Dogman nodded, took a long ragged breath and blew it out. ‘Anyone want to speak for Threetrees?’
Dow flinched and looked down at his boots, shifting ’em in the dirt. Tul blinked up at the sky, looking like he had a bit of damp in his eye. Dogman himself was only a stride away from weeping as it was. If he had to speak another word he knew he’d set to bawling like a child. Threetrees would have known what to say, but there was the trouble, he was gone. Seemed like no one had any words. Then Grim took a step forward.
‘Rudd Threetrees,’ he said, looking round at ’em one by one. ‘Rock of Uffrith, they called him. No bigger name in all the North. Great fighter. Great leader. Great friend. Lifetime o’ battles. Stood face to face with the Bloody-Nine, then shoulder to shoulder with him. Never took an easy path, if he thought it was the wrong one. Never stepped back from a fight, if he thought it had to be done. I stood with him, walked with him, fought with him, ten years, all over the North.’ His face broke out in a smile. ‘I’ve no complaints.’
‘Good words, Grim,’ said Dow, looking down at the cold earth. ‘Good words.’
‘There’ll be no more like Threetrees,’ muttered Tul, wiping his eye like he’d got something in it.
‘Aye,’ said the Dogman. That was all he could manage.
West turned and trudged off through the trees, his shoulders hunched up, not a word said. Dogman could see the muscles clenching in the side of his head. Blaming himself, most likely. Men liked to do that a lot when folk died, in the Dogman’s experience, and West seemed the type for it. Pike followed him, and the two of them passed Shivers, coming up the other way.
He stopped beside the graves, frowning down, hair hanging round his face, then he looked up at them. ‘Don’t mean no disrespect. None at all. But we need a new chief.’
‘The earth’s only just turned on him,’ hissed Dow, giving him the eye.
Shivers held up his hands. ‘Best time to discuss it, then, I reckon. So there’s no confusion. My boys are jumpy, being honest. They’ve lost friends, and they’ve lost Threetrees, and they need someone to look to, that’s a fact. Who’s it going to be?’
Dogman rubbed his face. He hadn’t even thought about it yet, and now that he did he didn’t know what to think. Tul Duru Thunderhead and Black Dow were two big, hard names, both led men before, and well. Dogman looked at them, standing there, frowning at each other. ‘I don’t care which o’ you it is,’ he said. ‘I’ll follow either one. But it’s clear as clear, it has to be one of you two.’
Tul glared down at Dow, and Dow glowered back up at him. ‘I can’t follow him,’ rumbled Tul, ‘and he won’t follow me.’
‘That’s a fact,’ hissed Dow. ‘We talked it out already. Never work.’
Tul shook his head. ‘That’s why it can’t be either one of us.’
‘No,’ said Dow. ‘It can’t be one of us.’ He sucked at his teeth, snorted some snot into his face and spat it out onto the dirt. ‘That’s why it has to be you, Dogman.’
‘That’s why what now?’ said Dogman, his eyes wide open and staring.
Tul nodded. ‘You’re the chief. We’ve all agreed it.’
‘Uh,’ said Grim, not even looking up.
‘Ninefingers gone,’ said Dow, ‘and Threetrees gone, and that leaves you.’
Dogman winced. He was waiting for Shivers to say, ‘You what? Him? Chief?’ He was waiting for them all to start laughing, and tell him it was a joke. Black Dow, and Tul Duru Thunderhead, and Harding Grim, not to mention two dozen Carls besides, all taking his say-so. Stupidest idea he ever heard. But Shivers didn’t laugh.
‘That’s a good choice, I reckon. Speaking for my lads, that’s what I was going to suggest. I’ll let ’em know.’ And he turned and made off through the trees, with the Dogman gawping after him.
‘But what about them others?’ he hissed once Shivers was well out of hearing, wincing at a stab of pain in his ribs. ‘There’s twenty fucking Carls down there, and jumpy! They need a name to follow!’
‘You got the name,’ said Tul. ‘You came across the mountains with Ninefingers, fought all those years with Bethod. There ain’t no bigger names than yours left standing. You seen more battles than any of us.’
