Young men wore tight fitting jackets in bright crimson, green, or blue, festooned with ropes and knots of gold and silver thread. Women were hung with chains and rings of glittering gold and flashing jewels, wearing strange dresses of vivid cloth that were ridiculously loose and billowing in places, painfully tight in others, and left others still entirely, distractingly bare.
Even the servants were dressed like lords, prowling around behind the tables, leaning forward silently to fill goblets with sweet, thin wine. Logen had already drunk a deal of it, and the bright room had taken on a pleasant glow.
The problem was the lack of food. He hadn’t eaten since that morning and his stomach was growling. He’d been eyeing the jars of plants sat on the tables before the guests. They had bright flowers on them, and didn’t look much like food to him, but then they ate some strange things in this country.
There was nothing for it but to try. He snatched one of the things from the jar, a long piece of green plant with a yellow flower on the end. He took a nibble from the bottom of the stem. Tasteless and watery, but at least it was crunchy. He took a larger bite and munched on it without relish.
‘I don’t think they’re meant for eating.’ Logen glanced round, surprised to hear the Northern tongue spoken here, surprised that anyone was speaking to him at all. His neighbour, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, lined face, was leaning towards him with an embarrassed smile. Logen recognised him vaguely. He’d been at the sword game—holding the blades for the lad from the gate.
‘Ah,’ mumbled Logen round his mouthful of plant. The taste of the stuff got worse with time. ‘Sorry,’ he said once he had forced it down his throat, ‘I don’t know much about these things.’
‘Honestly, neither do I. How did it taste?’
‘Like shit.’ Logen held the half-eaten flower uncertainly in his fingers. The tiled floor was spotlessly clean. It hardly seemed right to toss the thing under the table. There were no dogs anyway, and even if there had been he doubted they’d have eaten the thing. A dog would have had more sense than him. He dropped it on the metal platter and wiped his fingers on his chest, hoping that no one had noticed.
‘My name is West,’ said the man, offering his hand, ‘I come from Angland.’
Logen gave the hand a squeeze. ‘Ninefingers. A Brynn, from way up north of the High Places.’
‘Ninefingers?’ Logen waggled his stump at him and the man nodded. ‘Ah, I see.’ He smiled as though remembering something funny. ‘I heard a song once, in Angland, about a nine-fingered man. What was he called now? The Bloody-Nine! That was it!’ Logen felt his grin slipping. ‘One of those Northern songs, you know the kind, all violence. He cut off heads by the cartload, this Bloody-Nine, and burned towns, and mixed blood with his beer and whatnot. That wasn’t you, was it?’
The man was making a joke. Logen laughed nervously. ‘No, no, I never heard of him,’ but luckily West had already moved on.
‘Tell me, you look like you’ve seen some battles in your time.’
‘I’ve been in some scrapes.’ It was pointless to deny it.
‘Do you know of this one they call the King of the Northmen? This man Bethod?’
Logen glanced sideways. ‘I know of him.’
‘You fought against him in the wars?’
Logen grimaced. The sour taste of the plant seemed to be lingering in his mouth. He picked up his goblet and took a swallow. ‘Worse,’ he said slowly as he set it down. ‘I fought for him.’
This only seemed to make the man more curious than ever. ‘Then you know about his tactics, and his troops. His way of making war?’ Logen nodded. ‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘That he’s a most cunning and ruthless opponent, with no pity or scruple in him. Make no mistake, I hate the man, but there’s been no war leader in his league since the days of Skarling Hoodless. He has that in him which men respect, or fear, or at least obey. He pushes his men hard, so he can make the field first and choose his own ground, but they march hard for him because he brings them victories. He’s cautious when he must be, and fearless when he must be, but neglects no detail. He delights in every trick of war—in setting traps and ambushes, in mounting feints and deceptions, in sending sudden raids against the unwary. Look for him where you expect him least, and expect him to be strongest where he seems the weakest. Beware him most of all when he seems to run. Most men fear him, and those that don’t are fools.’
