Last Argument of Kings tfl-3

by Joe Abercrombie

  A thumping knock echoed through the room and Glokta jerked his head up, toothless mouth hanging open. As long as it is not the Arch Lector—

  “Open up, in the name of his Eminence!”

  He grimaced at a spasm through his back as he dragged himself out of his chair, clawing the stones into a heap. Priceless, glittering handfuls of them. Sweat had broken out across his forehead.

  What if the Arch Lector were to discover my little treasure trove? He giggled to himself as he snatched at the leather case. I was going to mention all this, really I was, but the timing never seemed quite right. A small matter, after all—no more than a king’s ransom. His fingers fumbled with the jewels, and in his haste he flicked one astray and it dropped sparkling to the floor with a sharp click, click.

  Another knock, louder this time, the heavy lock shuddering from the force of it. “Open up!”

  “I’m just coming!” He forced himself down onto his hands and knees with a moan, casting about across the floor, his neck burning with pain. He saw it—a flat green one sitting on the boards, shining bright in the firelight.

  Got you, you bastard! He snatched it up, pulled himself to his feet by the edge of the table, folded up the case, once, twice. No time to hide it away. He shoved it inside his shirt, right down so it was behind his belt, then he grabbed his cane and limped towards the front door, wiping his sweaty face, adjusting his clothes, doing his best to present an unruffled appearance.

  “I’m coming! There’s no need to—”

  Four huge Practicals shoved past him into his apartments, almost knocking him over. Beyond them, in the corridor outside, stood his Eminence the Arch Lector, frowning balefully, two more vast Practicals at his back. A surprising hour for such a gratifying visit. Glokta could hear the four men stomping around his apartments, throwing open doors, pulling open cupboards. Never mind me, gentlemen, make yourself at home. After a moment they marched back in.

  “Empty,” grunted one, from behind his mask.

  “Huh,” sneered Sult, moving smoothly over the threshold, staring about him with a scowl of contempt. My new lodgings, it would seem, are scarcely more impressive than my old ones. His six Practicals took up positions around the walls of Glokta’s dining room, arms folded across their chests, watching. An awful lot of great big men, to keep an eye on one little cripple.

  Sult’s shoes stabbed at the floor as he strode up and down, his blue eyes bulging, a furious frown twisting his face. It does not take a masterful judge of character to see that he is not a happy man. Might one of my ugly secrets have come to his attention? One of my little disobediences? Glokta felt a sweaty trembling slink up his bent spine. The non-execution of Magister Eider, perhaps? My agreement with Practical Vitari to tell less than the whole truth? The corner of the leather pouch dug gently into his ribs as he shifted his hips. Or merely the small matter of the large fortune with which I was purchased by a highly suspect banking house?

  An image sprang unbidden into Glokta’s mind, of the jewel-case suddenly splitting behind his belt, gems spilling from his trouser legs in a priceless cascade while the Arch Lector and his Practicals stared in amazement. I wonder how I’d try to explain that one? He had to stifle a giggle at the thought.

  “That bastard Bayaz!” snarled Sult, his white-gloved hands curling into shaking fists.

  Glokta felt himself relax by the smallest hair. I am not the problem, then. Not yet, at least. “Bayaz?”

  “That bald liar, that smirking impostor, that ancient charlatan! He has stolen the Closed Council!” Stop, thief. “He has that worm Luthar dictating to us! You told me he was a spineless nothing!” I told you he used to be a spineless nothing, and you ignored me. “This cursed puppy-dog proves to have teeth, and is not afraid to use them, and that First of the bastard Magi is holding his leash! He is laughing at us! He is laughing at me! At me!” screamed Sult, stabbing at his chest with a clawing finger.

  “I—”

  “Damn your excuses, Glokta! I am drowning in a sea of damned excuses, when what I need are answers! What I need are solutions! What I need is to know more about this liar!”

  Then perhaps this will impress you. “I have already, in fact, taken the liberty of some steps in that direction.”

  “What steps?”

  “I was able to take his Navigator into custody,” said Glokta, allowing himself the smallest of smiles.

