‘What poise, what grace,’ Jalenhorm was rhapsodising, ‘that wonderful fair hair, that milky-white skin, those fantastic blue eyes.’
‘And all of that money.’
‘Well yes, that too,’ smiled the big man. ‘Kaspa says his uncle is even richer than his father. Imagine that! And he has just the one child. She will inherit every mark of it. Every mark!’ Jalenhorm could scarcely contain his excitement. ‘It’s a lucky man that can bag her! What was her name again?’
‘Ariss,’ said Jezal sourly. The Lords, or their proxies, had all shuffled and grumbled their way to their seats. It was a poor attendance: the benches were less than half full. That was about as full as it ever got. If the Lords’ Round really had been a theatre, its owners would have been desperately in search of a new play.
‘Ariss. Ariss.’ Jalenhorm smacked his lips as though the name left a sweet taste. ‘It’s a lucky man that gets her.’
‘Yes indeed. A lucky man.’ Providing he prefers cash to conversation, that is. Jezal thought he might have preferred to marry the governess. At least she had seemed to have a bit of backbone.
The Lord Chamberlain had entered the hall now, and was making his way towards the dais on which the high table stood, just about where the stage would have been, had the Round been a theatre. He was followed by a gaggle of black-gowned secretaries and clerks, each man more or less encumbered with heavy books and sheaves of official-looking papers. With his crimson robes of state flapping behind him, Lord Hoff looked like nothing so much as a rare and stately gliding bird, pursued by a flock of troublesome crows.
‘Here comes old vinegar,’ whispered Jalenhorm, as he sidled off to find his place on the other side of the table. Jezal put his hands behind his back and struck the usual pose, feet a little spread, chin high in the air. He swept an eye over the soldiers, regularly spaced around the curved wall, but each man was motionless and perfectly presented in full armour, as always. He took a deep breath and prepared himself for several hours of the most extreme tedium.
The Lord Chamberlain threw himself into his tall chair and called for wine. The secretaries took their places around him, leaving a space in the centre for the King, who was absent as usual. Documents were rustled, great ledgers were heaved open, pens were sharpened and rattled in ink wells. The Announcer walked to the end of the table and struck his staff of office on the floor for order. The whispering of the noblemen and their proxies, and that of the few attendees in the public gallery over their heads, gradually died down, leaving the vast chamber silent.
The Announcer puffed out his chest. ‘I call this meeting,’ he said, in slow and sonorous tones, as though he were giving the eulogy at a funeral, ‘of the Open Council of the Union . . .’ he gave an unnecessarily long and significant pause. The Lord Chamberlain’s eyes flicked angrily towards him, but the Announcer was not to be robbed of his moment of glory. He made everyone wait an instant longer before finishing, ‘. . . to order!’
‘Thank you,’ said Hoff sourly. ‘I believe we were about to hear from the Lord Governor of Dagoska before we were interrupted by luncheon.’ The scratching nibs of quills accompanied his voice, as two clerks recorded his every word. The faint echoes of the pens merged with the echoes of his words in the great space above.
An elderly man struggled to his feet in the front row close to Jezal, some papers clasped before him in shaky hands.
‘The Open Council,’ droned the Announcer, as ponderously as he dared, ‘recognises Rush dan Thuel, accepted proxy of Sand dan Vurms, the Lord Governor of Dagoska!’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Thuel’s cracking, wispy voice was absurdly small in the vast space. It barely carried as far as Jezal, and he was no more than ten strides away. ‘My Lords—’ he began.
‘Speak up!’ called someone from the back. There was a ripple of laughter. The old man cleared his throat and tried again.
‘My Lords, I come before you with an urgent message from the Lord Governor of Dagoska.’ His voice had already faded to its original, barely audible level, each word accompanied by the persistent scratching of quills. Whispers began to emanate from the public gallery above, making it still harder to hear him. ‘The threat posed to that great city by the Emperor of Gurkhul increases with every passing day.’
Vague sounds of disapproval began to float up from the far side of the room, where the representatives from Angland were seated, but the bulk of the councillors simply looked bored. ‘Attacks on shipping, harassment of traders, and demonstrations beyond our walls, have compelled the Lord Governor to send me—’
‘Lucky us!’ somebody shouted. There was another wave of laughter, slightly louder this time.
