The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  Crown Prince Ladisla himself sat sprawled in a huge chair of dark wood, a throne, one could have said, upholstered in red silk. An empty glass dangled from one hand, while the other waved back and forth to the music of a quartet of expert musicians, plucking, fiddling, and blowing gently at their shining instruments in the far corner. Around his Highness were four of his staff, impeccably dressed and fashionably bored, among them the young Lord Smund, who had perhaps become, over the past few weeks, West’s least favourite person in the entire world.

  ‘It does you great credit,’ Smund was braying loudly to the Prince. ‘Sharing the hardships of the camp has always been a fine way to win the respect of the common soldier—’

  ‘Ah, Colonel West!’ chirped Ladisla, ‘and two of his Northern scouts! What a delight! You must take some food!’ He made a floppy, drunken gesture towards the table.

  ‘Thank you, your Highness, but I have eaten. I have some news of the greatest—’

  ‘Or some wine! You must all have wine, this is an excellent vintage! Where did that bottle get to?’ He fumbled about beneath his chair.

  The Dogman had already crossed to the table and was leaning over it, sniffing at the food like . . . a dog. He snatched a large slice of beef from the plate with his dirty fingers, folded it carefully and stuffed it whole into his mouth, while Smund looked on, lip curled with contempt. It would have been embarrassing, under normal circumstances, but West had larger worries.

  ‘Bethod is within five days march of us,’ he nearly shouted, ‘with the best part of his strength!’

  One of the musicians fumbled his bow and hit a screeching, discordant note. Ladisla jerked his head up, nearly sliding from his seat. Even Smund and his companions were pulled from their indolence.

  ‘Five days,’ muttered the Prince, his voice hoarse with excitement, ‘are you sure?’

  ‘Perhaps no more than three.’

  ‘How many are they?’

  ‘As many as ten thousand, and veterans to a—’

  ‘Excellent!’ Ladisla slapped the arm of his chair as if it were a Northman’s face. ‘We are on equal terms with them!’

  West swallowed. ‘Perhaps in numbers, your Highness, but not in quality.’

  ‘Come now, Colonel West,’ droned Smund. ‘One good Union man is worth ten of their kind.’ He stared down his nose at Threetrees.

  ‘Black Well proved that notion a fantasy, even if our men were properly fed, trained, and equipped. Aside from the King’s Own, they are none of these things! We would be well advised to prepare defences, and make ready to withdraw if we must.’

  Smund snorted his contempt for that idea. ‘There is nothing more dangerous in war,’ he disclaimed airily, ‘than too much caution.’

  ‘Except too little!’ growled West, the fury already starting to pulse behind his eyes.

  But Prince Ladisla cut him off before he had the chance to lose his temper. ‘Gentlemen, enough!’ He sprang up from his chair, eyes dewy with drunken enthusiasm. ‘I have already decided on my strategy! We will cross the river and intercept these savages! They think to surprise us? Hah!’ He lashed at the air with his wine glass. ‘We will give them a surprise they will not soon forget! Drive them back over the border! Just as Marshal Burr intended!’

  ‘But, your Highness,’ stammered West, feeling slightly queasy, ‘the Lord Marshal explicitly ordered that we remain behind the river—’

  Ladisla flicked his head, as though bothered by a fly. ‘The spirit of his orders, Colonel, not the letter! He can hardly complain if we take the fight to our enemy!’

  ‘These men are fucking fools,’ rumbled Threetrees, luckily in the Northern tongue.

  ‘What did he say?’ inquired the Prince.

  ‘Er . . . he concurs with me that we should hold here, your Highness, and send to Lord Marshal Burr for help.’

  ‘Does he indeed? And I thought these Northmen were all fire and vinegar! Well, Colonel West, you may inform him that I am resolved on an attack, and cannot be moved! We will show this so-called King of the Northmen that he does not hold a mono-poly on victory!’

  ‘Good show!’ shouted Smund, stamping his foot on the thick carpet. ‘Excellent!’ The rest of the Prince’s staff voiced their ignorant support.

  ‘Kick them back across the border!’

  ‘Teach them a lesson!’

  ‘Excellent! Capital! Is there more wine?’