  “The Navigator?” Sult gave no sign of being impressed. “And what did that stargazing imbecile tell you?”

  Glokta paused. “That he journeyed across the Old Empire to the edge of the World with Bayaz and our new king, before his enthronement.” He struggled for words that would fit cleanly into Sult’s world of logic, and reasons, and neat explanations. “That they were seeking for… a relic, of the Old Time—”

  “Relics?” asked Sult, his frown deepening. “Old Time?”

  Glokta swallowed. “Indeed, but they did not find it—”

  “So we now know one of a thousand things that Bayaz did not do? Bah!” Sult ripped angrily at the air with his hand. “He is nobody, and told you less than nothing! More of your myths and rubbish!”

  “Of course, your Eminence,” muttered Glokta. There really is no pleasing some people.

  Sult frowned down at the squares board under the window, his white-gloved hand hovering over the pieces as if to make a move. “I lose track of how often you have failed me, but I will give you a final chance to redeem yourself. Look into this First of the Magi once more. Find some weakness, some weapon we can use against him. He is a disease, and we must burn him out.” He prodded angrily at one of the white pieces. “I want him destroyed! I want him finished! I want him in the House of Questions, in chains!”

  Glokta swallowed. “Your Eminence, Bayaz is ensconced in the palace, and well beyond my reach… his protégé is now our King…” Thanks in part to our own desperate efforts. Glokta almost winced, but he could not stop himself from asking the question. “How am I to do it?”

  “How?” shrieked Sult, “how, you crippled worm?” He swept his hand furiously across the board and dashed the pieces spinning across the floor. And I wonder who will have to bend down to pick those up? The six Practicals, as though controlled by the pitch of the Arch Lector’s voice, detached themselves from the walls and loomed menacingly into the room. “If I wished to attend to every detail myself I would have no need of your worthless services! Get out there and get it done, you twisted slime!”

  “Your Eminence is too kind,” muttered Glokta, humbly inclining his head once more. But even the lowest dog needs a scratch behind the ears, from time to time, or he might go for his master’s throat…

  “And look into his story while you’re about it.”

  “Story, Arch Lector?”

  “This fairytale of Carmee dan Roth!” Sult’s eyes went narrower still, hard creases cutting into the bridge of his nose. “If we cannot take the leash ourselves, we must have the dog put down, do you understand?”

  Glokta felt his eye twitching, in spite of his efforts to make it be still. We find a way to bring King Jezal’s reign to an abrupt end. Dangerous. If the Union is a ship, it has but lately come through a storm, and is listing badly. We have lost one captain. Replace another now, and the boat might break apart entirely. We will all be swimming in some deep, cold, unknown waters then. Civil War, anyone? He frowned down at the squares pieces scattered across his floor. But his Eminence has spoken. What is it that Shickel said? When your master gives you a task, you do your best at it. Even if the task is a dark one. And some of us are only suited to dark tasks…

  “Carmee dan Roth, and her bastard. I shall find the truth of it, your Eminence, you can depend on me.”

  Sult’s sneer curled to even greater heights of contempt. “If only!”

  The House of Questions was busy, for an evening. Glokta saw no one as he limped down the corridor, his excuses for teeth pressed into his lip, his hand clenched tight around the handle of his cane, slippery with swe
at. He saw no one, but he heard them.

  Voices bubbled from behind the iron-bound doors. Low and insistent. Asking the questions. High and desperate. Spilling the answers. From time to time a shriek, or a roar, or a howl of pain would cut through the heavy silence. Those hardly need explaining. Severard was leaning against the dirty wall as Glokta limped towards him, one foot up on the plaster, whistling tunelessly behind his mask.

  “What’s all this?” asked Glokta.

  “Some of Lord Brock’s people got drunk, then they got noisy. Fifty of ’em, made quite a mess up near the Four Corners. Moaning about rights, whining on how the people were cheated, mouthing off how Brock should’ve been king. They say it was a demonstration. We say it was treason.”