‘The city is built on but a narrow peninsula,’ persisted the old man, straining to make himself heard over the increasing background noise, ‘attached to a land controlled entirely by our bitter enemies the Gurkish, and separated from Midderland by wide leagues of salt water! Our defences are not all they might be! The Lord Governor is sorely in need of more funds . . .’
The mention of funds brought instant uproar from the assembly. Thuel’s mouth was still moving, but there was no chance of hearing him now. The Lord Chamberlain frowned and took a swallow from his goblet. The clerk furthest from Jezal had laid down his quill and was rubbing his eyes with his inky thumb and forefinger. The clerk closest had just finished writing a line. Jezal craned forward to see. It said simply:
Some shouting here.
The Announcer thumped his staff on the tiles with a look of great self-satisfaction. The hubbub eventually died down but Thuel had now been taken with a coughing fit. He tried to speak but was unable, and eventually he waved his hand and sat down, very red in the face, while his neighbour thumped him on the back.
‘If I may, Lord Chamberlain?’ shouted a fashionable young man in the front row on the other side of the hall, leaping to his feet. The scratching of the quills began once again. ‘It seems to me—’
‘The Open Council,’ cut in the Announcer, ‘recognises Hersel dan Meed, third son and accepted proxy of Fedor dan Meed, the Lord Governor of Angland!’
‘It seems to me,’ continued the handsome young man, only slightly annoyed by this interruption, ‘that our friends in the south are forever expecting a full-scale attack by the Emperor!’ Dissenting voices were now raised on the other side of the room. ‘An attack which never materialises! Did we not defeat the Gurkish only a few short years ago, or does my memory deceive me?’ The booing increased in volume. ‘This scaremongering represents an unacceptable drain on the Union’s resources!’ He was shouting to be heard. ‘In Angland we have many miles of border and too few soldiers, while the threat from Bethod and his Northmen is very real! If anyone is in need of funds . . .’
The shouting was instantly redoubled. Cries of ‘Hear, hear!’, ‘Nonsense!’, ‘True!’ and ‘Lies!’ could be vaguely made out over the hubbub. Several of the representatives were on their feet, shouting. Some vigorously nodded their agreement, some violently shook their heads in dissent. Others yawned and stared around. Jezal could see one fellow, near to the back in the centre, who was almost certainly asleep, and in imminent danger of slumping into his neighbour’s lap.
He allowed his eyes to wander up, over the faces ranged around the rail of the public gallery. He felt a strange tugging in his chest. Ardee West was up there, looking straight down at him. As their eyes met she smiled and waved. He was smiling himself, with his arm halfway up to wave, when he remembered where he was. He pushed his arm behind his back and looked around nervously, but was relieved to find that no one important had noticed his mistake. The smile would not quite leave his face though.
‘My Lords!’ roared the Lord Chamberlain, smashing his empty goblet down on the high table. He had the loudest voice Jezal had ever heard. Even Marshal Varuz could have learned a thing or two about shouting from Hoff. The sleeping man near the back started up, sniffing and blinking. The noise died away almost immediately. Those representatives left standing
looked around guiltily, like naughty children called to account, and gradually sat down. The whispers from the public gallery went still. Order was restored.
‘My Lords! I can assure you, the King has no more serious concern than the safety of his subjects, no matter where they are! The Union does not permit aggression against its people or property!’ Hoff punctuated each comment by smashing his fist down in front of him. ‘From the Emperor of Gurkhul, from these savages in the North, or from anyone else!’ He struck the table so hard on this last comment that ink splashed from a well and ran all over one of the clerks’ carefully prepared documents. Calls of agreement and support greeted the Lord Chamberlain’s patriotic display.
‘As for the specific circumstance of Dagoska!’ Thuel looked up hopefully, chest still shaking with suppressed coughs. ‘Is that city not possessed of some of the most powerful and extensive defences in the world? Did it not resist a siege by the Gurkish, less than a decade ago, for over a year? What has become of the walls, sir, the walls?’ The great room fell quiet as everyone strained to hear the reply.