  West clenched his fists with frustration. He had to make one more effort, however embarrassing, however pointless. He dropped to one knee, he clasped his hands together, he fixed the Prince with his eye and gathered every ounce of persuasiveness he possessed. ‘Your Highness, I ask you, I entreat you, I beg you to reconsider. The lives of every man in this camp depend on your decision.’

  The Prince grinned. ‘Such is the weight of command, my friend! I realise your motives are of the best, but I must agree with Lord Smund. Boldness is the best policy in war, and boldness shall be my strategy! It was through boldness that Harod the Great forged the Union, through boldness that King Casamir conquered Angland in the first place! We will get the better of these Northmen yet, you’ll see. Give the orders, Colonel! We march at first light!’

  West had studied Casamir’s campaigns in detail. Boldness had been one tenth of his success, the rest had been meticulous planning, care for his men, attention to every detail. Boldness without the rest was apt to be deadly, but he saw that it was pointless to say so. He would only anger the Prince and lose whatever influence he might still have. He felt like a man watching his own house burn down. Numb, sick, utterly helpless. There was nothing left for him to do but to give the orders, and do his best to see that everything was conducted as well as it could be.

  ‘Of course, your Highness,’ he managed to mutter.

  ‘Of course!’ The Prince grinned. ‘We are all in agreement, then! Capital! Stop that music!’ he shouted at the musicians. ‘We need something with more vigour! Something with blood in it!’ The quartet switched effortlessly to a jaunty martial theme. West turned, limbs heavy with hopelessness, and trudged out of the tent into the icy night.

  Threetrees was hard on his heels. ‘By the dead, but I can’t work you people out! Where I come from a man earns the right to lead! His men follow because they know his quality, and respect him because he shares their hardships with ’em! Even Bethod won his place!’ He strode up and down before the tent, waving his big hands. ‘Here you pick the ones who know the least to lead, and fix on the biggest fool o’ the whole pack for a commander!’

  West could think of nothing to say. He could hardly deny it.

  ‘That prick’ll march the lot o’ you right into your fucking graves! Back to the mud with you all, but I’m damned if I’ll follow, or any of my boys. I’m done paying for other folks’ mistakes, and I’ve lost enough to that bastard Bethod already! Come on, Dogman. This boat o’ fools can sink without us!’ And he turned and stalked away into the night.

  The Dogman shrugged. ‘Ain’t all bad.’ He closed to a conspiratorial distance, reached deep into his pocket and pulled something out. West stared down at an entire poached salmon, no doubt pilfered from the Prince’s table. The Northman grinned. ‘I got me a fish!’ And he followed his chief, leaving West alone on the bitter hillside, Ladisla’s martial music floating through the chill air behind him.

  Until Sunset

  ‘Oy.’ A rough hand shook Glokta from his sleep. He rolled his head gingerly from the side he had been sleeping on, clenching his teeth at the pain as his neck clicked. Does death come early in the morning, today? He opened his eyes a crack. Ah. Not quite yet, it seems. Perhaps at lunch time. Vitari stared down at him, spiky hair silhouetted black in the early morning sun streaming through the window. ‘Very well, Practical Vitari, if you really can’t resist me. You’ll have to go on top, though, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Ha ha. The Gurkish ambassador is here.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘An emissary. From the Emperor himself, I he
ar.’

  Glokta felt a stab of panic. ‘Where?’

  ‘Here in the Citadel. Speaking to the ruling council.’

  ‘Shit on it!’ snarled Glokta, scrambling out of bed, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he swung his ruined left foot onto the floor. ‘Why didn’t they call for me?’

  Vitari scowled down at him. ‘Maybe they preferred to talk to him without you. You think that could be it?’

  ‘How the hell did he get here?’

  ‘He came in by boat, under sign of parley. Vissbruck says he was duty bound to admit him.’

  ‘Duty-bound!’ spat Glokta as he struggled to pull his trousers up his numb and trembling leg, ‘That fat fucker! How long has he been here?’

  ‘Long enough for him and the council to make some pretty mischief together, if that’s their aim.’

  ‘Shit!’ Glokta winced as he shrugged his shirt on.

  The Gurkish ambassador was, without doubt, a majestic presence.

