He still looked somewhat leonine, if you squinted, but young had become a hell of a stretch. There was a premature greying to that golden hair and beard. A leaching out of all his colour. He had an expression of well-earned satisfaction as he watched Orso climb the scaffold. One might have liked to blame it on a total lack of empathy or imagination, but the truth, as everyone knew, was that Leo dan Brock knew exactly how it felt to face the noose.
Some people, Orso supposed, can never forgive being forgiven.
The Lord Regent glanced sideways at his wife, like a winning squares player at their beaten opponent.
But Savine did not meet his eye. Most observers might have thought she was relaxed, a wealthy patron in her box at the theatre. But Orso knew her better than that. Better than anyone, maybe. He saw the muscles of her jaw clenching. Her knuckles white with pressure on the rail. He knew at a glance this was as much of a shock to her as to anyone.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back. A small smile, at the corner of her mouth, but he saw it. He knew what it meant. Perhaps every person is alone, in the end. But in that moment, it seemed they understood each other. Forgave each other. Loved each other still, perhaps, even now. He did not think he had ever let her down. Not in any of the ways that really mattered. That was something. Then she swallowed, and looked to the ground, and the moment was gone.
Orso doubted he would share a profound last glance with any of the other attendees. Lords Isher and Heugen looked smug, but if you let other people’s smugness make you angry you’ll be angry all the time. Brock’s men Jurand and Glaward looked sombre. Decent enough people, probably, if they’d had a different master. You find decent people on every side, after all, as Orso’s father had been fond of saying. It was a surprise to see Selest dan Heugen, more soberly dressed than had been her habit, but some people seem always to float to the top. Then there was a bony man Orso only vaguely recognised wearing Arch Lector’s white. And there was Curnsbick looking slightly ill, and that fellow with the big jowls, and that fellow with the pointy nose who had once been in the King’s Own, what the hell were their names?
It had been impossible to predict even six months ago but these, it seemed, were the winners. Those who would steer the Union into the future. Each with their talents, their rivalries, their ambitions. Probably no worse than his own Closed Council had been. Probably no better than the Closed Councils of his father, of King Guslav, King Casamir, King Arnault, and all the way back to the first Harod, namesake of the new.
“I must admit it’s a rather disappointing turnout,” called Orso. “Still, I understand. I’ve always hated hangings myself. And here’s one I’m particularly reluctant to attend!” He barked a laugh. No one joined him. “Dear me. Who would’ve thought I’d be the only one to keep my sense of humour?”
Tricky, with his hands tied, but he managed to nudge the executioner in the ribs with his elbow. “Lovely day for it, at least.” He squinted up at the blue sky. The few shreds of cloud, slowly shifting. “Looks like it’ll be a fine summer.” It made him terribly sad, suddenly, to think he wouldn’t see it. He covered it up with a chuckle. “For you, at least.”
The executioner, somewhat apologetically, offered him a hood.
“Thank you, but no. I’ve attended a few of these things. Let’s not pretend that’s for my benefit.” Damn, he wanted to scratch his nose, but his hands were tied behind his back. He wriggled it a little, but that only made it worse. Ridiculous, to die with an itchy nose. He raised his brows significantly. “I don’t suppose you could just—”
The executioner squinted through his eyeholes as he gently scratched the rim of Orso’s nostril.
“Ah, that’s good. A little to the right… perfect.”
The man reached up, pulled down the noose, secured it around Orso’s neck.
“Nice and tight, there’s a good fellow.” Orso winked at him. “So hard to find a good valet these days.”
The Young Lion looked somewhat nettled. “Have you anything to say?” he snapped.
“Too much, usually,” called Orso, “but I’ll try to keep it brief, I know you have a country to ruin.” The trapdoor creaked under his feet as he stepped forwards.
