Jezal, now fully adjusted to his role of conquering hero, dragged hard on the bridle making his steed rear up, front hooves thrashing theatrically at the air. He vaulted from the saddle, approached the royal dais, and sank gracefully down on one knee, head bowed, the applause of the crowd echoing around him, to await the King’s gratitude. Would it be too much to hope for a further promotion? Perhaps even a title of his own? It seemed suddenly hard to believe that he had been forced to consider a quiet life in obscurity, not so very long ago.
‘Your Majesty . . .’ he heard Hoff saying, and he peered up from under his brows. The King was asleep, his eyes firmly closed, his mouth hanging open. Hardly a great surprise in its own way, the man was long past his best, but Jezal could not help being galled. It was the second time, after all, that he had slumbered through one of Jezal’s moments of glory. Hoff nudged the monarch as subtly as possible with an elbow, but when he did not wake, was forced to lean close to whisper in his ear.
‘Your Majesty—’ He got no further. The King leaned sideways, his head slumping, and fell all of a sudden from his gilded chair, sprawling on his back before the stricken members of the Closed Council like a landed whale. His scarlet robe flopped open to reveal a great wet stain across his trousers and the crown tumbled from his head, bounced once and clattered across the flags.
There was a collective gasp, punctuated by a shriek from a lady near the back. Jezal could only stare, open mouthed, as the Lord Chamberlain flung himself down on his knees, bending over the stricken King. A silent moment passed, a moment in which every person in the Square of Marshals held their breath, then Hoff got slowly to his feet. His face had lost all of its redness.
‘The King is dead!’ he wailed, the tortured echoes ringing from the towers and buildings around the square. Jezal could only grimace. It was just his luck. Now no one would be cheering for him.
Too Many Knives
Logen sat on a rock, twenty strides from the track that Crummock was leading them up. He knew all the ways, Crummocki-Phail, all the ways in the North. That was the rumour, and Logen hoped it was a fact. He didn’t fancy being led straight into an ambush. They were heading north, towards the mountains. Hoping to draw Bethod down off his hills and up into the High Places. Hoping the Union would come up behind him, and catch him in a trap. An awful lot of hoping, that.
It was a hot, sunny day, and the earth under the trees was broken with shadow and slashed with bright sunlight, shifting as the branches moved in the wind, the sun slipping through and stabbing in Logen’s face from time to time. Birds tweeted and warbled, trees creaked and rustled, insects floated in the still air, and the forest floor was spattered with clumps of flowers, white and blue. Summer, in the North, but none of it made Logen feel any better. Summer was the best season for killing, and he’d seen plenty more men die in good weather than in bad. So he kept his eyes open, looking out into the trees, watching hard and listening harder.
That was the task Dogman had given him. Staying out on the right flank, making sure none of Bethod’s boys crept up while they were all spread out in file down that goat track. It suited Logen well enough. Kept him on the edge, where none of his own side might get tempted to try and kill him.
Watching men moving quiet through the trees, voices kept down low, weapons at the ready, brought back a rush of memories. Some good, some bad. Mostly bad, it had to be said. One man came away from the others as Logen watched, started walking towards him through the trees. He had a big grin on his face, just as friendly as you like, but that meant nothing, Logen had known plenty of men who could grin while they planned to kill you. He’d done it himself, and more than once.
He turned his body sideways a touch, sliding his hand down out of sight and curling it tight round the grip of a knife. You can never have too many knives, his father had told him, and that was strong advice. He looked around, slow and easy, just to make sure there was no one at his back, but there were only empty trees. So he shifted his feet for a better balance and stayed sitting, trying to look as if nothing worried him, but with every muscle tensed and ready to spring.
‘My name’s Red Hat.’ The man stopped no more than a stride away, still grinning, his left hand slack on the pommel of his sword, the other just hanging.
Logen’s mind raced, thinking over all the men he’d wronged, or hurt, or got bound up in a feud with. Those he’d left alive, anyway. Red Hat. He couldn’t find a place for it anywhere, but that was no reassurance. Ten men with ten big books couldn’t have kept track of all the enemies he’d made, and the friends and the family and the allies of all his enemies. And that was without a man trying to kill him without much of a reason, just to make his own name bigger. ‘Can’t say I recognise the name.’
