Bayaz came slowly through into the room, a teacup held carefully level in one hand. He did not so much as look in Ferro’s direction as he swept past and out the open door onto the balcony. Damn Magus. She stalked after, narrowing her eyes at the glare. They were high up, and the Agriont was spread out before them, as it had been when she and Ninefingers climbed over the rooftops, long ago. Groups of idle pinks lazed on the shining grass below, just as they had done before Ferro left for the Old Empire. And yet not everything was the same.
Everywhere in the city, now, there was a kind of fear. She could see it in each soft, pale face. In their every word and gesture. A breathless expectation, like the air before the storm breaks. Like a field of dry grass, ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. She did not know what they were waiting for, and she did not care.
But she had heard a lot of talk about votes.
The First of the Magi watched her as she stepped through the door, the bright sun shining on the side of his bald head. ‘Tea, Ferro?’
Ferro hated tea, and Bayaz knew it. Tea was what the Gurkish drank when they had treachery in mind. She remembered the soldiers drinking it while she struggled in the dust. She remembered the slavers drinking it while they talked prices. She remembered Uthman drinking it while he chuckled at her rage and her helplessness. Now Bayaz drank it, little cup held daintily between his thick thumb and forefinger, and he smiled.
Ferro ground her teeth. ‘I am done here, pink. You promised me vengeance and have given me nothing. I am going back to the South.’
‘Indeed? We would be sorry to lose you. But Gurkhul and the Union are at war. There are no ships sailing to Kanta at present. There may not be for some time to come.’
‘Then how will I get there?’
‘You have made it abundantly clear that you are not my responsibility. I have put a roof over your head and you show scant gratitude. If you wish to leave, you can make your own arrangements. My brother Yulwei should return to us shortly. Perhaps he will be prepared to take you under his wing.’
‘Not good enough.’ Bayaz glared at her. A fearsome look, perhaps, but Ferro was not Longfoot, or Luthar, or Quai. She had no master, and would never have another. ‘Not good enough, I said!’
‘Why is it that you insist on testing the limits of my patience? It is not without an end, you know.’
‘Neither is mine.’
Bayaz snorted. ‘Yours scarcely even has a beginning, as Master Ninefingers could no doubt testify. I do declare, Ferro, you have all the charm of a goat, and a mean-tempered goat at that.’ He stuck his lips out, tipped up his cup and sucked delicately from the rim. Only with a mighty effort was Ferro able to stop herself from slapping it out of his hand, and butting the bald bastard in the face into the bargain. ‘But if fighting the Gurkish is still what you have in mind—’
‘Always.’
‘Then I am sure that I can still find a use for your talents. Something that does not require a sense of humour. My purposes with regard to the Gurkish are unchanged. The struggle must continue, albeit with other weapons.’ His eyes slid sideways, towards the great tower that loomed up over the fortress.
Ferro knew little about beauty and cared still less, but that building was a beautiful thing to her mind. There was no softness, no indulgence in that mountain of naked stone. There was a brutal honesty in its shape. A merciless precision in its sharp, black angles. Something about it fascinated her.
‘What is that place?’ she asked.
Bayaz narrowed his eyes at her. ‘The House of the Maker.’
‘What is inside?’
‘None of your business.’
Ferro almost spat with annoyance. ‘You lived there. You served Kanedias. You helped the Maker with his works. You told us all this, out on the plains. So tell me, what is inside?’
‘You have a sharp memory, Ferro, but you forget one thing. We did not find the Seed. I do not need you. I do not need, in particular, to answer your endless questions any longer. Imagine my dismay.’ He sucked primly at his tea again, raising his brows and peering out at the lazy pinks in the park.
Ferro forced a smile onto her own face. Or as close as she could get to a smile. She bared her teeth, at least. She remembered well enough what the bitter old woman Cawneil had said, and how much it had annoyed him. She would do the same. ‘The Maker. You tried to steal his secrets. You tried to steal his daughter. Tolomei was her name. Her father threw her from the roof. In return for her betrayal, in opening his gates to you. Am I wrong?’
