Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  'No!' The queen sprang up, grabbing Shalere's hand in hers. 'No!'

  'Yes,' said Glokta.

  The two women backed away, clinging to each other, Terez in front, shielding the Countess with her body, teeth bared in a warning snarl as the two great shadows approached. One might almost be touched by their evident care for one another, if one was capable of being touched at all. 'Take her. But no marks on the queen, if you please.'

  'No!' screamed Terez. 'I'll have your heads for this! My father… my father is—'

  'On his way back to Talins, and I doubt he'll be starting a war over your friend since birth, in any case. You are bought and paid for, and Duke Orso does not strike me as the type to renege on a deal.'

  The two men and the two women lurched around the far end of the room in an ungainly dance. One of the Practicals seized the Countess by one wrist, dragged her away from the queen's clutching hand and forced her down onto her knees, twisting her arms behind her, snapping heavy irons shut on her wrists. Terez shrieked, punched, kicked, clawed at the other, but she might as well have vented her fury on a tree. The huge man barely moved, his eyes every bit as emotionless as the mask below them.

  Glokta found that he was almost smiling as he watched the ugly scene. I may be crippled, and hideous, and in constant pain, but the humiliation of beautiful women is one pleasure I can still enjoy. I do it now with threats and violence, instead of with soft words and entreaties, but still. Almost as much fun as it ever was.

  One of the Practicals forced a canvas bag over Shalere's head, turning her cries to muffled sobs, then marched her helplessly across the room. The other stayed where he was for a moment, keeping the queen herded into the corner. Then he backed off towards the door. On his way he picked up the chair he had moved and carefully put it back exactly as he had found it.

  'Curse you!' Terez screeched, her clenched fists trembling as the door clicked shut and left the two of them alone. 'Curse you, you twisted bastard! If you harm her—'

  'It will not come to that. Because you have the means of her deliverance well within your grasp.'

  The queen swallowed, chest heaving. 'What must I do?'

  'Fuck.' The word somehow sounded twice as ugly in the beautiful surroundings. 'And bear children. I will give the Countess seven days in the darkness, unmolested. If, at the end of that time, I do not hear that you have set the king's cock on fire every night, I will introduce her to my Practicals. Poor fellows. They get so little exercise. Ten minutes each should do the trick, but there are plenty of them, in the House of Questions. I daresay we can keep your childhood friend quite busy night and day.'

  A spasm of horror passed over Terez' face. And why not? This is a low chapter even for me. 'If I do as you ask?'

  'Then the Countess will be kept quite safe and sound. Once you are verifiably with child, I will return her to you. Things can be as they are now, during the period of your confinement. Two boys, as heirs, two girls, to marry off, and we can be done with one another. The king can find his entertainment elsewhere.'

  'But, that will take years!'

  'You could get it done in three or four, if you really ride him hard. And you might find it makes everyone's lives easier if you at least pretend to enjoy it.'

  'Pretend?' she breathed.

  'The more you seem to like it, the quicker it will be over. The cheapest whore on the docks can squeal for her coppers when the sailors stick her. Are you telling me you cannot squeal for the king of the Union? You offend my patriotic sensibilities! Uh!' he gasped, rolling his eyes in a parody of ecstasy. 'Ah! Yes! Just there! Don't stop!' He curled his lip at her. 'You see? Even I can do it! A liar of your experience should have no difficulty.'

  Her teary eyes darted round the room, as though she were looking for some way out. But there is none. The noble Arch Lector Glokta, protector of the Union, great heart of the Closed Council, paragon of the gentlemanly virtues, displays his flair for politics and diplomacy. He felt some tiny stirring within him as he watched her wretched desperation, some negligible flutter in his guts. Guilt, perhaps? Or indigestion? It hardly matters which, I have learned my lesson. Pity never works for me.

  He took one more slow step forward. 'Your Majesty, I hope you fully understand the alternative.'

  She nodded, and wiped her eyes. Then she proudly raised up her chin. 'I will do as you ask. Please, I beg of you, do not hurt her… please…'

  Please, please, please. Many congratulations, your Eminence. 'You have my word. I will see the Countess has only the best of treatment.' He licked gently at the sour gaps in his teeth. 'And you will do the same with your husband.'

