Last Argument of Kings

by Joe Abercrombie

  'Stay,' he snapped at the two Practicals in the ante-room, hobbling on past the frowning secretary at the huge desk. Out into the wide hallway running through the heart of the House of Questions and Glokta limped faster, cane clicking against the tiles. It hurt him to do it, but he held his head back, gave a cold wrinkle to his lip. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw the Clerks, the Practicals, the Inquisitors, bowing, sliding backwards, clearing away. How they fear me. More than any man in Adua, and with good reason. How things have changed. And yet, how they have stayed the same. His leg, his neck, his gums. These things were as they had always been. And always will be. Unless I am tortured again, of course.

  'You look well,' Glokta tossed over his shoulder. 'Aside from your hideous facial burns, of course. You lost weight.'

  'Starving can do that.'

  'Indeed, indeed. I lost a great deal of weight in Gurkhul. And not just from the pieces they cut out of me. This way.'

  They turned through a heavy door flanked by frowning Practicals, past an open gate of iron bars. Into a long and windowless corridor, sloping steadily downwards, lit by too few lanterns and filled with slow shadows. The walls were rendered and whitewashed, though none too recently. There was a seedy feel to the place, and a smell of damp. Just as there always is. The clicking of Glokta's cane, the hissing of his breath, the rustling of his white coat, all fell dead on the chill, wet air.

  'Killing me will bring you scant satisfaction, you know.'

  'We shall see.'

  'I doubt it. I was hardly the one responsible for your little trip northwards. I did the work perhaps, but others gave the orders.'

  'They were not my friends.'

  Glokta snorted. 'Please. Friends are people one pretends to like in order to make life bearable. Men like us have no need of such indulgences. It is our enemies by which we are measured.' And here are mine. Sixteen steps confronted him. That old, familiar flight. Cut from smooth stone, a little worn towards the centre.

  'Steps. Bastard things. If I could torture one man, do you know who it would be?' Pike's face was a single, expressionless scar. 'Well, never mind.' Glokta struggled to the bottom without incident, limped on a few more painful strides to a heavy wooden door, bound with iron.

  'We are here.' Glokta slid a bunch of keys from the pocket of his white coat, flicked through them until he found the right one, unlocked the door, and went in.

  Arch Lector Sult was not the man he used to be. But then none of us are, quite. His magnificent shock of white hair was plastered greasily to his gaunt skull, dry blood matted in a yellow-brown mass on one side. His piercing blue eyes had lost their commanding sparkle, sunken as they were in deep sockets and rimmed with angry pink. He had been relieved of his clothes, and his sinewy old man's body, somewhat hairy around the shoulders, was smeared with the grime of the cells. He looked, in fact, like nothing so much as a mad old beggar. Can this truly once have been one of the most powerful men in the wide Circle of the World? You would never guess. A salutary lesson to us all. The higher you climb, the further there is to fall.

  'Glokta!' he snarled, thrashing helplessly, chained to his chair. 'You treacherous, twisted bastard!'

  Glokta held up his white-gloved hand, the purple stone on his ring of office glinting in the harsh lamplight. 'I believe your Eminence is the proper term of address.'

  'You?' Sult barked sharp laughter. 'Arch Lector? A withered, pitiable husk of a man? You disgust me!'

  'Don't give me that.' Glokta lowered himself, wincing, into the other chair. 'Disgust is for the innocent.'

  Sult glared up at Pike, looming menacingly over the table, his shadow falling across the polished case containing Glokta's instruments. 'What is this thing?'

  'This is an old friend of ours, Master Sult, but recently returned from the wars in the North, and seeking new opportunities.'

  'My congratulations! I never believed that you could find an assistant even more hideous than yourself!'

  'You are unkind, but thankfully we are not easily offended. Let us call him equally hideous.' And just as ruthless, too, I hope.

  'When will be my trial?'

  'Trial? Why ever would I want one of those? You are presumed dead and I have made no effort to deny it.'

  'I demand the right to address the Open Council!' Sult struggled pointlessly with his chains. 'I demand… curse you! I demand a hearing!'

  Glokta snorted. 'Demand away, but look around you. No one is interested in listening, not even me. We all are far too busy. The Open Council stands in indefinite recess. The Closed Council is all changed, and you are forgotten. I run things now. More completely than you could ever have dreamed of doing.'