  “Treason, eh?” The definition is notoriously flexible. “Pick out some ringleaders and get some paper signed. Angland is back in Union hands. High time we started filling the place up with traitors.”

  “They’re already at it. Anything else?”

  “Oh, of course.” Juggling knives. One comes down, two go up. Always more blades spinning in the air, and each one with a deadly edge. “I had a visit from his Eminence earlier today. A brief visit, but too long for my taste.”

  “Work for us?”

  “Nothing that will make you a rich man, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

  “I’m always hoping. I’m what you call an optimist.”

  “Lucky for you.” I rather tend the other way. Glokta took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “The First of the Magi and his bold companions.”

  “Again?”

  “His Eminence wants information.”

  “This Bayaz, though. Isn’t he tight with our new king?”

  Glokta raised an eyebrow as a muffled roar of pain echoed down the corridor. Tight? He might as well have made him out of clay. “That is why we must keep our eyes upon him, Practical Severard. For his own protection. Powerful men have powerful enemies, as well as powerful friends.”

  “Think that Navigator knows anything else?”

  “Nothing that will do the trick.”

  “Shame. I was getting used to having the little bastard around. He tells a hell of a story about a huge fish.”

  Glokta sucked at his empty gums. “Keep him where he is for now. Perhaps Practical Frost will appreciate his tall tales.” He has a fine sense of humour.

  “If the Navigator’s no use, who do we squeeze?”

  Who indeed? Ninefingers is gone. Bayaz himself is tucked up tight in the palace, and his apprentice hardly leaves his side. The erstwhile Jezal dan Luthar, we must concede, is now far beyond our reach… “What about that woman?”

  Severard looked up. “What, that brown bitch?”

  “She’s still in the city, isn’t she?”

  “Last I heard.”

  “Follow her, then, and find out what she’s about.”

  The Practical paused. “Do I have to?”

  “What? You scared?”

  Severard lifted up his mask and scratched underneath it. “I can think of people I’d rather follow.”

  “Life is a series of things we would rather not do.” Glokta looked up and down the corridor, making sure there was no one there. “We also need to ask some questions about Carmee dan Roth, supposed mother of our present king.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  He leaned towards Severard and hissed quietly in his ear. “Questions like—did she really bear a child before she died? Was that child really the issue of the overactive loins of King Guslav? Is that child truly the same man that we now have on the throne? You know the kind of questions.” Questions that could land us in a great deal of trouble. Questions that some people might call treason. After all, the definition is notoriously flexible.

  Severard’s mask looked the same as ever, but the rest of his face was decidedly worried. “You sure we want to go digging there?”

  “Why don’t you ask the Arch Lector if he’s sure? He sounded sure to me. Get Frost to help you if you’re having trouble.”

  “But… what are we looking for? How will we—”

  “How?” hissed Glokta. “If I wished to attend to every detail myself I would have no need of your services. Get out there and get it done!”

  When Glokta had been young and beautiful, quick and promising, admired and envied, he had spent a great deal of time in the taverns of Adua. Though I never remember falling this far, even in my darkest moods.

  He scarcely felt out of place now, as he hobbled among the customers. To be crippled was the norm here, and he had more teeth than average. Nearly everyone carried unsightly scars or debilitating injuries, sores or warts to make a toad blush. There were men with faces rough as the skin on a bowl of old porridge. Men who shook worse than leaves in a gale and stank of week-old piss. Men who looked as if they’d slit a child’s throat just to keep their knives sharp. A drunken whore slouched against a post in an attitude that could hardly have been arousing to the most desperate sailor. That same reek of sour beer and hopelessness, sour sweat and early death that I remember from the sites of my worst excesses. Only stronger.

  There were some private booths at one end of the stinking common room, vaulted archways full of miserable shadows and even more miserable drunks. And who might one expect to find in such surroundings? Glokta shuffled to a stop beside the last of them.

  “Well, well, well. I never thought I’d see you alive again.”