  Jezal sat in the darkness. He watched the fire dance in the great hearth, and he thought about what might have been. He thought about it with some bitterness. All the paths his life could have taken, and he had ended up here. Alone.

  He heard hinges creaking. The small door that connected to the queen's bedchamber crept slowly open. He had never bothered to lock it, from his side. He had not foreseen any circumstance under which she would ever want to use it. Some error of etiquette that he had made, no doubt, for which she could not wait even until morning to admonish him.

  He stood up, quickly, stupidly nervous.

  Terez stepped through the shadowy doorway. She looked so different that at first he hardly recognised her. Her hair was loose, she wore only her shift. She looked humbly towards the ground, her face in darkness. Her bare feet padded across the boards, across the thick carpet towards the fire. She seemed very young, suddenly. Young and small, weak and alone. He watched her, mostly confused, somewhat scared, but also, as she came closer and the firelight caught the shape of her body, ever so slightly aroused.

  'Terez, my…' he fumbled for the word. Darling scarcely seemed to cover it. Nor did love. Worst enemy might have, but it hardly would have helped matters. 'Can I—'

  She cut him off, as ever, but not with the tirade he was expecting. 'I'm sorry for the way that I have treated you. For the things that I have said… you must think me…'

  There were tears in her eyes. Actual tears. He would hardly have believed until that moment that she could cry. He took a hurried step or two towards her, one hand out, no idea of what to do. He had never dared to hope for an apology, and certainly not one so earnestly and honestly delivered.

  'I know,' he stuttered, 'I know… I'm not what you wanted in a husband. I'm sorry for that. But I'm as much a prisoner in this as you are. I only hope… that perhaps we can make the best of it. Perhaps we might find a way… to care for one another? We have no one else, either of us. Please, tell me what I have to do—'

  'Shhhh.' She touched one finger to his lips, looking into his eyes, one half of her face glowing orange from the fire, the other half black with shadow. Her fingers worked through his hair and drew him towards her. She kissed him, gently, awkwardly, almost, their lips brushing, then pressing clumsily together. He slid one hand round behind her neck, under her ear, his thumb stroking at her smooth cheek. Their mouths worked mechanically, accompanied by the soft squeak of breath in his nose, the gentle squelch of spit moving. Hardly the most passionate kiss he had ever enjoyed, but it was a great deal more than he had ever expected to get from her. There was a pleasant tingling building in his crotch as he pushed his tongue into her mouth.

  He ran his other palm down her back, feeling the bumps of her spine under his fingers. He grunted softly as he slid his hand over her arse, down the side of her thigh then up between her legs, the hem of her shift gathering round his wrist. He felt her shudder, felt her flinch, and bite her lip in shock, it seemed, or even in disgust. He jerked his hand back, and they broke apart, both looking at the floor. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, inwardly cursing his eagerness. 'I—'

  'No. It's my fault. I'm not… experienced… with men…' Jezal blinked for a moment, then almost smiled at a surge of relief. Of course. Now everything was clear. She was so assured, so sharp, it had never even occurred to him that she might be a virgin. It was
simple fear that made her tremble so. Fear of disappointing him. He felt a rush of sympathy.

  'Don't worry,' he murmured it softly, stepping forward and taking her in his arms. He felt her stiffen, no doubt with nervousness, and he gently stroked her hair. 'I can wait… we don't have to… not yet.'

  'No.' She said it with a touching determination, looking him fearlessly in the eye. 'No. We do.'

  She dragged her shift up and over her head, let it drop to the floor. She came close to him, took hold of his wrist, guided it back to her thigh, then upwards.

  'Ah,' she whispered, urgent and throaty, her lips brushing his cheek, her breath hot in his ear. 'Yes… just there… don't stop.' She led him breathless to the bed.

  'If that is all?' Glokta looked around the table, but the old men were silent. All waiting for my word. The king was absent again, so he made them wait an unnecessarily long time. Just to stab home to any doubters who is in charge. Why not, after all? The purpose of power is not to be gracious. Then this meeting of the Closed Council is over.'