“Don’t grieve for me!” He glanced about the audience, brows high. “No? No one? The truth is, at my best, I’ve been a barely adequate king. My father’s son, I daresay. Though allow me to take just a little pride in my victory against the odds at Stoffenbeck. Unfortunate timing, to take the throne with not one but two bloody revolts on the way, but that’s no excuse, really. There’s always something horrible on the way, after all. You’ll see. Not that I bear any of you ill will, you understand. Ill will is too heavy a thing to carry through life, let alone up onto a scaffold, and it’s useless in a fight in any case.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the executioner wrap his hands around the lever.
“Well! I think I’m being given the signal to finish up. To my sister, Savine…” He grinned over at her. The way he used to, when they were together, in Sworbreck’s office. When he had just thought of the best joke. One he knew she would love. That was how he wanted her to think of him. As he had been. As they had been. “I take some comfort in knowing you’ll be a far better ruler than I ever was. We have had our differences, but you remain the woman I most admire. And, let’s be honest, the only one I’ve ever loved.” He was gratified to see a tear slide down her cheek. It was not as if it had all been worth it, for one tear, but it was something. He grinned at the Lord Regent. “To her husband, Leo dan Brock, I can only say… how’s your leg?”
He gave one last chuckle, and it became a sigh. “Let’s get on with it,” he said.
There was a clatter as the trap dropped open.
The Villain
Leo had won.
He’d faced crushing defeats. He’d suffered terrible losses. But he’d won a victory bigger than anyone could’ve believed. He sat at the head of the Closed Council. The most powerful man in the Union. In the Circle of the World, maybe. Who’d dare deny it?
The Burners had used the White Chamber as a stable. A little fuck yourself from Judge to the old regime which had left the place smelling faintly of horse however thoroughly it was scrubbed. The table and chairs were the same ones King Jezal’s Closed Council had used—as battered and scarred as Leo was—but he’d ordered them left in their places. A timely reminder to anyone he let sit in here that they could always be replaced.
The chosen few filed in respectfully. First came Leo’s old friends, Lord Chamberlain Jurand and Lord Marshal Glaward. They sat down grinning on his left and right and Leo grinned to see them there. It reminded him for a moment of those high old times. Until he remembered everything he’d sacrificed to win. Everyone he’d sacrificed. He wished Antaup, and Jin, and Barniva, and Ritter were there, too. But wishing does no good.
Lord Admiral Heugen and Lord Chancellor Isher were the next to enter, sporting more gold thread between them than a set of palace curtains, uniforms as splendid as their military records were wretched. The best men on the Open Council. Or at any rate the best runners.
Two bureaucrats followed. Victarine dan Teufel’s sudden disappearance—
to the bottom of the canal, he hoped—had left the Arch Lector’s chair open for Lorsen, Superior of Westport, who seemed a man untroubled by conscience. High Consul Flassenbeck was one of the few officials of the old government lucky and cunning enough to tiptoe alive through the purges. They were hardly the sort of men that Leo admired, but he supposed someone had to take care of the details, and luck, cunning and lack of conscience were certainly qualities his new Union would need.
Finally came the four freshly minted Ministers. People who understood the modern world, supposedly. Jurand had pleaded with Leo to give Savine that much, and pointed out the magic she’d worked on the government of Angland, and in the end he’d grudgingly admitted it made sense. Inventors and industrialists in shiny civilian clothing and, at the back, having toned down the bo
som somewhat but still smelling strongly of roses, none other than Selest dan Heugen. A woman in the White Chamber would’ve caused uproar a few years ago, but progress and all that. Leo saw no harm in having something ornamental to look at as long as she remembered her place.
He winced as they grovelled their greetings and slipped into their seats. He’d won. There was no denying it. But the stump of his leg hurt no less. His metal-riddled arm felt no more. There was that same bitter tang in the gap in his teeth. His temper, if anything, was shorter than ever.
He’d won, but it was nothing like his victory over Stour Nightfall in the Circle. No adoration from the crowds, only fear and suspicion. No surge of joy, only a nagging dissatisfaction. No hugs from his friends. He’d led most of them to their deaths.