‘Seen ’em, maybe—’
‘You’re the one,’ said Dow, ‘and that’s all. So you ain’t the hardest killer since Skarling, so what? Your hands are bloody enough for me to follow, and there’s no better scout alive. You know how to lead. You’ve seen the best at it. Ninefingers, and Bethod, and Threetrees, you’ve watched ’em all, close as can be.’
‘But I can’t . . . I mean . . . I couldn’t make no one charge, not the way Threetrees did—’
‘No one could,’ said Tul, nodding down at the earth. ‘But Threetrees ain’t an option no more, sorry to say. You’re the chief, now, and we’ll stand behind you. Any man don’t care to do as you tell ’em can speak to us.’
‘And that’ll be one short-arsed conversation,’ growled Dow.
‘You’re the chief.’ Tul turned and strode off through the trees.
‘It’s decided.’ And Black Dow followed him.
‘Uh,’ said Grim, shrugging his shoulders and making off with the other two.
‘But,’ muttered the Dogman. ‘Hold on . . .’
They’d gone. So he guessed that made him chief.
He stood there for a moment, blinking, not knowing what to think. He was never leader before. He didn’t feel no different. He didn’t have any ideas, all of a sudden. No notions of what to tell men to do. He felt like an idiot. Even more of one than usual.
He knelt down, between the graves, and he stuck his hand in the soil, and he felt it cold and wet around his fingers. ‘Sorry, girl,’ he muttered. ‘Didn’t deserve this.’ He gripped the ground tight, and he squeezed it in his palm. ‘Fare you well, Threetrees. I’ll try and do what you’d have done. Back to the mud, old man.’
And he stood up, and he wiped his hand on his shirt, and he walked away, back to the living, and left the two of them behind him in the earth.
Acknowledgments
Four people without whom . . .
Bren Abercrombie, whose eyes are sore from reading it
Nick Abercrombie, whose ears are sore from hearing about it
Rob Abercrombie, whose fingers are sore from turning the pages
Lou Abercrombie, whose arms are sore from holding me up
Also . . .
Jon Weir, for putting the word out
Simon Spanton, for not putting the boot in
And who could forget . . .
Gillian Redfearn, who not only made it happen, but made it better
For the Four Readers
You know who you are
THE FIRST LAW: BOOK THREE
JOE
ABERCROMBIE
Last Argument Of Kings
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Title Page
PART I – ‘Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.’
The Poison Trade
Being Chief
This Noble Business
The New Man
Feeding Time
So Much in Common
Honesty
Ghosts
Bad Debts
A Ragged Multitude
Beloved of the Moon
Flowers and Plaudits
Too Many Knives
Best of Enemies
Fortunes of War
The Kingmaker
The Trap
Horrible Old Men
Prepared for the Worst
The Habit of Command
The First Day
Such Sweet Sorrow
Picked Up A Shadow
Questions
The Fourth Day
The Perfect Couple
The Seventh Day
Too Many Masters
Sweet Victory
Rude Awakenings
PART II – ‘Last Argument of Kings’
The Number of the Dead
Leaves on the Water
Authority
The Circle
Greater Good
Skarling’s Chair
Leadership
A Rock and a Hard Place
Charity
Better Left Buried
Tomorrow’s Hero
Nightfall
Questions
The Day of Judgement
Sacrifices
Open the Box
Dark Paths
Reckonings
After the Rains
Answers
The Wounded
Patriotic Duties
The First Law
Tea and Threats
Behind the Throne
Good Men, Evil Men
Not What You Wanted
Loose Ends
Does the devil know he is a devil?
Acknowledgements
PART I
‘Life being what it is, one dreams of revenge.’
Paul Gauguin
The Poison Trade
Superior Glokta stood in the hall, and waited. He stretched his twisted neck out to one side and then to the other, hearing the familiar clicks, feeling the familiar cords of pain stretching out through the tangled muscles between his shoulder-blades. Why do I do it, when it always hurts me? Why must we test the pain? Tongue the ulcer, rub the blister, pick the scab?
‘Well?’ he snapped.
