Last Argument of Kings tfl-3

by Joe Abercrombie

  It was a commander’s place to set a tone of fearlessness which his men would not be able to help but follow. Jezal knew that, of course. And yet, looking down that long, sloping field, he could not help but reflect on the very great number of men at the other end, so ominously purposeful. He could not stop his eyes from darting back towards their own lines, so thin, meagre, and uncertain-seeming. He could not avoid wincing and tugging uncomfortably at his collar. The damn thing still felt far too tight.

  “How do you wish the regiments deployed, sir?” asked his adjutant, Major Opker, with a look which somehow managed to be both condescending and sycophantic all at once.

  “Deployed? Er… well…” Jezal racked his brains for something vaguely appropriate, let alone correct, to say. He had discovered early in his military career that if one has an effective and experienced officer above, coupled with effective and experienced soldiers below, one need do, and know, nothing. This strategy had stood him in fine stead for several comfortable peacetime years, but its one shortcoming was now starkly laid bare. If by some miracle one rises to complete command, the system collapses entirely.

  “Deployed…” he growled, furrowing his brow and trying to give the impression he was surveying the ground, though he had only a hazy idea what that even meant. “Infantry in double line…” he ventured, remembering a fragment of some story Collem West had once told him. “Behind this hedgerow here.” And he slashed his baton portentously across the landscape. The use of a baton, at least, he was expert in, having practiced extensively before the mirror.

  “In front of the hedgerow, the Colonel means to say, of course,” threw in Bayaz smoothly. “Infantry deployed in double line to either side of that milestone. The light cavalry in the trees there, heavy cavalry in a wedge on the far flank, where they can use the open field to their advantage.” He displayed an uncanny familiarity with military parlance. “Flatbows in a single line behind the hedgerow where they will at first be hidden from the enemy, and can give them plunging fire from the high ground.” He winked at Jezal. “An excellent strategy, Colonel, if I may say.”

  “Of course,” sneered Opker, turning away to give the orders.

  Jezal gripped tight to his baton behind his back, rubbing nervously at his jaw with the other hand. Evidently there was a lot more to command than simply being called “sir” by everyone. He would really have to read some books when he got back to Adua. If he got back.

  Three small dots had detached themselves from the crawling mass of humanity down in the valley and started moving up the rise toward them. Shading his eyes with his hand, Jezal could just see a shred of white moving in the air above them. A flag of parley. He felt Bayaz’ decidedly uncomforting hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, my boy, we are well prepared for violence. But I feel confident it will not come to that.” He grinned down at the vast mass of men below. “Very confident.”

  Jezal ardently wished he could have said the same.

  For a famous demagogue, traitor, and inciter of riots, there was nothing in the least remarkable about the man known as the Tanner. He sat calmly in his folding chair at the table in Jezal’s tent, an ordinary face under a mop of curly hair, a man of medium size in a coat of unexceptional style and colour, a grin on his face that implied he knew very well that he held the upper hand.

  “They call me the Tanner,” he said, “and I have been nominated to speak for the alliance of the oppressed, and the exploited, and the put-upon down in the valley. These are two of my partners in this righteous and entirely patriotic venture. My two generals, one might say. Goodman Hood,” and he nodded sideways at a burly man with a shovel beard, a ruddy complexion, and a seething frown, “and Cotter Hoist,” and he jerked his head the other way towards a weaselly type with a long scar on his cheek and a lazy eye.

  “Honoured,” said Jezal warily, though they looked more like brigands than Generals as far as he was concerned. “I am Colonel Luthar.”

  “I know. I saw you win the Contest. Fine swordplay, my friend, very fine.”

  “Oh, well, er…” Jezal was caught off guard, “thank you. This is my adjutant, Major Opker, and this is… Bayaz, the First of the Magi.”

  Goodman Hood snorted his disbelief, but the Tanner only stroked thoughtfully at his lip. “Good. And you have come to fight, or negotiate?”

  “We have come for either one.” Jezal embarked on his statement. “The Closed Council, while condemning the method of your demonstration, concede that you may have legitimate demands—”

  Hood made a rumbling snort. “What choice have they got, the bastards?”