  They rose, quickly, quietly, and in good order. Torlichorm, Halleck, Kroy and all the rest filed slowly from the room. Glokta himself struggled up, his leg still aching with the memory of the morning's cramps, only to find that the Lord Chamberlain had, once again, remained behind. And he looks far from amused.

  Hoff waited until the door shut before he spoke. 'Imagine my surprise,' he snapped, 'to hear of your recent marriage.'

  'A swift and understated ceremony.' Glokta showed the Lord Chamberlain the wreckage of his front teeth. 'Young love, you understand, brooks no delays. I apologise if the lack of an invitation offended you.'

  'An invitation?' growled Hoff, frowning mightily. 'Hardly! This is not what we discussed!'

  'Discussed? I believe we have a misunderstanding. Our mutual friend,' and Glokta let his eyes move significantly to the empty thirteenth chair at the far end of the table, 'left me in charge. Me. No other. He deems it necessary that the Closed Council speak with one voice. From now on, that voice will sound remarkably like mine.'

  Hoff's ruddy face had paled slightly. 'Of course, but—'

  'You are aware, I suppose, that I lived through two years of torture? Two years in hell, so I can stand before you now. Or lean before you, twisted as an old tree root. A crippled, shambling, wretched mockery of a man, eh, Lord Hoff? Let us be honest with one another. Sometimes I lose control of my own leg. My own eyes. My own face.' He snorted. 'If you can call it a face. My bowels too, are rebellious. I often wake up daubed in my own shit. I find myself in constant pain, and the memories of everything that I have lost nag at me, endlessly.' He felt his left eye twitching. Let it twitch. 'So you can see how, despite my constant efforts to be a man of sunny temper, I find that I despise the world, and everything in it, and myself most of all. A regrettable state of affairs, for which there is no remedy.'

  The Lord Chamberlain licked his lips uncertainly. 'You have my sympathy, but I fail to see the relevance.'

  Glokta came suddenly very close, ignoring a spasm up his leg, pressing Hoff back against the table. 'Your sympathy is less than worthless, and the relevance is this. Knowing what I am, what I have endured, what I still endure… can you suppose there is anything in this world I fear? Any act I will shrink from? The most unbearable pain of others is at the worst… an irritation to me.' Glokta jerked even closer, letting his lips work back from his ruined teeth, letting his face tremble, and his eye weep. 'Knowing all that… can you possibly think it wise… for a man to stand where you stand now… and make threats? Threats against my wife? Against my unborn child?'

  'No threat was intended, of course, I would never—'

  'That simply would not do, Lord Hoff! That simply would not do. At the very slightest breath of violence against them… why, I would not wish you even to imagine the inhuman horror of my response.'

  Closer yet, so close that his spit made a soft mist across Hoff's trembling jowls. 'I cannot permit any further discussion of this issue. Ever. I cannot permit even the rumour that there might be an issue. Ever. It simply… would… not… do, Lord Hoff, for an eyeless, tongueless, faceless, fingerless, cockless bag of meat to be occupying your chair on the Closed Council.' He stepped away, grinning his most revolting grin. 'Why, my Lord Chamberlain… who would drink all the wine?'

  It was a beautiful autumn day in Adua, and the sun shone pleasantly through the branches of the fragrant fruit trees, casting a dappled shade onto the grass beneath. A pleasing breeze fluttered through the orchard, stirring the crimson mantle of the king as he strode regally around his lawn, and the white coat of his Arch Lector as he hobbled doggedly along at a respectful distance, stooped over his cane. Birds twittered from the trees, and his Majesty's highly polished boots crunched in the gravel and made faint, agreeable echoes against the white buildings of the palace.

  From the other side of the high walls came the faint sound of distant work. The clanking of picks and hammers, the scraping of earth and the clattering of stone. The faint calls of the carpenters and the masons. These were the most pleasant sounds of all, to Jezal's ear. The sounds of rebuilding.

  'It will take time, of course,' he was saying.

  'Of course.'

  'Years, perhaps. But much of the rubble is already cleared. The repair of some of the more lightly damaged buildings has already begun. The Agriont will be more glorious than ever before you know it. I have made it my highest priority.'