  'On the leash of that devil Bayaz!'

  'Correct. Maybe in time I'll work some looseness into his muzzle, just as I did into yours. Enough to get things my own way, who knows?'

  'Never! You'll never be free of him!'

  'We'll see.' Glokta shrugged. 'But there are worse fates than being the first among slaves. Far worse. I have seen them.' I have lived them.

  'You fool! We could have been free!'

  'No. We couldn't. And freedom is far overrated in any case. We all have our responsibilities. We all owe something to someone. Only the entirely worthless are entirely free. The worthless and the dead.'

  'What does it matter now?' Sult grimaced down at the table. 'What does any of it matter? Ask your questions.'

  'Oh, we're not here for that. Not this time. Not for questions, not for truth, not for confessions. I have my answers already.' Then why do I do this? Why? Glokta leaned slowly forwards across the table. 'We are here for our amusement.'

  Sult stared at him for a moment, then he shrieked with wild laughter. 'Amusement? You'll never have your teeth back! You'll never have your leg back! You'll never have your life back!'

  'Of course not, but I can take yours.' Glokta turned, stiffly, slowly, painfully, and he gave a toothless grin. 'Practical Pike, would you be so good as to show our prisoner the instruments?'

  Pike frowned down at Glokta. He frowned down at Sult. He stood there for a long moment, motionless.

  Then he stepped forward, and lifted the lid of the case.

  * * *

  'Does the devil know he is a devil?'

  Elizabeth Madox Roberts

  * * *

  The Beginning

  « ^

  The sides of the valley were coated in white snow. The black road ran through it like an old scar, down to the bridge, over the river, up to the gates of Carleon. Black sprouts of sedge, tufts of black grass, black stones poked up through the clean white blanket. The black branches of the trees were each picked out on top with their own line of white. The city was a huddle of white roofs and black walls, crowded in around the hill, pressed into the fork in the black river under a stony grey sky.

  Logen wondered if this was how Ferro Maljinn saw the world. Black and white, and nothing else. No colours. He wondered where she was now, what she was doing. If she thought about him.

  Most likely not.

  'Back again.'

  'Aye,' said Shivers. 'Back.' He hadn't had much to say the whole long ride from Uffrith. They might have saved each other's lives, but conversation was another matter. Logen reckoned he still wasn't Shivers' favourite man. Doubted that he ever would be.

  They rode down in silence, a long file of hard riders beside the black stream, no more than an icy trickle. Horses and men snorted out smoke, harness jingled sharp on the cold air. They rode over the bridge, hooves thumping on the hollow wood, on to the gate where Logen had spoken to Bethod. The gate he'd thrown him down from. The grass had grown back, no doubt, in the circle where he'd killed the Feared, then the snow had fallen down and covered it. So it was with all the acts of men, in the end. Covered over and forgotten.

  There was no one out to cheer for him, but that was no surprise. The Bloody-Nine arriving was never any cause for celebration, especially not in Carleon. Hadn't turned out too well for anyone the first t
ime he visited. Nor any of the times after. Folk were no doubt barred into their houses, scared that they'd be the first to get burned alive.

  He swung down from his horse, left Red Hat and the rest of the boys to see to themselves. He strode up through the cobbled street, up the steep slope towards the gateway of the inner wall, Shivers at his shoulder. A couple of Carls watched him come. A couple of Dow's boys, rough-looking bastards. One of them gave him a grin with half the teeth missing. 'The king!' he shouted, waving his sword in the air.

  'The Bloody-Nine!' shouted the other, rattling his shield. 'King o' the Northmen!'

  He crunched across the quiet courtyard, snow piled up into the corners, over to the high doors of Bethod's great hall. He raised his hands and pushed them creaking open. It wasn't much warmer inside than out in the snow. The high windows were open at the far end, the noise of the cold, cold river roaring from far below. Skarling's Chair stood on its raised-up platform, at the top of the steps, casting a long shadow across the rough floorboards towards him.

  Someone was sitting in it, Logen realised, as his eyes got used to the dark. Black Dow. His axe and his sword leaned up against the side of the chair, the glint of sharpened metal in the darkness. Just like him, that. Always kept his weapons close to hand.