  His nose was prominent and hooked, his eyes burned bright with intelligence, his long, thin beard was neatly brushed. Gold thread in his sweeping white robe and his tall head-dress glittered in the bright sun. He held his body awesomely erect, long neck stretched out, chin held high, so that he looked always down at everything he deigned to look upon. Hugely tall and thin, he made the lofty, magnificent room seem low and shabby. He could pass for an Emperor himself.

  Glokta was keenly aware of how bent and awkward he must look as he shuffled, grimacing and sweating, into the audience chamber. The miserable crow faces the magnificent peacock. Still, battles are not always won by the most beautiful. Fortunately for me.

  The long table was surprisingly empty. Only Vissbruck, Eider, and Korsten dan Vurms were in their seats, and none of them looked pleased to see him arrive. Nor should they, the bastards.

  ‘No Lord Governor today?’ he barked.

  ‘My father is not well,’ muttered Vurms.

  ‘Shame you couldn’t stay and comfort him in his illness. What about Kahdia?’ No one spoke. ‘Didn’t think he’d take to a meeting with them, eh?’ he nodded rudely at the emissary. ‘How lucky for everyone that you three have stronger stomachs. I am Superior Glokta and, whatever you might have heard, I am in charge here. I must apologise for my late arrival, but no one told me you were coming.’ He looked daggers at Vissbruck, but the general was not interested in meeting his eye. That’s right, you blustering fool. I won’t forget this.

  ‘My name is Shabbed al Islik Burai.’ The ambassador spoke the common tongue perfectly, in a voice every bit as powerful, as authoritative, as arrogant as his bearing. ‘I come as emissary from the rightful ruler of all the South, mighty Emperor of mighty Gurkhul and all the Kantic lands, Uthman-ul-Dosht, loved, feared, and favoured above all other men within the Circle of the World, anointed by God’s right hand, the Prophet Khalul himself.’

  ‘Good for you. I would bow, but I strained my back getting out of bed.’

  Islik gave a delicate sneer. ‘Truly a warrior’s injury. I have come to accept your surrender.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Glokta dragged out the nearest chair and sank into it. I’m damned if I’m going to stand a moment longer, just for the benefit of this towering oaf. ‘I thought it was traditional to make such offers once the fighting is over.’

  ‘If there is to be fighting, it will not last long.’ The ambassador swept across the tiles to the window. ‘I see five legions, arrayed in battle order upon the peninsula. Twenty thousand spears, and they are but a fraction of what comes. The troops of the Emperor are more numerous than the grains of sand in the desert. To resist us would be as futile as to resist the tide. You all know this.’ His eyes swept proudly across the guilty faces of the ruling council and came to rest on Glokta’s with a piercing contempt. The look of a man who believes he has already won. No one could blame him much for thinking so. Perhaps he has.

  ‘Only fools or madmen would choose to stand against such odds. You pinks have never belonged here. The Emperor offers you the chance to leave the South with your lives. Open the gates to us and you will be spared. You can leave on your little boats and float back to your little island. Let it never be said that Uthman-ul-Dosht is not generous. God fights beside us. Your cause is lost.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, we held our own in the last war. I’m sure we all remember the fall of Ulrioch. I know I do. The city burned brightly. The temples especially.’ Glokta shrugged. ‘God must have been elsewhere that day.’

  ‘That day, yes. But there were other battles. I am sure you also remember a certain engagement, at a certain bridge, where a certain young officer fell into our hands.’ The emissary smiled. ‘God is everywhere.’

  Glokta felt his eyelid flickering. He knows I am not likely to forget. He remembered his surprise as a Gurkish spear cut into his body. Surprise, and disappointment, and the most intense pain. Not invulnerable, after all. He remembered his horse rearing, dumping him from the saddle. The pain growing worse, the surprise turning into fear. Crawling among the boots and the bodies, gasping for air, mouth sour with dust, salty with blood. He remembered the agony as the blades cut into his leg. The fear turning to terror. He remembered how they dragged him, screaming and crying, from that bridge. That night they began to ask their questions.

  ‘We won,’ said Glokta, but his mouth was dry, his voice was cracked. ‘We proved the stronger.’