He was surprised when he heard the door shut and the Lady Regent glided in. She could barely stand to look at him these days, let alone spend time in the same room. The way things were, he’d have been shocked if they ever fucked again, but he didn’t miss it. Since he lost his leg it had gone from what felt like work to what felt like humiliation. She could keep her quim to herself, and he’d take everything else, and consider it a fair division of the assets.
“Joining us, Your Highness?” he asked.
“Since there is a seat free.” She calmly met his eye as she arranged herself with even more than usually regal bearing in the tall chair at the foot of the table. The one that for centuries had sat empty for the First of the Magi. “Not expecting Bayaz, are we?”
Those might’ve been the first words they’d exchanged since the hanging. The slightest thaw in the winter of their marriage? Or more likely her ruthless, realistic self was worming its way back to the surface, and she was making the best of what she couldn’t change. She’d always been a woman who liked to win. But if she intended to fight him now, she’d better get used to the taste of dirt.
“I think we’re all here.” Leo sat forwards, setting his clenched fist on the table. “We have a new Closed Council. Young. Hungry. A dozen men—and women—ready to reforge the Union for a new age.”
There was polite applause. From everyone except Savine. She sat with that icy dignity she specialised in, glaring down the long table at Leo as though she could taste piss. But he wasn’t about to let her wounded fucking feelings spoil his moment.
“It grieves me to say that the nation is weak,” he growled, grinding his fist into the wood. “The rot was already setting in long before the Great Change. The army is in demoralised tatters. We have to give the men back their pride! Their purpose!”
Glaward clapped his hands. “Well said, Your Highness.”
“We could start by returning the Square of Marshals to its former glory. Those names underfoot are… an ugly reminder of things better forgotten. The ruined flagstones must be replaced so we can have drills, parades, manoeuvres, demonstrations of the Union’s strength—”
“I feel that would be a mistake,” said Savine.
Leo licked sourly at the hole in his teeth. “You shock me.”
“It should remain the Square of Martyrs,” she said, holding his eye in a challenge he did not at all appreciate. “If we sponge away the evidence of our failures, how are we ever to learn from them? We should leave the names of those who died for the Great Change and add the names of those who died in it. Let us commemorate the horrors of the old regime and the new, in the hope that we shall never repeat them. We must have a better Union.” Her knuckles were white as she clenched her own fist on the tabletop. “It cannot all be for nothing. It cannot.”
There was a thoughtful silence, then Curnsbick slowly nodded. “Very well said, Your Highness.”
Leo frowned sideways at Jurand. He was looking back earnestly, his brow lightly wrinkled, like a puppy begging for a treat. The look he always used to have, when Leo’s mother voiced some guff that he agreed with.
“Well.” Leo worked his mouth, then with an effort forced his lips into the thinnest of smiles. “Far be it from me to deny the Darling of the Slums a sentimental gesture or two. Call the place whatever you like. The larger point remains. We face threats on every border. Our fortresses are neglected and our navy outdated. The first order of business must be the reinforcement and renewal of the king’s military—”
“The Lord Regent makes an excellent point,” interrupted Savine, “which is why our first order of business must be money. King Jezal’s administration made many blunders, but their worst was spending what they did not have.”
Everyone turned to look at Leo. “We all know that,” he grunted. He needed no lecture on not making the same mistake twice.
“As a solid financial foundation we need a new system of taxation,” said Savine. “Minister for Revenue Vallimir?”
“Sweeping reform, root and branch.” Vallimir began to hand out neatly bound sheaves of printed paper. Down at that end of the table, it seemed they’d come armed. “You will see various proposals here. Increased levies on land and wealth, abolition of privileged categories and venal offices, tariffs on mercantile and industrial activity, strong measures against corruption.”
“We cannot look back,” said Curnsbick, peering over his eye-lenses. “We must avoid the ruinous debts which poisoned King Jezal’s reign.”
“The Great Change freed us from the tyranny of the banks, at least,” observed Kort.
Isher leafed through the papers with an ever-deeper frown. “Only to chain us all under the yoke of the tax collector?”
They began to argue, and tediously. Proportions, allowances, exemptions. Leo scarcely understood the issues. It almost made him wish he’d paid closer attention to his mother during those boring meetings of his council back in Angland. But not quite.