Logen picked up the flower from the plate and started snapping it into pieces. ‘His armies are grouped about the chieftains of the clans, some of them strong war leaders in their own right. Most of his fighters are Thralls, peasants pressed into service, lightly armed with spear or bow, fast moving in loose groups. In the past they were ill-trained, and taken from their farms for only a short time, but the wars have been raging for so long that many of them have become hard fighters, and show scant mercy.’
He began to arrange the bits of plant, imagining they were groups of men and the plate a hill. ‘Each chieftain keeps Carls besides, his own household warriors, well armed and armoured, skilled with axe and sword and spear, well disciplined. Some few have horses, but Bethod will keep those out of sight, waiting for the best moment to charge or pursue.’ He pulled the yellow petals from the flower, and they became horsemen hidden on the flanks. ‘Last there are the Known Men, the Named Men, those warriors who’ve earned great respect in battle. They might lead groups of Carls on the field, or act as scouts or raiders, sometimes far in the enemy’s rear.’
He realised the plate was covered with a mess of broken pieces of plant, and brushed them hurriedly off onto the table. ‘That’s the tradition of war in the North, but Bethod’s always had a fancy for new ideas. He’s read books, and studied other ways of fighting, and often talked of buying flat-bows, and heavy armour, and strong war-horses from the southern traders, and of making an army to be feared throughout the world.’
Logen became aware he had been talking solidly for ages. He hadn’t said half that many words together in years, but West was staring at him with a look of rapt attention. ‘You speak like a man who knows his business.’
‘Well, you’ve happened upon the one subject on which I might be reckoned an expert.’
‘What advice would you give to a man who had to fight a war against Bethod?’
Logen frowned. ‘Be careful. And watch your back.’
Jezal was not enjoying himself. At first, of course, it had seemed a delightful idea, just the thing he had always dreamed of: a celebration in his honour, attended by so many of the Union’s greatest. Surely it was only the start of his wonderful new life as a champion of the Contest. The great things which everyone had predicted, no, promised for him were almost arrived, poised like over-ripe fruit to drop from the tree and into his lap. Promotions and glory were sure to follow close behind. Perhaps they would make him Major tonight, and he would go to the war in Angland as commander of a full battalion . . .
But, strangely, it appeared that most of the guests were more interested in their own affairs. They chattered to each other about government matters, about the business of merchant houses, about issues of land, and title, and politics. Fencing, and his remarkable skill at it, were scarcely mentioned. No immediate promotion had been forthcoming. He simply had to sit there, and smile, and accept the odd lukewarm congratulation from strangers in splendid clothes who barely even looked him in the eye. A wax effigy could have done the same job. He had to admit, the adulation of the commoners in the arena had been considerably more gratifying. At least they had sounded as if they meant it.
Still, he had never before been within the palace compound, a fortress within the fortress of the Agriont where few indeed were permitted to tread. Now he was seated at the top table in the King’s own dining hall, though Jezal did not doubt that his Majesty took the majority of his meals propped up in bed, and most likely had them fed to him with a spoon.
There was a stage set into the wall at the far end of the room. Jez
al had once heard that Ostus, the child King, had jesters perform for him at every meal. Morlic the Mad, by contrast, had staged executions there to go with his dinner. King Casamir, it was said, had likenesses of his worst enemies shout insults at him from that stage while he took his breakfast every morning, to keep his hatred for them fresh. The curtains were closed now, though. Jezal would have to look for his entertainment elsewhere, and in this regard the pickings were slim indeed.
Marshal Varuz prattled on in his ear. He, at least, was still interested in fencing. Unfortunately, he talked of nothing else. ‘I never saw such a thing. The whole city is buzzing with it. Most remarkable bout that anyone’s ever seen! I swear, you’re better even than Sand dan Glokta used to be, and I never thought to see his like again! I never dreamed you had it in you to fight like that, Jezal, never had the slightest inkling!’
‘Mmm,’ said Jezal.
The Crown Prince Ladisla and his bride-to-be, Terez of Talins, made a dazzling couple at the top of the table, just beside the dozing King. They were oblivious to all that was going on around them, but hardly in the way that one might hope for from two young lovers. They were arguing viciously in scarcely hushed voices, while their neighbours studiously pretended not to suck in every word.