‘Lord Chamberlain,’ wheezed Thuel, his voice nearly drowned out as one of the clerks turned the crackling page of his huge book and began scratching on the next, ‘the defences have fallen into poor repair, and we lack the soldiers to keep them properly manned. The Emperor is not ignorant of this,’ he whispered, all but inaudible, ‘I beg of you . . .’ He dissolved into another fit of coughing, and dropped into his seat, accompanied by some light jeering from the Angland delegation.
Hoff frowned even more deeply. ‘It was my understanding that the defences of the city were to be maintained by monies raised locally, and by trade levies upon the Honourable Guild of Spicers, who have operated in Dagoska under an exclusive and highly profitable licence these past seven years. If resources cannot be found even to maintain the walls,’ and he swept the assembly with a dark eye, ‘perhaps it is time that this licence was put out to tender.’ There was a volley of angry mutterings around the public gallery.
‘In any case, the Crown can spare no extra monies at present!’ Jeers of dissatisfaction came from the Dagoska side of the room, hoots of agreement from the Angland side.
‘As for the specific circumstance of Angland!’ thundered the Lord Chamberlain, turning toward Meed. ‘I believe we may shortly hear some good news, for you to take back to your father the Lord Governor.’ A cloud of excited whisperings rose up into the gilded dome above. The handsome young man looked pleasantly surprised, as well he might. It was rare indeed that anyone took good news away from the Open Council, or news of any kind for that matter.
Thuel had got control of his lungs once more, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by a great beating on the huge door behind the high table. The Lords looked up: surprised, expectant. The Lord Chamberlain smiled, in the manner of a magician who has just pulled off an exceptionally difficult trick. He signalled to the guards, the heavy iron bolts were drawn back, and the great, inlaid doors creaked slowly open.
Eight Knights of the Body, encased in glittering armour, faceless behind high, polished helmets, resplendent in purple cloaks marked on the back with a golden sun, stomped in unison down the steps and took their places to either side of the high table. They were closely followed by four trumpeters, who stepped smartly forward, raised their shining instruments to their lips and blew an ear-splitting fanfare. Jezal gritted his rattling teeth and narrowed his eyes, but eventually the ringing echoes faded. The Lord Chamberlain turned angrily toward the Announcer, who was staring at the new arrivals with his mouth open.
‘Well?’ hissed Hoff.
The Announcer jumped to life. ‘Ah . . . yes of course! My Lords and Ladies, I have the great honour to present . . .’ he paused and took a huge breath, ‘. . . his Imperial Highness, the King of Angland, of Starikland, and of Midderland, the Protector of Westport and of Dagoska, his August Majesty, Guslav the Fifth, High King of the Union!’ There was a great rustling noise as every man and woman in the hall shifted from their seats and down onto one knee.
The royal palanquin processed slowly through the doors, carried on the shoulders of six more faceless knights. The King was sitting in a gilded chair on top, propped up on rich cushions and swaying gently from side to side. He was staring about him with the startled expression of a man who went to sleep drunk, and has woken up in an unfamiliar room.
He looked awful. Enormously fat, lolling like a great hill swathed in fur and red silk, head squashed into his shoulders by the weight of the great, sparkling crown. His eyes were glassy and bulging, with huge dark bags hanging beneath, and the pink point of his tongue kept flicking nervously over his pale lips. He had great low jowls and a roll of fat around his neck, in fact his whole face gave the appearance of having slightly melted and started to run down off his skull. Such was the High King of the Union, but Jezal bowed his head a little lower as the palanquin approached, just the same.
‘Oh,’ muttered his August Majesty, as though he had forgotten something, ‘please rise.’ The rustling noise filled the hall again as everybody rose and returned to their seats. The King turned toward Hoff, brow deeply furrowed, and Jezal heard him say, ‘Why am I here?’
‘The Northmen, your Majesty.’
‘Oh yes!’ The King’s eyes lit up. He paused. ‘What about them?’
‘Er . . .’ but the Lord Chamberlain was saved from replying by the opening of the doors on the opposite side of the hall, the ones through which Jezal had first entered. Two strange men strode through and advanced down the aisle.
