have something to contribute?'

  'In a manner of speaking, your Eminence.' Glokta kept his tone as servile as he possibly could. 'I received some rather… troubling information recently.'

  Sult scowled, and nodded his head at the papers. 'More troubling than this?'

  Equally, at any rate. After all, whoever wins the vote will have but a brief celebration if the Gurkish arrive and slaughter the lot of us a week later. 'It has been suggested to me… that the Gurkish are preparing to invade Midderland.'

  There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Scarcely a promising reception, but we have set sail now. What else to do but steer straight for the storm? 'Invade?' sneered Goyle. 'With what?'

  'It is not the first time I have been told they have a fleet.' Trying desperately to patch my foundering vessel. 'A considerable fleet, built in secret, after the last war. We could easily make some preparations, then if the Gurkish do come—'

  'And what if you are wrong?' The Arch Lector was frowning mightily. 'From whom did this information come?'

  Oh, dear me no, that would never do. Carlot dan Eider? Alive? But how? Body found floating by the docks… 'An anonymous source, Arch Lector.'

  'Anonymous?' His Eminence glowered through narrowed eyes. 'And you would have me go to the Closed Council, at a time like this, and put before them the unproven gossip of your anonymous source?' The waves swamp the deck…

  'I merely wished to alert your Eminence to the possibility—'

  'When are they coming?' The torn sailcloth flaps in the gale…

  'My informant did not—'

  'Where will they land?' The sailors topple screaming from the rigging…

  'Again, your Eminence I cannot—'

  'What will be their numbers?' The wheel breaks off in my shaking hands…

  Glokta winced, and decided not to speak at all.

  'Then kindly refrain from distracting us with rumours,' sneered Sult, his lip twisted with contempt. The ship vanishes beneath the merciless waves, her cargo of precious warnings consigned to the deep, and her captain will not be missed. 'We have more pressing concerns than a legion of Gurkish phantoms!'

  'Of course, your Eminence.' And if the Gurkish come, who will we hang? Oh, Superior Glokta, of course. Why ever did that damn cripple not speak up?

  Sult's mind had already slipped back into its well-worn circles. 'We have thirty-one votes and Marovia has something over twenty. Thirty-one. Not enough to make the difference.' He shook his head grimly, blue eyes darting over the papers. As if there were some new way to look at them that would alter the terrible mathematics. 'Nowhere near enough.'

  'Unless we were to come to an understanding with High Justice Marovia.' Again, a pause, even more uncomfortable than last time. Oh dear. I must have said that out loud.

  'An understanding?' hissed Sult.

  'With Marovia?' squealed Goyle, his eyes bulging with triumph. When the safe options are all exhausted, we must take risks. Is that not what I told myself as I rode down to the bridge, while the Gurkish massed upon the other side? Ah well, once more into the tempest…

  Glokta took a deep breath. 'Marovia's seat on the Closed Council is no safer than anyone else's. We may have been working against each other, but only out of habit. On the subject of this vote our aims are the same. To secure a weak candidate and maintain the balance. Together you have more than fifty votes. That might well be enough to tip the scales.'

  Goyle sneered his contempt. 'Join forces with that peasant-loving hypocrite? Have you lost your reason?'

  'Shut up, Goyle.' Sult glared at Glokta for a long while, his lips pursed in thought. Considering my punishment, perhaps? Another tongue-lashing? Or a real lashing? Or my body found floating— 'You are right. Go and speak to Marovia.'

  Sand dan Glokta, once more the hero! Goyle's jaw hung open. 'But… your Eminence!'

  'The time for pride is far behind us!' snarled Sult. 'We must seize any chance of keeping Brock and the rest from the throne. We must find com
promises, however painful, and we must take whatever allies we can. Go!' he hissed over his shoulder, folding his arms and turning back to his crackling papers. 'Strike a deal with Marovia.'

  Glokta got stiffly up from his chair. A shame to leave such lovely company, but when duty calls… He treated Goyle to the briefest of toothless smiles, then took up his cane and limped for the door.

  'And Glokta!' He winced as he turned back into the room. 'Marovia's aims and ours may meet for now. But we cannot trust him. Tread carefully.'

  'Of course, your Eminence.' I always do. What other choice, when every step is agony?