He sank into his chair, wishing he’d brought wine. He belonged in the saddle. Or perhaps some kind of open carriage would be less painful? He belonged near other men in the saddle, anyway. His eyes drifted sideways to Jurand. On campaign, with the wind behind them and an enemy in front, calling for the charge with a sword in his hand!
“We need money to rebuild,” Kort was saying.
“To modernise,” said Curnsbick.
“To mount a summer fencing Contest this year?” offered Selest. “A beloved tradition to give the people inspiration, reassurance and common purpose.”
“An excellent idea,” and Savine tapped the table approvingly with her fingertips.
Leo smashed it with his fist, jerking the faces back towards him where they belonged.
“We need money for our forces! Cannons. Ships. What use is progress if it can’t be made into a weapon? Union arms must be respected again. We have to strangle our enemies at sea and crush them on land. We need to be feared.” Smashing the table had worked once so he did it again, even harder, making a heap of papers slump over in front of Kort. “We should press a claim on the city of Sipani.”
There was a nervous silence. The High Consul cleared his throat. “On what basis, Your Highness?”
“You’ll think of something.”
Loaded glances crossed the table. “But… Sipani has long been considered neutral.”
“The Snake of Talins once captured the city,” grumbled Lorsen, “but even
she did not presume to keep it. We would provoke a furious response
from the Styrians—”
“I’m bloody counting on it,” said Leo.
Glaward and Heugen nodded along, but even Jurand didn’t look convinced. He’d gone from the bloody begging look to the bloody pained look. Next he’d be quoting Stolicus on the virtues of patience.
Savine looked evenly at him down the table. “King Jezal fought three wars against the Styrians. All he achieved was to waste millions, kill thousands and pour the Union’s prestige down the sewer. We must modernise our military, undoubtedly. We must protect our interests, of course. But we have far more to gain through trade with Styria than war. I suggest we invite King Jappo on a state visit to Adua to discuss areas of mutual interest—”
> “What mutual interest could we have with that fucking degenerate?” sneered Leo.
“Styria is a growing market,” observed Kort, jowls wobbling.
“Tremendous opportunities,” burbled Curnsbick.
“It could be… a pragmatic solution,” grated Arch Lector Lorsen.
Savine shrugged. “Sometimes there are better ways to get what you want than through force.”
Perhaps there were, but Leo wasn’t interested in them, and he certainly wasn’t interested in wasting more breath on the subject. “Let’s put it to a vote,” he snapped. “Those in favour of laying claim to Sipani?”
He threw up a careless hand and arms shot up along with it. Jurand’s, Glaward’s, Lord Heugen’s… but that was all. Further down the table, no one moved. Leo stared at them, unable to believe it. It was like Stoffenbeck all over again, looking out as the sun came up, sure of victory, and finding to his cold dismay the enemy had been reinforced.
As if to rub it in, Savine let the silence stretch a few more awkward moments before she calmly spoke. “Those in favour of a state visit?”
Hands went up more slowly, but no less decisively, and there were a lot more of them. It was no surprise that Savine’s four stooges might want to vote her way, but it was a shock they had the guts to do it. It was an even bigger one that Flassenbeck and Lorsen might dare to defy him, but Leo supposed you should never trust bureaucrats, especially those who’ve survived purges. It was the final betrayal that truly beggared belief, though. Lord Chancellor Isher, in the seat Leo had just given him, politely raised his braid-heavy arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?” whispered Leo.
Isher cleared his throat. “Agreeing with Her Highness the Lady Regent,” he droned, careful not to meet Leo’s eye. “We have far more to gain through trade with Styria than war.”
Meaning he had more to gain. Leo wanted to call him a backstabbing coward to his face, then demand to know what Savine had bribed him with, but he was so flabbergasted he couldn’t find the breath. He looked across at Jurand, and Jurand stared back, pale with shock. Evidently this was one outflanking that a careful study of Stolicus hadn’t prepared him for.
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