‘. . . well I’ll be going to war soon, in Angland, so you need not suffer me too much longer!’ whined Ladisla. ‘I might be killed! Perhaps that would make your Highness happy?’
‘Pray don’t die on my account,’ returned Terez, her Styrian accent dripping venom, ‘but if you must, you must. I suppose I will learn to bear the sorrow . . .’
Somebody nearer at hand distracted Jezal by thumping on the table. ‘Damn these commoners! Damn peasantry’s up in arms in Starikland! Lazy dogs, they refuse to work a stroke!’
‘It’s these taxes,’ grumbled the man’s neighbour, ‘these war taxes have them all stirred up. Have you heard about this damn character they call the Tanner? Some bloody peasant, preaching revolution, open as you please! I heard that one of the King’s collectors was set on by a mob, not a mile outside the walls of Keln. One of the King’s collectors, I say! By a mob! Not a mile outside the city walls—’
‘We’ve damn well brought it on ourselves!’ The speaker’s face was out of sight but Jezal recognised him by the gold-embroidered cuffs on his gown. Marovia, the High Justice. ‘Treat a man like a dog and sooner or later he’ll bite you, it’s a simple fact. Our role as governors, and as noblemen, is surely to respect and protect the common man, rather than to oppress and scorn him?’
‘I wasn’t talking about scorn, Lord Marovia, or oppression, just about them paying what’s due to us as their landlords, and for that matter their natural betters . . .’
Marshal Varuz, meanwhile, had not let up for an instant. ‘It was quite a thing, eh? The way you put him down, one steel against two!’ The old soldier swished his hand around in the air. ‘The whole town’s buzzing. You’re bound for great things now my boy, mark my words. Bound for great things. I’ll be damned if you don’t have my seat on the Closed Council one day!’
It really was too much. Jezal had put up with the man for all those months. He had somehow imagined that if he won that would be the end of it, but it seemed he would be disappointed in this, as in so much else. It was strange, but Jezal had never fully realised before what a boring old imbecile the Lord Marshal was. He was realising now though, and no mistake.
To further add to his dismay, there were several people seated about the tables who would most definitely not have been among his chosen guests. He supposed he could make a dispensation for Sult, the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, since he sat on the Closed Council and was without doubt a powerful figure, but Jezal could not comprehend why he might have brought that bastard Glokta with him. The cripple looked even more ill than usual, twitching eyes sunken in dark circles. For some reason he was occasionally shooting grim and suspicious glances at Jezal as though he suspected him of some crime or other. It was a damn cheek, what with it being his feast and all.
Even worse, on the other side of the room was that old, bald man, the one who had called himself Bayaz. Jezal had still not got to the bottom of his strange words of congratulation at the Contest—or his father’s reaction to the man, for that matter. And he had his hideous friend, the nine-fingered barbarian, beside him.
Major West had the misfortune of being seated next to the primitive, but he was making the best of it; indeed, the two were engaged in a lively conversation. The Northman broke into sudden peals of laughter and thumped the table with his big fist, making the glasses rattle. At least they were enjoying themselves at his party, Jezal thought sourly, but he almost wished he was down there with them.
Still, he knew that he wanted to be a big, important man some day. To wear things with a lot of fur, and a heavy golden chain of office. To have people bow and scrape and fawn before him. He had made that decision long ago, and he supposed he still liked the idea. It was just that, up close, the whole thing seemed so awfully false and boring. He would much, much rather have been on his own with Ardee, even though he had seen her the night before. There was nothing boring about her . . .
‘. . . the savages are closing on Ostenhorm, that’s what I heard!’ someone shouted over on Jezal’s left. ‘The Lord Governor, Meed, he’s raising an army and has sworn to turn them out of Angland!’
‘Hah. Meed? That swollen-headed old fool couldn’t turn a pie out of a dish!’
‘Enough to beat these Northern animals though, what? One good Union man’s worth ten of their kind . . .’