  Jezal pressed on. “Well, er… they have instructed me to offer you these concessions.” He held up the scroll that Hoff had prepared for him, a huge thing with elaborately carved handles and a seal the size of a saucer. “But I must caution you,” doing his very best to sound confident, “should you refuse, we are quite ready to fight, and that my men are the best trained, best armed, best prepared in the King’s service. Each one of them is worth twenty of your rabble.”

  The burly farmer gave a threatening chuckle. “Lord Finster thought the same, and our rabble kicked his arse all the way from one end of his estates to the other. He would have got himself hung for his trouble if he’d had a slower horse. How fast is your horse, Colonel?”

  The Tanner touched him gently on the shoulder. “Peace, now, my fiery friend. We came to get terms, if we can get terms we can accept. Why not show us what you have there, Colonel, and we’ll see if there is any need for threats.”

  Jezal held out the weighty document and Hood snatched it angrily from his hand, tore it open and began to read, the thick paper crackling as it unrolled. The more he read, the grimmer grew his frown.

  “An insult!” he snapped when he was done, giving Jezal a brooding stare. “Lighter taxes and some shit about the use of common land? And that much they’ll most likely never honour!” He tossed the scroll sideways to the Tanner, and Jezal swallowed. He had not the leanest understanding of the concessions or their possible shortcomings, of course, but Hood’s response hardly seemed to promise an early agreement.

  The Tanner’s eyes moved lazily over the parchment. Different-coloured eyes, Jezal noticed: one blue, one green. When he got to the bottom he laid the document down and gave a theatrical sigh. “These terms will do.”

  “They will?” Jezal’s eyes opened wide with surprise, but nowhere near as far as Goodman Hood’s.

  “But these are worse than the last terms we were offered!” shouted the farmer. “Before we sent Finster’s men running! You said then we could accept nothing but land for every man!”

  The Tanner screwed his face up. “That was then.”

  “That was then?” muttered Hood, gaping with disbelief. “What happened to honest wages for honest work? What happened to shares in the profit? What happened to equal rights no matter the cost? You stood there, and you promised me!” He shoved his hand towards the valley. “You promised all of them! What’s changed, except that Adua’s within our grasp? We can take all we want! We can—”

  “I say these terms will do!” snarled the Tanner with a sudden fury. “Unless you care to fight the King’s men on your own! They follow me, Hood, not you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “But you promised us freedom, for every man! I trusted you!” The farmer’s face hung slack with horror. “We all trusted you.”

  Jezal had never seen a man look so utterly indifferent as the Tanner did now. “I suppose I must have that kind of face that people trust,” he droned, and his friend Hoist shrugged and stared at his fingernails.

  “Damn you, then! Damn you all!” And Hood turned and shoved angrily out through the tent flap.

  Jezal was aware of Bayaz leaning sideways to whisper to Major Opker. “Have that man arrested before he leaves the lines.”

  “Arrested, my Lord, but… under a flag of parley?”

  “Arrested, placed in irons, and conducted to the House of Questions
. A shred of white cloth can be no hiding place from the King’s justice. I believe Superior Goyle is handling the investigations.”

  “Er… of course.” Opker rose to follow the Goodman out of the tent, and Jezal smiled nervously. There was no doubt that the Tanner had heard the exchange, but he grinned on as though the future of his erstwhile companion was no longer any of his concern.

  “I must apologise for my associate. In a matter like this, you can’t please everyone.” He gave a flamboyant wave of his hand. “But don’t worry. I’ll give the little people a big speech, and tell them we have all we fought for, and they’ll soon be off back to their homes with no real harm done. Some few will be determined to make trouble perhaps, but I’m sure you can round them up without much effort, eh, Colonel Luthar?”

  “Er… well,” mumbled Jezal, left without the slightest idea of what was going on. “I suppose that we—”

  “Excellent.” The Tanner sprang to his feet. “I fear I must now take my leave. All kinds of errands to be about. Never any peace, eh, Colonel Luthar? Never the slightest peace.” He exchanged a long glance with Bayaz, then ducked out into the daylight and was gone.

  “If anyone should ask,” murmured the First of the Magi in Jezal’s ear, “I would tell them that it was a testing negotiation, against sharp and determined opponents, but that you held your nerve, reminded them of their duty to king and country, implored them to return to their fields, and so forth.”