  The private office of the High Justice was as big as a barn, its ceiling covered in festoons of old moulding, riddled with shadows. Although it was only late afternoon, the thick ivy outside the windows, and the thick grime on the panes, had sunk the place into a perpetual twilight. Tottering heaps of papers were stacked on every surface. Wedges of documents tied with black tape. Piles of leather-bound ledgers. Stacks of dusty parchments in ostentatious, swirling script, stamped with huge seals of red wax and glittering gilt. A kingdom's worth of law, it looked like. And, indeed, it probably is.

  'Superior Glokta, good evening.' Marovia himself was seated at a long table near the empty fireplace, set for dinner, a flickering candelabra making each dish glisten in the gloom. 'I hope you do not mind if I eat while we talk? I would rather dine in the comfort of my rooms, but I find myself eating here more and more. So much to do, you see? And one of my secretaries appears to have taken a holiday unannounced.' A holiday to the slaughterhouse floor, in fact, by way of the intestines of a herd of swine. 'Would you care to join me?' Marovia gestured at a large joint of meat, close to raw in the centre, swimming in bloody gravy.

  Glokta licked at his empty gums as he manoeuvred himself into a chair opposite. 'I would be delighted, your Worship, but the laws of dentistry prevent me.'

  'Ah, of course. Those laws there can be no circumventing, even by a High Justice. You have my sympathy, Superior. One of my greatest pleasures is a good cut of meat, and the bloodier the better. Just show them the flame, I always tell my cook. Just show it to them.' Funny. I tell my Practicals to start the same way. 'And to what do I owe this unexpected visit? Do you come on your own initiative, or at the urging of your employer, my esteemed colleague from the Closed Council, Arch Lector Sult?'

  Your bitter mortal enemy from the Closed Council, do you mean? 'His Eminence is aware that I am here.'

  'Is he?' Marovia carved another slice and lifted it dripping onto his plate. 'And with what message has he sent you? Something relating to tomorrow's business in the Open Council, perhaps?'

  'You spoil my surprise, your Worship. May I speak plainly?'

  'If you know how.'

  Glokta showed the High Justice his empty grin. 'This affair with the vote is a terrible thing for business. The doubt, the uncertainty, the worry. Bad for everyone's business.'

  'Some more than others.' Marovia's knife squealed against the plate as he slit a ribbon of fat from the edge of his meat.

  'Of course. At particular risk are those that sit on the Closed Council, and those that struggle on their behalf. They are unlikely to be given such a free hand if powerful men such as Brock or Isher are voted to the throne.' Some of us, indeed, are unlikely to live out the week.

  Marovia speared a slice of carrot with his fork and stared sourly at it. 'A lamentable state of affairs. It would have been preferable for all concerned if Raynault or Ladisla were still alive.' He thought about it for a moment. 'If Raynault were still alive, at least. But the vote will take place tomorrow, however much we might tear our hair. It is hard now to see our way to a remedy.' He looked from the carrot to Glokta. 'Or do you suggest one?'

  'You, your Worship, control between twenty and thirty votes on the Open Council.'

  Marovia shrugged. 'I have some influence, I cannot deny it.'

  'The Arch Lector can call on thirty votes himself.'

  'Good for his Eminence.'

  'Not necessarily. If the two of you oppose each other, as you always have, your votes will mean nothing. One for Isher, the other for Brock, and no difference made.'

  Marovia sighed. 'A sad end to our two glittering careers.'

  'Unless you were to pool your resources. Then you might have sixty votes between you. As many, almost, as Brock controls. Enough to make a King of Skald, or Barezin, or Heugen, or even some unknown, depending on how things go. Someone who might be more easily influenced in the future. Someone who might keep the Closed Council he has, rather than selecting a new one.'

  'A King to make us all happy, eh?'

  'If you were to express a preference for one man or another, I could take that back to his Eminence.' More steps, more coaxing, more disappointments. Oh, to have a great office of my own, and to sit all day in comfort while cringing bastards slog up my stairs to smile at my insults, lap up my lies, beg for my poisonous support.

  'Shall I tell you what would make me happy, Superior Glokta?'

  Now for the musings of another power-mad old fart. 'By all means, your Worship.'

  Marovia tossed his cutlery onto his plate, sat back in his chair and gave a long, tired sigh. 'I would like no King at all. I would like every man equal under the law, to have a say in the running of his own country and the choosing of his own leaders. I would like no King, and no nobles, and a Closed Council selected by, and answerable to, the citizens themselves. A Closed Council open to all, you might say. What do you think of that?'