Jezal heard Terez’ voice cutting suddenly shrill above the hubbub, almost loud enough to be heard at the far end of the room, ‘. . . of course I will marry where my father commands me, but I don’t have to like it!’ She appeared so vicious at that moment that he would not have been surprised to see her stab the Crown Prince in the face with her fork. Jezal felt somewhat gratified to see that he was not the only one who had trouble with women.
‘. . . oh yes, a remarkable performance! Everyone’s talking about it,’ Varuz was still droning.
Jezal squirmed in his chair. How long was this bloody business going to take? He felt suffocated. He glanced across the faces again and caught Glokta’s eye, staring at him with that grim, suspicious look on his wasted face. Jezal still couldn’t meet that gaze for long, his party or no. What the hell did the cripple have against him anyhow?
The little bastard. He cheated. Somehow. I know it. Glokta’s eyes tracked slowly across the table opposite until they lighted on Bayaz. The old fraud was sitting there, quite at home. And he had some part in it. They cheated, together. Somehow.
‘My lords and ladies!’ The chatter faded as the Lord Chamberlain rose to address the room. ‘I would like to welcome you all, on his Majesty’s behalf, to this humble gathering.’ The King himself stirred briefly, gazed vacantly about him, blinked, then closed his eyes. ‘We are gathered, of course, in honour of Captain Jezal dan Luthar, who has recently added his name to that most select roll of honour: those swordsman who have been victorious at the summer Contest.’ A few glasses were raised and there were some half-hearted mumblings of agreement.
‘I recognise several other winners among the assembly here today, many of them now the holders of high office: Lord Marshal Varuz, Commander Valdis of the Knights Herald, Major West down there, now on Marshal Burr’s staff, of course. Even I was a winner in my day.’ He smiled and looked down at his bulging paunch. ‘Though my day was some time ago, of course.’ A polite ripple of laughter passed round the room. I notice that I don’t get a mention. Not all winners are enviable, eh?
‘Victors at the Contest,’ continued the Lord Chamberlain, ‘have so often gone on to great things. I hope, and indeed we all hope, that it may prove so for our young friend, Captain Luthar.’ I hope he meets a slow death in Angland, the cheating little bastard. But Glokta raised his glass along with everyone else to toast the arrogant ass, while Luthar sat there, loving every insta
nt of it.
And to think. I sat in that very chair, being applauded and envied and clapped on the back after I won the Contest. Different men in the big clothes, different faces sweating in the heat, but nothing very much has changed. Was my grin really any less smug? Of course not. If anything I was worse. But at least I earned it.
Such was Lord Hoff’s commitment that he did not stop toasting until his goblet was entirely empty, then he shoved it back on the table and licked his lips. ‘And now, before the food arrives, a small surprise has been prepared by my colleague Arch Lector Sult, in honour of another of our guests. I hope you will all find it diverting.’ And the Lord Chamberlain sat heavily back down, holding his empty goblet out for more wine.
Glokta glanced across at Sult. A surprise, from the Arch Lector? Bad news for somebody.
The heavy red curtains of the stage rolled slowly back. They revealed an old man lying on the boards, his white garment daubed with colourful blood. A broad canvas behind depicted a forest scene beneath a starry sky. It reminded Glokta rather unpleasantly of the mural in the round room. The room beneath Severard’s crumbling pile by the docks.
A second old man swept on from the wings: a tall, slender man with remarkably fine, sharp features. His head was shaved bald and he had grown a short white beard, but Glokta recognised him immediately. Iosiv Lestek, one of the city’s most respected actors. He gave a mannered start as he noticed the bloody corpse.
‘Oooooooh!’ he wailed, spreading his arms wide in an actor’s approximation of shock and despair. It was a truly enormous voice, loud enough to make the rafters shake. Confident that he had the undivided attention of the chamber, Lestek began to intone his lines, hands sweeping through the air, towering passions sweeping across his face.
So here, at last, my master Juvens lies,
And with his death all hope of peace now dies,
The Blade Itself Page 46