  Logen grinned at him. 'Getting comfortable, Dow?'

  'Bit hard on the arse, being honest, but it's better'n dirt for sitting in.'

  'Did you find Calder and Scale?'

  'Aye. I found 'em.'

  'Dead, then, are they?'

  'Not yet. Thought I'd try something different. We been talking.'

  'Talking is it? To those two bastards?'

  'I can think o' worse. Where's the Dogman at?'

  'Still back there, trading words with the Union, sorting out an understanding.'

  'Grim?'

  Logen shook his head. 'Back to the mud.'

  'Huh. Well, there it is. Makes this easier, anyway.' Dow's eyes flickered sideways.

  'Makes what easier?' Logen looked round. Shivers was standing right at his shoulder, scowling as if he had someone's murder in mind. No need to ask whose. Steel gleamed beside him in the shadows. A blade, out and ready. He could've stabbed Logen in the back with time to spare. But he hadn't done, and he didn't now. It seemed as if they all stayed still for quite a while, frozen as the cold valley out beyond the windows.

  'Shit on this.' Shivers tossed the knife away clattering across the floor. 'I'm better'n you, Bloody-Nine. I'm better than the pair o' you. You can get your own work done, Black Dow. I'm done with it.' He turned round and strode out, shoving his way past the two Carls from the gate, just now coming the other way. One of them hefted his shield as he frowned at Logen. The other one pulled the doors shut, swung the bar down with a final-sounding clunk.

  Logen slid the Maker's sword out of its sheath, turned his head and spat on the boards. 'Like that, is it?'

  'Course it is,' said Dow, still sat in Skarling's chair. 'If you'd ever looked a stride further than the end o' your nose you'd know it.'

  'What about the old ways, eh? What about your word?'

  'The old ways are gone. You killed 'em. You and Bethod. Men's words ain't worth much these days. Well then?' he called over his shoulder. 'Now's your chance, ain't it?'

  Logen felt the moment. A lucky choice, maybe, but he'd always had plenty of luck, good and bad. He dived sideways, heard the rattle of the flatbow at the same moment, rolled across the floor and came up in a crouch as the bolt clattered against the wall behind him. He saw a figure in the dark now, kneeling up at the far end of the hall. Calder. Logen heard his curse, fishing for another bolt.

  'Bloody-Nine, you broken dog!' Scale came pounding out of the shadows, boots battering the floorboards, an axe in his great fists with a blade big as a cart-wheel. 'Here's your death!'

  Logen stayed where he was, crouching loose and ready, and he felt himself smile. The odds were against him, maybe, but that was nothing new. It was almost a relief, not to have to think. Fine words and politics, none of that meant anything to him. But this? This he understood.

  The blade crashed into the boards, sent splinters flying. Logen had already rolled out of the way. Now he backed off, watching, moving, letting Scale cleave the air around him. The air healed quick, after all. The next blow flashed sideways and Logen dodged back, let it chop a great lump of plaster from the wall. He stepped in closer as Scale snarled again, his furious little eyes bulging, ready to swing his axe round in a blow to split the world.

  The pommel of the Maker's sword crunched into his mouth before he got the chance, jerked his head up, spots of black blood and a chunk of white tooth flying. He staggered back and Logen followed him. Scale's eyes rolled down, axe going up high, opening his bloody mouth to make another bellow. Logen's boot rammed hard into the side of his leg. His knee bent back the wrong way with a sharp pop and he dropped to the boards, axe flying from his hands, his roar turning to a shriek of pain.

  'My knee! Ah! Fuck! My knee!' He thrashed on the floor, blood running down his chin, trying to kick his way back with only one good leg.

  Logen laughed at him. 'You bloated pig. I warned you, didn't I?'

  'By the fucking dead!' barked Dow. He sprang up out of Skarling's chair, axe and sword in his hands. 'If you want a thing done fucking right, you'd best get ready to set your own hand to it!'

  Logen would've liked to stab Scale right through his fat head, but there were too many other men needed watching. The two Carls were still standing by the door. Calder was loading up his next bolt. Logen sidled into space, trying to keep his eye on all of them at once, and Dow most of all. 'Aye, you faithless bastard!' he shouted. 'Let's have you!'