The marble bust at the foot of the stairs offered only its silent contempt. And I get more than enough of that already. Glokta shuffled away, his useless foot scraping over the tiles behind him, the tapping of his cane echoing amongst the mouldings on the faraway ceiling.
When it came to the great noblemen on the Open Council, Lord Ingelstad, the owner of this oversized hall, was an undersized man indeed. The head of a family whose fortunes had declined with the passing years, whose wealth and influence had shrivelled to almost nothing. And the more shrivelled the man, the more swollen his pretensions must become. Why do they never realise? Small things only seem smaller in large spaces.
Somewhere in the shadows a clock vomited up a few sluggish chimes. Good and late already. The more shrivelled the man, the longer the wait on his pleasure. But I can be patient, when I must. I have no dazzling banquets, no ecstatic crowds, no beautiful women waiting breathlessly for my arrival, after all. Not any more. The Gurkish saw to that, in the darkness beneath the Emperor’s prisons. He pressed his tongue into his empty gums and grunted as he shifted his leg, needles from it shooting up his back and making his eyelid flicker. I can be patient. The one good thing about every step being an ordeal. You soon learn how to tread carefully.
The door beside him opened sharply and Glokta snapped his head round, doing his best to hide a grimace as his neck bones crunched. Lord Ingelstad stood in the doorway: a big, fatherly man with a ruddy complexion. He offered up a friendly smile as he beckoned Glokta into the room. Quite as though this were a social call, and a welcome one at that.
‘I must apologise for keeping you waiting, Superior. I have had so many visitors since I arrived in Adua, my head is in quite a spin!’ Let us hope it doesn’t spin right off. ‘So very many visitors!’ Visitors with offers, no doubt. Offers for your vote. Offers for your help in choosing our next king. But my offer, I think, you will find painful to refuse. ‘Will you take wine, Superior?’
‘No, my Lord, thank you.’ Glokta hobbled painfully over the threshold. ‘I will not stay long. I, too, have a great deal of business to attend to.’ Elections don’t rig themselves, you know.
‘Of course, of course. Please be seated.’ Ingelstad dropped happily into one of his chairs and gestured to another. It took Glokta a moment to get settled, lowering himself carefully, then shifting his hips until he discovered a position in which his back did not give him constant pain. ‘And what did you wish to discuss with me?’
‘I have come on behalf of Arch Lector Sult. I hope you will not be offended if I am blunt, but his Eminence wants your vote.’
The nobleman’s heavy features twisted in feigned puzzlement. Very badly feigned, as it goes. ‘I am not sure that I understand. My vote on what issue?’
Glokta wiped some wet from beneath his leaking eye. Must we engage in such undignified dancing? You have not the build for it, and I have not the legs. ‘On the issue of who will next occupy the throne, Lord Ingelstad.’
‘Ah. That.’ Yes, that. Idiot. ‘Superior Glokta, I hope I will not disappoint you, or his Eminence, a man for whom I have nothing but the highest respect,’ and he bowed his head with an exaggerated show of humility, ‘when I say that I could not, in all good conscience, allow myself to be influenced in any one direction. I feel that I, and all the members of the Open Council, have been given a sacred trust. I am duty bound to vote for the man who seems to me to be the very finest candidate, from the many excellent men available.’ And he assumed a grin of the greatest self-satisfaction.
A fine speech. A village dunce might have even believed it. How often have I heard it, or its like, the past few weeks? Traditionally, the bargaining would come next. The discussion of how much, exactly, a sacred trust is worth. How much silver outweighs a good conscience. How much gold cuts through the bindings of duty. But I am not in a bargaining mood today.
Glokta raised his eyebrows very high, ‘I must congratulate you on a noble stand, Lord Ingelstad. If everyone had your character we would be living in a better world. A noble stand indeed . . . especially when you have so much to lose. No less than everything, I suppose.’ He winced as he took his cane in one hand and rocked himself painfully forward towards the edge of the chair. ‘But I see you will not be swayed, and so I take my leave—’
‘What can you refer to, Superior?’ The nobleman’s unease was written plainly across his plump face.
‘Why, Lord Ingelstad, to your corrupt business dealings.’