  Glokta bowed his head even lower. 'And therefore mine, and that of your Closed Council. Might I enquire…' he murmured, 'after the health of your wife, the queen?'

  Jezal worked his mouth. He hardly liked discussing his personal business with this man, of all people, but it could not be denied that whatever the cripple had said, there had been a most dramatic improvement.

  'A material change.' Jezal shook his head. 'I find now that she is a woman of almost… insatiable appetites.'

  'I am delighted that my entreaties have had an effect.'

  'Oh, they have, they have, only there is still a certain…' Jezal waved his hand in the air, searching out the right word. 'Sadness in her. Sometimes… I hear her crying, in the night. She stands at the open window, and she weeps, for hours at a time.'

  'Crying, your Majesty? Perhaps she is merely homesick. I always suspected she was a much gentler spirit than she appears to be.'

  'She is! She is. A gentle spirit.' Jezal thought about it for a moment. 'Do you know, I think you may be right. Homesick.' A plan began to take shape in his mind. 'Perhaps we should have the gardens of the palace redesigned, to give a flavour of Talins? We could have the stream altered, in the likeness of canals, and so forth!'

  Glokta leered his toothless grin. 'A sublime idea. I shall speak to the Royal Gardener. Perhaps another brief word with her Majesty as well, to see if I can staunch her tears.'

  'I would appreciate whatever you can do. How is your own wife?' he tossed over his shoulder, hoping to change the subject, then realising he had strayed onto one even more difficult.

  But Glokta only showed his empty smile again. 'She is a tremendous comfort to me, your Majesty. I really don't know how I ever managed without her.'

  They moved on in awkward silence for a moment, then Jezal cleared his throat. 'I've been thinking, Glokta, about that scheme of mine. You know, about a tax on the banks? Perhaps to pay for a new hospital near the docks. For those who cannot afford a surgeon. The common folk have been good to us. They have helped us to power, and suffered in our name. A government should offer something to all its people, should it not? The more mean, the more base, the more they need our help. A king is only truly as rich as his poorest subject, do you not think? Would you have the High Justice draw something up? Small to begin with, then we can go further. Free housing, perhaps, for those who find themselves without a home. We should consider—'

  'Your Majesty, I have spoken to our mutual friend of this.'

  Jezal stopped dead, a cold feeling creeping up his spine. 'You
have?'

  'I fear that I am obliged to.' The cripple's tone was that of a servant, but his sunken eyes did not stray from Jezal's for a moment. 'Our friend is… not enthusiastic'

  'Does he rule the Union, or do I?' But they both knew the answer to that question well enough.

  'You are king, of course.'

  'Of course.'

  'But our mutual friend… we would not wish to disappoint him.' Glokta came a limping step closer, his left eye giving a repulsive flutter. 'Neither one of us, I am sure, would want to encourage a visit to Adua… on his part.'

  Jezal's knees felt suddenly very weak. The faint memory of that awful, unbearable pain nagged at his stomach. 'No,' he croaked, 'no, of course not.'

  The cripple's voice was only just above a whisper. 'Perhaps, in time, funds could be found for some small project. Our friend cannot see everything, after all, and what he does not see will do no harm. I am sure between the two of us, quietly… we could do some little good. But not yet.'

  'No. You are right, Glokta. You have a fine sense for these things. Do nothing that would cause the least offence. Please inform our friend that his opinions will always be valued above all others. Please tell our good friend that he can rely on me. Will you tell him that, please?'

  'I will, your Majesty. He will be delighted to hear it.'

  'Good,' murmured Jezal. 'Good.' A chilly breeze had blown up, and he turned back towards the palace, pulling his cloak around him. It was not, in the end, quite so pleasant a day as he had hoped it might be.

  * * *

  Loose Ends

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  A grubby white box with two doors facing each other. The ceiling was too low for comfort, the room too brightly lit by blazing lamps. Damp was creeping out of one corner and the plaster had erupted with flaking blisters, speckled with black mould. Someone had tried to scrub a long bloodstain from the wall, but hadn't tried nearly hard enough.