  I think some people would say that it sounds very much like treason. The rest would simply call it madness. 'I think, your Worship, that your notion is a fantasy.'

  'Why so?'

  'Because the vast majority of men would far rather be told what to do than make their own choices. Obedience is easy.'

  The High Justice laughed. 'Perhaps you are right. But things will change. This rebellion has convinced me of it. Things will change, by small steps.'

  'I am sure Lord Brock on the throne is one small step none of us would like to see taken.'

  'Lord Brock does indeed have very strong opinions, mostly relating to himself. You make a convincing case, Superior.' Marovia sat back in his chair, hands resting on his belly, staring at Glokta through narrowed eyes. 'Very well. You may tell Arch Lector Sult that this once we have common cause. If a neutral candidate with sufficient support presents themselves, I will have my votes cast along with his. Who could have thought it? The Closed Council united.' He slowly shook his head. 'Strange times indeed.'

  'They certainly are, your Worship.' Glokta struggled to his feet, wincing as he put his weight on his burning leg, and shuffled across the gloomy, echoing space towards the door. Strange, though, that our High Justice is so philosophical on the subject of losing his position tomorrow. I have scarcely ever seen a man look calmer. He paused as he touched the handle of the door. One would almost suppose that he knows something we do not. One might almost suppose that he already has a plan in mind.

  He turned back. 'Can I trust you, High Justice?'

  Marovia looked sharply up, the carving knife poised in his hand. 'What a beautifully quaint question from a man in your line of work. I suppose that you can trust me to act in my own interests. Just as far as I can trust you to do the same. Our deal goes no further than that. Nor should it. You are a clever man, Superior, you make me smile.' And he turned back to his joint of meat, prodding at it with a fork and making the blood run. 'You should find another master.'

  Glokta shuffled out. A charming suggestion. But I already have two more than I'd like.

  The prisoner was a scrawny, sinewy specimen, naked and bagged as usual, with hands manacled securely behind his back. Glokta watched as Frost dragged him into the domed room from the cells, his stumbling bare feet flapping against the cold floor.

  'He wasn't too hard to get a hold of,' Severard was saying. 'He left the others a while ago, but he's been hanging round the city like the smell of piss ever since. We picked
him up yesterday night.'

  Frost flung the prisoner down in the chair. Where am I? Who has me? What do they want? A horrifying moment, just before the work begins. The terror and the helplessness, the sick tingling of anticipation. My own memory of it was sharply refreshed, only the other day, at the hands of the charming Magister Eider. I was set free unmolested, however. The prisoner sat there, head tilted to one side, the canvas on the front of the bag moving back and forth with his hurried breath. I very much doubt that he will be so lucky.

  Glokta's eyes crept reluctantly to the painting above the prisoner's bagged head. Our old friend Kanedias. The painted face stared grimly down from the domed ceiling, the arms spread wide, the colourful fire behind. The Maker fell burning… He weighed the heavy hammer reluctantly in his hand. 'Let's get on with it, then.' Severard snatched the canvas bag away with a showy flourish.

  The Navigator squinted into the bright lamplight, a weather-beaten face, tanned and deeply lined, head shaved, like a priest. Or a confessed traitor, of course.

  'Your name is Brother Longfoot?'

  'Indeed! Of the noble Order of Navigators! I assure you that I am innocent of any crime!' The words came out in rush. 'I have done nothing unlawful, no. That would not be my way at all. I am a law-abiding man, and always have been. I can think of no possible reason why I should be manhandled in this way! None!' His eyes swivelled down and he saw the anvil, gleaming on the floor between him and Glokta, where the table would usually have been. His voice rose an entire octave higher. 'The Order of Navigators is well respected, and I am a member in good standing! Exceptional standing! Navigation is the foremost of my many remarkable talents, it is indeed, the foremost of—'

  Glokta cracked his hammer against the top of the anvil with a clang to wake the dead. 'Stop! Talking!' The little man blinked, and gaped, but he shut up. Glokta sank back in his chair, kneading at his withered thigh, the pain prickling up his back. 'Do you have any notion of how tired I am? Of how much I have to do? The agony of getting out of bed each morning leaves me a broken man before the day even begins, and the present moment is an exceptionally stressful one. It is therefore a matter of the most supreme indifference to me whether you can walk for the rest of your life, whether you can see for the rest of your life, whether you can hold your shit in for the rest of your intensely short, intensely painful life. Do you understand?'