The ruddy cheeks had lost much of their glow. ‘There must be some mistake.’
‘Oh no, I assure you.’ Glokta slid the papers of confession from the inside pocket of his coat. ‘You are mentioned often in the confessions of senior Mercers, you see? Very often.’ And he held the crackling pages out so they both could see them. ‘Here you are referred to as – and not my choice of words, you understand – an “accomplice”. Here as the “prime beneficiary” of a most unsavoury smuggling operation. And here, you will note – and I almost blush to mention it – your name and the word “treason” appear in close proximity.’
Ingelstad sagged back into his chair and set his glass rattling down on the table beside him, a quantity of wine sloshing out onto the polished wood. Oh, we really should wipe that up. It could leave an awful stain, and some stains are impossible to remove.
‘His Eminence,’ continued Glokta, ‘counting you as a friend, was able to keep your name out of the initial enquiries, for everybody’s sake. He understands that you were merely trying to reverse the failing fortunes of your family, and is not without sympathy. If you were to disappoint him in this business of votes, however, his sympathy would be quickly exhausted. Do you take my meaning?’ I feel that I have made it abundantly clear.
‘I do,’ croaked Ingelstad.
‘And the bonds of duty? Do they feel any looser, now?’
The nobleman swallowed, the flush quite vanished from his face. ‘I am eager to assist his Eminence in any way possible, of course, but . . . the thing is—’ What now? A desperate offer? A despairing bribe? An appeal to my conscience, even? ‘A representative of High Justice Marovia came to me yesterday. A man called Harlen Morrow. He made very similar representations . . . and not dissimilar threats.’ Glokta frowned. Did he now? Marovia, and his little worm. Always just one step ahead, or just one step behind. But never far away. A shrill note crept into Ingelstad’s voice. ‘What am I to do? I cannot support you both! I will leave Adua, Superior, and never return! I will . . . I will abstain from voting—’
‘You’ll do no such
fucking thing!’ hissed Glokta. ‘You’ll vote the way I tell you and Marovia be damned!’ More prodding? Distasteful, but so be it. Are my hands not filthy to the elbow? Rummaging through another sewer or two will scarcely make the difference. He let his voice soften to an oily purr. ‘I observed your daughters in the park, yesterday.’ The nobleman’s face lost its last vestige of colour. ‘Three young innocents on the very cusp of womanhood, dressed all in the height of fashion, and each one lovelier than the last. The youngest would be . . . fifteen?’
‘Thirteen,’ croaked Ingelstad.
‘Ah.’ And Glokta let his lips curl back to display his toothless smile. ‘She blooms early. They have never before visited Adua, am I correct?’
‘They have not,’ he nearly whispered.
‘I thought not. Their excitement and delight as they toured the gardens of the Agriont were perfectly charming. I swear, they must have caught the eye of every eligible suitor in the capital.’ He allowed his smile slowly to fade. ‘It would break my heart, Lord Ingelstad, to see three such delicate creatures snatched suddenly away to one of Angland’s harshest penal institutions. Places where beauty, and breeding, and a gentle disposition, attract an entirely different and far less enjoyable kind of attention.’ Glokta gave a carefully orchestrated shudder of dismay as he leaned slowly forward to whisper. ‘I would not wish that life on a dog. And all on account of the indiscretions of a father who had the means of reparation well within his grasp.’
‘But my daughters, they were not involved—’
‘We are electing a new king! Everyone is involved!’ Harsh, perhaps. But harsh times demand harsh actions. Glokta struggled to his feet, hand wobbling on his cane with the effort. ‘I will tell his Eminence that he can count on your vote.’
Ingelstad collapsed, suddenly and completely. Like a stabbed wineskin. His shoulders sagged, his face hung loose with horror and hopelessness. ‘But the High Justice . . .’ he whispered. ‘Have you no pity?’
Glokta could only shrug. ‘I did have. As a boy I was soft-hearted beyond the point of foolishness. I swear, I would cry at a fly caught in a spider’s web.’ He grimaced at a brutal spasm through his leg as he turned for the door. ‘Constant pain has cured me of that.’
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 119