  ‘That was then. The world changes. Your nation’s entanglements in the icy North put you at a most considerable disadvantage. You have managed to break the first rule of warfare. Never fight two enemies at once.’

  His reasoning is hard to fault. ‘The walls of Dagoska have frustrated you before,’ Glokta said, but it did not sound convincing, even to his own ear. Hardly the words of a winner. He felt the eyes of Vurms, and Vissbruck, and Eider on him, making his back itch. Trying to decide who holds the upper hand, and I know who I’d pick in their shoes.

  ‘Perhaps some of you have more confidence in your walls than others. I will return at sunset for your answer. The Emperor’s offer lasts for this one day only, and will never be repeated. He is merciful, but his mercy has limits. You have until sunset.’ And he swept from the room.

  Glokta waited until the door had clicked shut before he slowly turned his chair around to face the others. ‘What in hell was that?’ he snarled at Vissbruck.

  ‘Er . . .’ The General tugged at his sweaty collar. ‘It was incumbent upon me, as a soldier, to admit an unarmed representative of the enemy, in order to hear his terms—’

  ‘Without telling me?’

  ‘We knew you would not want to listen!’ snapped Vurms. ‘But he speaks the truth! Despite all our hard work, we are greatly outnumbered, and can expect no relief as long as the war drags on in Angland. We are nothing more than a pinprick in the foot of a huge and hostile nation. It might serve us well to negotiate while we still hold a position of some strength. You may depend upon it that we will receive no terms beyond a massacre once the city has fallen!’

  True enough, but the Arch Lector is unlikely to agree. Negotiating a surrender was hardly the task for which I was appointed. ‘You are unusually quiet, Magister Eider.’

  ‘I am scarcely qualified to speak on the military aspects of such a decision. But as it turns out, his terms are generous. One thing is certain. If we refuse this offer, and the Gurkish do take the city by force, the slaughter will be terrible.’ She looked up at Glokta. ‘There will be no mercy then.’

  All too true. On Gurkish mercy I am the expert. ‘So all three of you are for capitulation?’ They looked at each other, and said nothing. ‘It has not occurred to you that once we surrender, they might not honour your little agreement?’

  ‘It had occurred,’ said Vissbruck, ‘but they have honoured their agreements before, and surely some hope . . .’ and he looked down at the table top, ‘is better than none.’ You have more confidence in our enemy than in me, it would seem. Hardly that surprising. My own confidence could be h
igher.

  Glokta wiped some wet from under his eye. ‘I see. Then I suppose I must consider his offer. We will reconvene when our Gurkish friend returns. At sunset.’ He rocked his body back and winced as he pushed himself up.

  ‘You’ll consider it?’ hissed Vitari in his ear as he limped down the hall away from the audience chamber. ‘You’ll fucking consider it?’

  ‘That’s right,’ snapped Glokta. ‘I make the decisions here.’

  ‘Or you let those worms make them for you!’

  ‘We’ve each got our jobs. I don’t tell you how to write your little reports to the Arch Lector. How I manage those worms is none of your concern.’

  ‘None of my concern?’ Vitari snatched hold of Glokta’s arm and he tottered on his weak leg. She was stronger than she looked, a lot stronger. ‘I told Sult you could handle things!’ she snarled in his face. ‘If we lose the city, without so much as a fight even, it’s both our heads! And my head is my concern, cripple!’

  ‘This is no time to panic,’ growled Glokta. ‘I don’t want to end up floating in the docks any more than you do, but this is a delicate balance. Let them think they might get their way, then no one will make any rash moves. Not until I’m good and ready. Understand me when I say, Practical, that this will be the first and the last time that I explain myself to you. Now take your fucking hand off me.’

  Her hand did not let go, rather the fingers tightened, cutting into Glokta’s arm as hard as a vice. Her eyes narrowed, furious lines cut into her freckled face at their corners. Might I have misjudged her? Might she be about to cut my throat? He almost grinned at the thought. But Severard chose that moment to step out of the shadows further down the dim hall.

  ‘Look at the two of you,’ he murmured as he padded towards them. ‘It always amazes me, how love blooms in the least likely places, and between the least likely people. A rose, forcing its way through the stony ground.’ He pressed his hands to his chest. ‘It warms my heart.’