  Nicomo Cosca looked even worse than when Glokta first met him, if that was possible. He was spread out against the slimy wall, his hands dangling, his head hanging over to one side, his eyes scarcely open as he watched Glokta work his painful way into a chair opposite. His skin was soapy pale in the flickering light from the single mean candle flame, dark pouches under his eyes, dark shadows shifting over his pinched and pointed face. The rash on his neck had grown angrier, and spread up the side of his jaw like ivy up a ruin. With just a little more effort he might look nearly as ill as me.

  “Superior Glokta,” he wheezed, in a voice as rough as tree-bark, “I am delighted that you received my message. What an honour to renew our acquaintance, against all the odds. Your masters did not reward your efforts in the South with a cut throat, eh?”

  “I was as surprised as you are, but no.” Though there is still ample time. “How was Dagoska after I left?”

  The Styrian puffed out his hollow cheeks. “Dagoska was a real mess, since you are asking. A lot of men dead. A lot of men made slaves. That’s what happens when the Gurkish come to dinner, eh? Good men with bad endings, and the bad men did little better. Bad endings for everyone. Your friend General Vissbruck got one of them.”

  “I understand he cut his own throat.” To rapturous approval from the public. “How did you get away?”

  The corner of Cosca’s mouth curled up, as though he would have liked to smile but had not the energy. “I disguised myself as a servant girl, and I fucked my way out.”

  “Ingenious.” But far more likely you were the one who opened the gates to the Gurkish, in return for your freedom. I wonder if I would have done the same, in that position? Probably. “And lucky for us both.”

  “They say that luck is a woman. She’s drawn to those that least deserve her.”

  “Perhaps so.” Though I appear to be both undeserving and unlucky. “It is certainly fortunate that you should appear in Adua at this moment. Things are… unsettled.”

  Glokta heard a squeaking, rustling sound and a large rat dashed out from under his chair and paused for a moment in full view. Cosca delved a clumsy hand into his stained jacket and whipped it out. A throwing knife flew out with it, flashed through the air. It shuddered into the boards a good stride or two wide of the mark. The rat sat there for a moment longer, as though to communicate its contempt, then scurried away between the table and chair legs, the scuffed boots of the patrons.

  Cosca sucked at his stained teeth as he slithered from the booth to retrieve his blade. “I used to be dazzl
ing with a throwing knife, you know.”

  “Beautiful women used to hang from my every word.” Glokta sucked at his own empty gums. “Times change.”

  “So I hear. All kinds of changes. New rulers mean new worries. Worries mean business, for people in my trade.”

  “It might be that I will have a use for your particular talents, before too long.”

  “I cannot say that I would turn you down.” Cosca tipped his bottle up and stuck his tongue into the neck, licking out the last trickle. “My purse is empty as a dry well. So empty, in fact, that I don’t even have a purse.”

  There, at least, I am able to assist. Glokta checked that they were not observed, then tossed something across the rough table top and watched it bounce with a click and a spin to a halt in front of Cosca. The mercenary picked it up between finger and thumb, held it to the candle flame and stared at it through one bloodshot eye. “This seems to be a diamond.”

  “Consider yourself on retainer. I daresay you could find some like-minded men to assist you. Some reliable men, who tell no tales and ask no questions. Some good men, to help out.”

  “Some bad men, do you mean?”

  Glokta grinned, displaying the gaps in his teeth. “Well. I suppose that all depends on whether you’re the employer, or you’re the job.”

  “I suppose it does at that.” Cosca let his empty bottle drop to the ill-formed floorboards. “And what is the job, Superior?”

  “For now, just to wait, and stay out of sight.” He leaned from the booth with a wince and snapped his fingers at a surly serving girl. “Another bottle of what my friend is drinking!”

  “And later?”

  “I’m sure I can find something for you to do.” He shuffled painfully forward in his chair to whisper. “Between you and me, I heard a rumour that the Gurkish are coming.”

  Cosca winced. “Them again? Must we? Those bastards don’t play by the rules. God, and righteousness, and belief.” He shuddered. “Makes me nervous.”

  “Well, whoever it is banging on the door, I’m sure I can organise a heroic last stand, against the odds, without hope of relief.” I am not lacking for enemies, after all.