Red Hat shrugged. ‘No reason you should do. I fought for Old Man Yawl, way back. He was a good man, was Yawl, a man you could respect.’
‘Aye,’ said Logen, still watching hard for a sudden move.
‘But when he went back to the mud I got a place with Littlebone.’
‘Never saw eye to eye with Littlebone, even when we were on the same side.’
‘Neither did I, being honest. A right bastard. All bloated up with victories that Bethod won for him. Didn’t sit well with me. That’s why I came over, you know? When I heard Threetrees was here.’ He sniffed and looked down at the earth. ‘Someone needs to do something about that fucking Feared.’
‘So they tell me.’ Logen was hearing a lot about this Feared, and none of it good, but it’d take more than a few words in the right direction to get his hand off his knife.
‘Still, the Dogman’s a good chief, I reckon. One of the best I’ve had. Knows his business. Careful, like. Thinks about things.’
‘Aye. Always thought he would be.’
‘You think Bethod’s following us?’
Logen didn’t take his eyes from Red Hat’s. ‘Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Don’t reckon we’ll know ’til we get up in the mountains and hear him knocking at the door.’
‘You think the Union’ll keep to their end of it?’
‘Don’t see why not. That Burr seems to know what he’s about, far as I can tell, and his boy Furious as well. They said they’ll come, I reckon they’ll come. Not much we can do about it either way now, though, is there?’
Red Hat wiped some sweat from his forehead, squinting off into the trees. ‘I reckon you’re right. Anyway, all’s I wanted to say was, I was in the battle, at Ineward. I was on the other side from you, but I saw you fight, and I kept well away, I can tell you that.’ He shook his head, and grinned. ‘Never saw anything like that, before or since. I suppose what I’m saying is, I’m happy to have you with us. Real happy.’
‘Y’are?’ Logen blinked. ‘Alright, then. Good.’
Red Hat nodded. ‘Well. That’s all. See you in the fight, I reckon.’
‘Aye. In the fight.’ Logen watched him stride away through the trees, but even when Red Hat was well out of sight, he somehow couldn’t make his hand uncurl from the grip of his knife, still couldn’t lose the feeling that he had to watch his back.
Seemed he’d let himself forget what the North was like. Or he’d let himself pretend it would be different. Now he saw his mistake. He’d made a trap for himself, years ago. He’d made a great heavy chain, link by bloody link, and he’d bound himself up in it. Somehow he’d been offered the chance to get free, a chance he didn’t come near to deserving, but instead he’d blundered back in, and now things were apt to get bloody.
He could feel it coming. A great weight of death, like the shadow of a mountain falling on him. Every time he said a word, or took a step, or had a thought, even, it seemed he’d somehow brought it closer. He drank it down with every swallow, he sucked it in with every breath. He hunched his shoulders up and stared down at his boots, strips of sunlight across the toes. He should never have let go of Ferro. He should have clung to her like a child to its mother. How many things halfway good had he been offered in his life? And now h
e’d turned one down, and chosen to come back and settle some scores. He licked his teeth, and he spat sour spit out onto the earth. He should’ve known better. Vengeance is never halfway as simple, or halfway as sweet, as you think it’s going to be.
‘I bet you’re wishing you didn’t come back at all, eh?’
Logen jerked his head up, on the point of pulling the knife and setting to work. Then he saw it was only Tul standing over him. He pushed the blade away and let his hands drop. ‘Do you know what? The thought had occurred.’
The Thunderhead squatted down beside him. ‘Sometimes I find my own name’s a heavy weight to carry. Dread to think how a name like yours must drag at a man.’
‘It can seem a burden.’
‘I bet it can.’ Tul watched the men moving past, single file, down on the dusty track. ‘Don’t mind ’em. They’ll get used to you. And if things get low, well, you’ve always got Black Dow’s smile to fall back on, eh?’
Logen grinned. ‘That’s true. It’s quite the smile he has, that man. It seems to light up the whole world, don’t it?’
‘Like sunshine on a cloudy day.’ Tul sat down on the rock next to him, pulled the stopper from his canteen and held it out. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? For what?’