  'Faithless, me?' Dow snorted as he came on slow down the steps, one at a time. 'I'm a dark bastard, aye, I know what I am. But I'm nothing to you. I know my friends from my enemies. I never killed my own. Bethod was right about one thing, Bloody-Nine. You're made of death. If I can put an end to you, d'you know what? That'll be the best thing I've done in my life.'

  'That all?'

  Dow showed his teeth. 'That, and I'm just plain sick o' taking your fucking say-so.'

  He came on fast as a snake, axe swinging over, sword flashing across waist high. Logen dodged the axe, met the blade with his own, metal clanging on metal. Dow caught him in his sore ribs with his knee and sent him gasping back towards the wall, then came at him again, blades leaving bright traces in the darkness. Logen sprang out of the way, rolled and came up, strutting out into the middle of the hall again, sword hanging loose from his hand.

  'That it?' he asked, smiling through the pain in his side.

  'Just getting the blood flowing.'

  Dow leaped forward, made to go right and came left instead, sword and axe sweeping down together. Logen saw them coming, weaved away from the axe, turned the sword off his own and stepped in, growling. Dow jerked back as the Maker's blade hissed through the air right in front of his face, stumbled away a step or two. His eye twitched, some red leaking down his cheek from a nick just under it. Logen grinned, spun the grip of his sword round in his hand. 'Blood's flowing now, eh?'

  'Aye.' Dow gave a grin of his own. 'Just like old times.'

  'I should've killed you then.'

  'Damn right you should've.' Dow circled round him, always moving, weapons gleaming in the cold light from the tall windows. 'But you love to play the good man, don't you? Do you know what's worse than a villain? A villain who thinks he's a hero. A man like that, there's nothing he won't do, and he'll always find himself an excuse. We've had one ruthless bastard make himself King o' the North, and I'll be damned before I see a worse.' He feinted forward and Logen jerked back.

  He heard the click of Calder's flatbow again and saw the bolt flash right between them. Dow scowled over at him. 'You trying to kill me? You loose another bolt and you're spitted, you hear?'

  'Stop pissing around and kill him, then!' snapped Calder, cranking away at his flatbow.

  'Kill him!' b
ellowed Scale, from somewhere in the shadows.

  'I'm working at it, pig.' Dow jerked his head at the two Carls by the door. 'You two going to pitch in or what?' They looked at each other, none too keen. Then they came forward into the hall, their round shields up, their eyes on Logen, herding him towards one corner.

  Logen bared his teeth as he backed off. 'That's how you'll get it done, is it?'

  'I'd rather kill you fair. But kill you crooked?' Dow shrugged his shoulders. 'Just as good. I ain't in the business o' giving chances. Go on then! At him!'

  The two of them closed in, cautious, Dow moving off to the side. Logen scrambled back, trying to look scared and waiting for some kind of chance. It wasn't long coming. One of the Carls stepped a touch too close, let his shield drop low. He chose a bad moment to raise his axe and a bad way to do it. There was a click as the Maker's sword took his forearm off, left it hanging from his elbow by a scrap of chain-mail. He stumbled forward, dragging in a great wheezing breath, making ready to scream, blood spurting out of the stump of his arm and splattering on the boards. Logen chopped a great gash out of his helmet and he dropped down on his knees.

  'Gwarghh…' he muttered, blood pouring down the side of his face. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling and he flopped on his side. The other Carl jumped over his body, roaring at the top of his lungs. Logen caught his sword, their blades scraping together, then he barged into the man's shield with his shoulder, sent him sprawling on his arse. He gave a wail, the Carl, one boot sticking up. Logen swung the Maker's sword down and split that foot in half up to his ankle.

  Quick footsteps came up under the Carl's shriek. Logen spun, saw Black Dow charging at him, face crushed up into a killing grin.

  'Die!' he hissed. Logen lurched away, the blade just missing him on one side, the axe on the other. He tried to swing the Maker's sword but Dow was too quick and too clever, shoved Logen back with his boot and sent him staggering.

  'Die, Bloody-Nine!' Logen dodged, parried, stumbled as Dow came on again, no pauses and no mercy. Steel glinted in the darkness, blades lashing, killing blows, every one.