One was a grizzled old warrior with a scar and a blind eye, carrying a flat wooden box. The other was cloaked and hooded, every feature hidden, and so big that he made the whole hall seem out of proportion. The benches, the tables, even the guards, all suddenly looked like small versions designed for the use of children. As he passed, a couple of the representatives closest to the aisle cringed and shuffled away. Jezal frowned to himself. This hooded giant did not have the look of good news, whatever Lord Hoff might say. Angry and suspicious mutterings filled the echoing dome as the two Northmen took their places on the tiled floor before the high table.
‘Your Majesty,’ said the Announcer, bowing so ridiculously low that he had to support himself with his staff, ‘the Open Council recognises Fenris the Feared, the envoy of Bethod, King of the Northmen, and his translator, White-Eye Hansul!’
The King was staring off happily towards one of the great windows in the curved wall, utterly oblivious, perhaps admiring the way the light shone through the beautiful stained glass, but he looked suddenly round, jowls vibrating, as the old half-blind warrior addressed him.
‘Your Majesty. I bring brotherly greetings from my master, Bethod, King of the Northmen.’ The Round had fallen very still, and the clerks’ scratching nibs seemed absurdly loud. The old warrior nodded at the great hooded shape beside him with an awkward smile. ‘Fenris the Feared brings an offer from Bethod to yourself. From King to King. From the North to the Union. An offer, and a gift.’ And he raised the wooden box.
The Lord Chamberlain gave a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Speak your offer first.’
‘It is an offer of peace. An endless peace between our two great nations.’ White-Eye bowed again. His manners were impeccable, Jezal had to admit. Not what one would expect from savages of the cold and distant North. His goodly speech would almost have been enough to put the room at ease, had it not been for the hooded man beside him, looming like a dark shadow.
The King’s face twitched into a weak smile at this mention of peace however. ‘Good,’ he muttered. ‘Excellent. Peace. Capital. Peace is good.’
‘He asks but one small thing in return,’ said White-Eye.
The Lord Chamberlain’s face had turned suddenly dour, but it was too late. ‘He has but to name it,’ said the King, smiling indulgently.
The hooded man stepped forward. ‘Angland,’ he hissed.
There was a moment of stillness, then the hall exploded
with noise. There was a gale of disbelieving laughter from the public gallery. Meed was on his feet, red-faced and screaming. Thuel tottered up from his bench, then fell back coughing. Angry bellows were joined by hoots of derision. The King was staring about him with all the dignity of a startled rabbit.
Jezal’s eyes were fixed on the hooded man. He saw a great hand slip out from his sleeve and reach for the clasp on his cloak. He blinked in surprise. Was the hand blue? Or was it just a trick of the light through the stained glass? The cloak dropped to the floor.
Jezal swallowed, his heart thumping loud in his ears. It was like staring at a terrible wound: the more he was revolted, the less he could look away. The laughter died, the shouting died, the great space became terribly still once more.
Fenris the Feared seemed larger yet without his cloak, towering over his cringing translator. Without any doubt, he was the biggest man that Jezal had ever seen, if man he was. His face was in constant, twisted, sneering motion. His bulging eyes twitched and blinked as they stared crazily round at the assembly. His thin lips smiled and grimaced and frowned by turns, never still. But all this seemed ordinary, by comparison with his strangest feature.
His whole left side, from head to toe, was covered in writing.
Crabby runes were scrawled across the left half of his shaven head, across his eyelid, his lips, his scalp, his ear. His huge left arm was tattooed blue with tiny writing, from bulging shoulder to the tips of his long fingers. Even his bare left foot was covered in strange letters. An enormous, inhuman, painted monster stood at the very heart of the Union’s government. Jezal’s jaw hung open.
Around the high table there were fourteen Knights of the Body, each man a hard-trained fighter of good blood. There were perhaps forty guardsmen of Jezal’s own company around the walls, each one a seasoned veteran. They outnumbered these two Northmen more than twenty to one, and were well armed with the best steel the King’s armouries could provide. Fenris the Feared carried no weapon. For all his size and strangeness, he should have been no threat to them.
The Blade Itself Page 15