‘That we didn’t look for you, after you went over that cliff. Thought you were dead.’
‘Can’t say I hold much of a grudge for that. I was pretty damn sure I was dead myself. I’m the one should have gone looking for you lot, I reckon.’
‘Well. Should’ve looked for each other, maybe. But I guess you learn to stop hoping, after a while. Life teaches you to expect the worst, eh?’
‘You have to be realistic, I reckon.’
‘That you do. Still, it came out alright. Back with us now, aren’t you?’
‘Aye.’ Logen sighed. ‘Back to warring, and bad food, and creeping through woods.’
‘Woods,’ grunted Tul, and he split a big grin. ‘Will I ever get tired of ’em?’
Logen took a drink from the canteen, then handed it back, and Tul took a swig himself. They sat there, silent, for a minute.
‘I didn’t want this, you know, Tul.’
‘Course not. None of us wanted this. Don’t mean we don’t deserve it, though, eh?’ Tul slapped his big hand down on Logen’s shoulder. ‘You need to talk it over, I’m around.’
Logen watched him go. He was a good man, the Thunderhead. A man that could be trusted. There were still a few left. Tul, and Grim, and the Dogman. Black Dow too, in his own way. It almost gave Logen some hope, that did. Almost made him glad that he chose to come back to the North. Then he looked back at the file of men and he saw Shivers in there, watching him. Logen would have liked to look away, but looking away wasn’t something the Bloody-Nine could do. So he sat there on his rock, and they stared at each other, and Logen felt the hatred digging at him until Shivers was lost through the trees. He shook his head again, and sucked his teeth again, and spat.
You can never have too many knives, his father had told him. Unless they’re pointed at you, and by people who don’t like you much.
Best of Enemies
‘Tap, tap.’ ‘Not now!’ stormed Colonel Glokta. ‘I have all these to get through!’ There must have been ten thousand papers of confession for him to sign. His desk was groaning with great heaps of them, and the nib of his pen was soft as butter. What with the red ink, his marks looked like dark bloodstains sprayed across the pale paper. ‘Damn it!’ he raged as he knocked over the bottle with his elbow, splashing ink out over the desk, soaking into the piles of papers, dripping to the floor with a steady tap, tap, tap.
‘There will be time later for you to confess. Ample time.’
The Colonel frowned. The air had grown decidedly chill. ‘You again! Always at the worst times!’
‘You remember me, then?’
‘I seem to . . .’ In truth, the Colonel was finding it hard to recall from where. It looked like a woman in the corner, but he could not make out her face.
‘The Maker fell burning . . . he broke upon the bridge below . . .’ The words were familiar, but Glokta could not have said why. Old stories and nonsense. He winced. Damn it but his leg hurt.
‘I seem to . . .’ His usual confidence was all ebbing away. The room was icy cold now, he could see his breath smoking before his face. He stumbled up from his chair as his unwelcome visitor came closer, his leg aching with a vengeance. ‘What do you want?’ he managed to croak.
The face came into the light. It was none other than Mauthis, from the banking house of Valint and Balk. ‘The Seed, Colonel.’ And he smiled his joyless smile. ‘I want the Seed.’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Glokta’s back found the wall. He could go no further.
‘The Seed!’ Now it was Goyle’s face, now Sult’s, now Severard’s, but they all made the same demand. ‘The Seed! I lose patience!’
‘Bayaz,’ he whispered, squeezing his eyes closed, tears running out from underneath his lids. ‘Bayaz knows—’
‘Tap, tap, torturer.’ The woman’s hissing voice again. A fingertip jabbed at the side of his head, painfully hard. ‘If that old liar knew, it would be mine already. No. You will find it.’ He could not speak for fear. ‘You will find it, or I will tear the price from your twisted flesh. So tap, tap, time to wake.’
The finger stabbed at his skull again, digging into the side of his head like a dagger blade. ‘Tap, tap, cripple!’ hissed the hideous voice in his ear, breath so cold it seemed to burn his bare cheek. ‘Tap, tap!’
Tap, tap.