Bayaz angrily flicked the last drops from his cup over the balcony. Ferro watched them glitter in the bright sun, tumbling downwards. ‘Yes, Ferro, the Maker threw his daughter from the roof. It would seem that we are both unlucky in love, eh? Bad luck for us. Worse luck for our lovers. Who would have dreamed we have so much in common?’ Ferro wondered about shoving the pink bastard off the balcony after his tea. But he still owed her, and she meant to collect. So she only scowled, and ducked back through the doorway.
There was a new arrival in the room. A man with curly hair and a wide smile. He had a tall staff in his hand, a case of weathered leather over one shoulder. There was something strange about his eyes – one light, one dark. There was something about his watchful gaze that made Ferro suspicious. Even more than usual.
‘Ah, the famous Ferro Maljinn. Forgive my curiosity, but it is not every day that one encounters a person of your . . . remarkable ancestry.’
Ferro did not like that he knew her name, or her ancestry, or anything about her. ‘Who are you?’
‘Where are my manners? I am Yoru Sulfur, of the order of Magi,’ and he offered his hand. She did not take it but he only smiled. ‘Not one of the original twelve, of course, not I. Merely an afterthought. A late addition. I was once apprentice to great Bayaz.’
Ferro snorted. That hardly qualified him for trust in her estimation. ‘What happened?’
‘I graduated.’
Bayaz tossed his cup down rattling on a table by the window. ‘Yoru,’ he said, and the newcomer humbly bowed his head. ‘My thanks for your work thus far. Precise and to the point, as always.’
Sulfur’s smile grew broader. ‘A small cog in a large machine, Master Bayaz, but I try to be a sturdy one.’
‘You have yet to let me down. I do not forget that. How is your next little game progressing?’
‘Ready to begin, at your command.’
‘Let us begin now. There is nothing to be gained by delay.’
‘I shall make the preparations. I have also brought this, as you asked.’ He swung the bag down from his shoulder and gingerly reached inside. He slowly drew out a book. Large and black, its heavy covers hacked, and scarred, and charred by fire. ‘Glustrod’s book,’ he murmured softly, as though afraid to say the words.
Bayaz frowned. ‘Keep it, for now. There was an unexpected complication.’
‘A complication?’ Sulfur slid the book back into its case with some relief.
‘What we sought . . . was not there.’
‘Then—’
‘As regards our other plans, nothing is changed.’
‘Of course.’ Sulfur bowed his head again. ‘Lord Isher will already be on his way.’
‘Very well.’ Bayaz glanced over at Ferro, as though he had only just remembered that she was there. ‘For the time being, perhaps you would be good enough to give us the room? I have a visitor that I must attend to.’
She was happy to leave, but she took her time moving, if only because Bayaz wanted her gone quickly. She unfolded her arms, stood on the spot and stretched. She strolled to the door by a roundabout route, letting her feet scuff against the boards and fill the room with their ugly scraping. She stopped on the way to gaze at a picture, to poke at a chair, to flick at a shiny pot, none of which interested her at all. All the while Quai watched, and Bayaz frowned, and Sulfur grinned his knowing little grin. She stopped in the doorway.
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now,’ snapped Ba
yaz.
She looked round the room one more time. ‘Fucking Magi,’ she snorted, and slid through the door.
She almost walked into a tall old pink in the room beyond. He wore a heavy robe, even in the heat, and had a sparkling chain around his shoulders. A big man loomed behind him, grim and watchful. A guard. Ferro did not like the old pink’s look. He stared down his nose at her, chin tilted up, as though she were a dog.
As though she were a slave.
‘Ssssss.’ She hissed in his face as she shouldered past him. He gave an outraged snort and his guard gave Ferro a hard look. She ignored it. Hard looks mean nothing. If he wanted her knee in his face he could try and touch her. But he did not. The two of them went in through the door.
‘Ah, Lord Isher!’ she heard Bayaz saying, just before it shut. ‘I am delighted that you could visit us at short notice.’
‘I came at once. My grandfather always said that—’
‘Your grandfather was a wise man, and a good friend. I would like to discuss with you, if I may, the situation in the Open Council. Will you take tea . . . ?’
Honesty
Jezal lay on his back, his hands behind his head, the sheets around his waist. He watched Ardee looking out of the window, her elbows on the sill, her chin on her hands. He watched Ardee, and he thanked the fates that some long-forgotten designer of military apparel had seen fit to provide the officers of the King’s Own with a high-waisted jacket. He thanked them with a deep and earnest gratitude, because his jacket was all she was wearing.
It was amazing how things had changed between them, since that bitter, bewildering reunion. For a week they had not spent a night apart, and for a week the smile had barely left his face. Occasionally the memory would wallow up, of course, unbidden and horribly surprising, like a bloated corpse bobbing to the surface of the pond while one enjoys a picnic on the shore, of Ardee biting and hitting him, crying and screaming in his face. But when it did so he would fix his grin, and see her smile at him, and soon enough he would be able to shove those unpleasant thoughts back down again, at least for now. Then he would congratulate himself on being a big enough man to do it, and on giving her the benefit of the doubt.
‘Ardee,’ he wheedled at her.
‘Mmm?’
‘Come back to bed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I love you.’ Strange, how the more he said it, the easier it became.
She gave a bored sigh. ‘So you keep saying.’
‘It’s true.’
She turned round, hands on the sill behind, her body a dark outline against the bright window. ‘And what does that mean, exactly? That you’ve been fucking me for a week and you haven’t had enough yet?’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.’
‘Well,’ and she pushed herself away from the window and padded across the boards. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in finding out, is there? No more harm, anyway.’ She stopped at the foot of the bed. ‘Just promise me one thing.’
Jezal swallowed, worried at what she might ask him, worried at what he might say in reply. ‘Anything,’ he murmured, forcing himself to smile.
‘Don’t let me down.’
His smile grew easier. That was not so hard to say yes to. He was a changed man, after all. ‘Of course, I promise.’
‘Good.’ She crept up on to the bed, on her hands and knees, eyes fixed on his face while he wriggled his toes in anticipation under the sheet. She knelt up, one leg on either side of him, and jerked the jacket smooth across her chest. ‘Well then, Captain, do I pass muster?’
‘I would say . . .’ and he grabbed the front of the jacket and pulled her down on top of him, slipped his hands inside it, ‘that you are without a doubt . . .’ and he slid his hand under her breast and rubbed at her nipple with his thumb, ‘the finest-looking soldier in my company.’
She pressed her groin against his through the sheet, and worked her hips back and forward. ‘Ah, the Captain is already at attention . . .’
‘For you? Constantly . . .’
Her mouth licked and sucked at his, smearing spit on his face, and he pushed his hand between her legs and she rubbed herself against it for a while, his sticky fingers squelching in and out of her. She grunted and sighed in her throat, and he did the same. She reached down and dragged the sheet out of the way. He took hold of his prick and she wriggled her hips until they found the right spot and worked her way down onto him, her hair tickling at his face, her rasping breath tickling at his ear.
There were two heavy knocks at the door, and they both froze. Another two knocks. Ardee put her head up, pushing her hair out of her flushed face. ‘What is it?’ she called, voice thick and throaty.
‘There’s someone for the Captain.’ The maid. ‘Is he . . . is he still here?’
Ardee’s eyes rolled down to Jezal’s. ‘I daresay I could get a message to him!’ He bit on his lip to stifle a laugh, reached up and pinched at her nipple and she slapped his hand away. ‘Who is it?’
‘A Knight Herald!’ Jezal felt his smile fading. Those bastards never seemed to bring good news, and always at the worst possible times. ‘Lord Marshal Varuz needs to speak to the Captain urgently. They’re all over town looking for him.’ Jezal cursed under his breath. It seemed that the army had finally realised he was back.
‘Tell him that when I see the Captain I will let him know!’ shouted Ardee, and the sound of footsteps retreated down the corridor outside.