For a moment Glokta hardly knew where he was. He jerked upright, struggling with the sheets, staring about him, hemmed in on every side by threatening shadows, his own whimpering breath hissing in his head. Then everything fell suddenly into place. My new apartments. A pleasant breeze stirred the curtains in the sticky night, washing through the one open window. Glokta saw its shadow shifting on the rendered wall. It swung shut against the frame, open, then shut again.
Tap, tap.
He closed his eyes and breathed a long sigh. Winced as he sagged back in his bed, stretching his legs out, working his toes against the cramps. Those toes the Gurkish left me, at least. Only another dream. Everything is—
Then he remembered, and his eyes snapped wide open. The King is dead. Tomorrow we elect a new one.
The three hundred and twenty papers were hanged, lifeless, from their nails. They had grown more and more creased, battered, greasy and grubby over the past few weeks. As the business itself has slid further into the filth. Many were ink smudged, covered with angrily scrawled notes, with fillings-in and crossings-out. As men were bought and sold, bullied and blackmailed, bribed and beguiled. Many were torn where wax had been removed, added, replaced with other colours. As the allegiances shifted, as the promises were broken, as the balance swung this way and that.
Arch Lector Sult stood glaring at them, like a shepherd at his troublesome flock, his white coat rumpled, his white hair in disarray. Glokta had never before seen him look anything less than perfectly presented. He must, at last, taste blood. His own. I would almost want to laugh, if my own mouth were not so terribly salty.
‘Brock has seventy-five,’ Sult was hissing to himself, white gloved hands fussing with each other behind his back. ‘Brock has seventy-five. Isher has fifty-five. Skald and Barezin, forty a piece. Brock has seventy-five . . .’ He muttered the numbers over and over, as though they were a charm to protect him from evil. Or from good, perhaps. ‘Isher has fifty-five . . .’
Glokta had to suppress a smile. Brock, then Isher, then Skald and Barezin, while the Inquisition and Judiciary struggle over scraps. For all our efforts, the shape of things is much the same as when we began this ugly dance. We might as well have led the country then and saved ourselves the trouble. Perhaps it is still not too late . . .
Glokta noisily cleared his throat and Sult’s head jerked round. ‘You have something to contribute?’
‘In
a manner of speaking, your Eminence.’ Glokta kept his tone as servile as he possibly could. ‘I received some rather . . . troubling information recently.’
Sult scowled, and nodded his head at the papers. ‘More troubling than this?’
Equally, at any rate. After all, whoever wins the vote will have but a brief celebration if the Gurkish arrive and slaughter the lot of us a week later. ‘It has been suggested to me . . . that the Gurkish are preparing to invade Midderland.’
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Scarcely a promising reception, but we have set sail now. What else to do but steer straight for the storm? ‘Invade?’ sneered Goyle. ‘With what?’
‘It is not the first time I have been told they have a fleet.’ Trying desperately to patch my foundering vessel. ‘A considerable fleet, built in secret, after the last war. We could easily make some preparations, then if the Gurkish do come—’
‘And what if you are wrong?’ The Arch Lector was frowning mightily. ‘From whom did this information come?’
Oh, dear me no, that would never do. Carlot dan Eider? Alive? But how? Body found floating by the docks . . . ‘An anonymous source, Arch Lector.’
‘Anonymous?’ His Eminence glowered through narrowed eyes. ‘And you would have me go to the Closed Council, at a time like this, and put before them the unproven gossip of your anonymous source?’ The waves swamp the deck . . .
‘I merely wished to alert your Eminence to the possibility—’
‘When are they coming?’ The torn sailcloth flaps in the gale . . .
‘My informant did not—’
‘Where will they land?’ The sailors topple screaming from the rigging . . .
‘Again, your Eminence I cannot—’
‘What will be their numbers?’ The wheel breaks off in my shaking hands . . .
Glokta winced, and decided not to speak at all.
‘Then kindly refrain from distracting us with rumours,’ sneered Sult, his lip twisted with contempt. The ship vanishes beneath the merciless waves, her cargo of precious warnings consigned to the deep, and her captain will not be missed. ‘We have more pressing concerns than a legion of Gurkish phantoms!’
The First Law Trilogy Boxed Set: The Blade Itself, Before They Are Hanged, Last Argument of Kings Page 133