‘Fuck!’ Jezal hissed as soon as he was sure the maid was gone, not that she could have been in too much doubt about what had been going on for the past few days and nights. ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘Now?’
‘Now, curse them. If I don’t they’ll just keep looking, and the sooner I go, the sooner I can get back.’
She sighed and rolled over onto her back while he slithered off the bed and started hunting round the room for his scattered clothes. His shirt had a wine stain down the front, his trousers were creased and rumpled, but they would have to do. Cutting the perfect figure was no longer his one goal in life. He sat down on the bed to pull his boots on and he felt her kneel behind him, her hands sliding across his chest, her lips brushing at his ear as she whispered to him. ‘So you’ll be leaving me all alone again, will you? Heading off to Angland, to slaughter Northmen with my brother?’
Jezal leaned down with some difficulty and heaved one boot on. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ The idea of the soldiering life no longer inspired him. He had seen enough of violence, close up, to know it was extremely frightening and hurt like hell. Glory and fame seemed like meagre rewards for all the risks involved. ‘I’m giving serious thought to the idea of resigning my commission.’
‘You are? And doing what?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He turned his head and raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Maybe I’ll find a good woman and settle down.’
‘A good woman? Do you know any?’
‘I was hoping you might have some suggestions.’
She pressed her lips together. ‘Let me think. Does she have to be beautiful?’
‘No, no, beautiful women are always so bloody demanding. Plain as ditchwater, please.’
‘Clever?’
Jezal snorted. ‘Anything but that. I am notorious for my emptyheadedness. A clever woman would only make me look the dunce the whole time.’ He dragged the other boot on, peeled her hands away and stood up. ‘A wide-eyed and thoughtless calf would be ideal. Someone to endlessly agree with me.’
Ardee clapped her hands. ‘Oh yes, I can see her on you now, trailing from your arm like an empty dress, a kind of echo at a higher pitch. Noble blood though, I imagine?’
‘Of course, nothing but the best. One point on which I could never compromise. And fair hair, I have a weakness for it.’
‘Oh, I entirely agree. Dark hair is so commonplace, so very much the colour of dirt, and filth, and muck.’ She shuddered. ‘I feel sullied just thinking of it.’
‘Above a
ll,’ as he pushed his sword through the clasp on his belt, ‘a calm and even temper. I have had my fill of surprises.’
‘Naturally. Life is difficult enough without a woman making trouble. So terribly undignified.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I will think through my acquaintance.’
‘Excellent. In the meantime, and although you wear it with far greater dash than I ever could, I will need my jacket.’
‘Oh, yes, sir.’ She pulled it off and flung it at him, then stretched out on the bed, stark naked, back arched, hands above her head, wriggling her hips slowly back and forth, one knee in the air, the other leg stretched out, big toe pointing at him. ‘You aren’t going to leave me alone for too long, though, are you?’
He watched her for a moment. ‘Don’t you dare move a fucking inch,’ he croaked, then he pulled the jacket on, wedged his prick between his thighs and waddled out the door, bent over. He hoped it would go down before he had his briefing with the Lord Marshal, but he was not entirely sure it would.
Once again, Jezal found himself in one of High Justice Marovia’s cavernous chambers, standing all alone on the empty floor, facing the enormous, polished table while three old men regarded him grimly from the other side.
As the clerk shut the high doors with an echoing boom, he had a deeply worrying sense of having lived through this very experience before. The day he had been summoned from the boat for Angland, torn from his friends and his ambitions, to be sent on a madcap, doomed journey into the middle of nowhere. A journey that had cost him some of his looks and nearly his life. It was safe to say that he did not entirely relish being back here, and hoped most fervently for a better outcome.
From that point of view, the absence of the First of the Magi was something of a tonic, even if the panel was otherwise far from comforting. Facing him were the hard old faces of Lord Marshal Varuz, High Justice Marovia, and Lord Chamberlain Hoff.
Varuz was busy waxing on about Jezal’s fine achievements in the Old Empire. He had, evidently, heard a very different version of events from the one that Jezal himself remembered.
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 125