  “But…” Jezal felt like he wanted to cry, he was so baffled. Hugely baffled and hugely relieved at once. “But I—”

  “If anyone should ask.” There was an edge to Bayaz’ voice that implied the episode was now finished with.

  Beloved of the Moon

  The Dogman stood, squinting into the sun, and watched the Union lads all shuffling past the other way. There’s a certain look the beaten get, after a fight. Slow-moving, hunched-up, mud-spattered, mightily interested in the ground. Dogman had seen that look before often enough. He’d had it himself more’n once. Sorrowful they’d lost. Shamed they’d been beaten. Guilty, to have given up without getting a wound. Dogman knew how that felt, and a gnawing feeling it could be, but guilt was a sight less painful than a sword-cut, and healed a sight quicker.

  Some of the hurt weren’t so badly off. Bandaged or splinted, limping with a stick or with their arm round a mate’s shoulders. Enough to get light duty for a few weeks. Others weren’t so lucky. Dogman thought he knew one. An officer, hardly old enough for a beard, his smooth face all twisted up with white pain and shock, his leg off just above the knee, his clothes, and the stretcher, and the two men carrying him, all specked and spattered with dark blood. He was the one who’d sat on the gate, when Dogman and Threetrees had first come to Ostenhorm to join up with the Union. The one who’d looked at ’em like they were a pair of turds. He didn’t sound so very clever now, squealing with every jolt of his stretcher, but it hardly made the Dogman smile. Losing a leg seemed like harsh punishment for a sneering manner.

  West was down there by the path, talking to an officer with a dirty bandage round his head. Dogman couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could guess the gist. From time to time one of ’em would point up towards the hills they’d come from. A steep and nasty-looking pair, wooded mostly, with a few hard faces of bare rock showing. West turned and caught the Dogman’s eye, and his face was grim as a gravedigger’s. It hardly took a quick mind to see that the war weren’t won quite yet.

  “Shit,” muttered the Dogman, under his breath. He felt that sucking feeling in his gut. That low feeling he used to get whenever he had to scout out a new piece of ground, whenever Threetrees called for weapons, whenever there was nothing for breakfast but cold water.

  Since he was chief, though, he seemed to have it pretty much all the time. Everything was his problem now. “Nothing doing?”

  West shook his head as he walked up. “Bethod was waiting for us, and in numbers. He’s dug in on those hills. Well dug in and well prepared, between us and Carleon. More than likely he was ready for this before he even crossed the border.”

  “He always did like to be ready, did Bethod. No way round him?”

  “Kroy’s tried both the roads and had two maulings. Now Poulder’s tried the hills head on and had a worse one.”

  Dogman sighed. “No way round.”

  “No way that won’t give Bethod a nice chance to stick the knife right into us.”

  “And Bethod won’t be missing no chance like that. It’s what he’ll be hoping for.”

  “The Lord Marshal agrees. He wants you to take your men north.” West glared out at the grey whispers of other hills, further off. “He wants you to look for a weakness. There’s no way Bethod can cover the whole range.”

  “Is there not?” asked Dogman. “I guess we’ll see.” Then he headed off into the trees. The boys were going to love this.

  He strode up the track, soon came up on where his crew were camped out. They were growing all the time. Might’ve been four hundred now, all counted, and a tough crowd too. Those who’d never much cared for Bethod in the first place, mostly, who’d fought against him in the wars. Who’d fought against the Dogman as well, for that matter. The woods were choked up with ’em, sat round fires, cooking, polishing at weapons and working at gear, a couple having a practice at each other with blades. Dogman winced at the sound of steel clashing. There’d be more of that later, and with bloodier results, he didn’t doubt.

  “Chief!” they shouted at him. “Dogman! The chief! Hey hey!” They clapped their hands and tapped their weapons on the rocks they sat on. Dogman held up his fist, and gave the odd half-grin, and said “aye, good, good,” and all that. He still didn’t have the slightest clue how to act like a chief, if the truth be told, so he just acted like he always had. The band all seemed happy enough, though. He guessed they always did. Until they started losing fights, and decided they wanted a new chief.

  He came up on the fire where the pick of his Named Men were passing the day. No sign of Logen, but the rest of the old crew were sat round it, looking bored. Those that were still alive, leastways. Tul saw him coming. “The Dogman’s back.”

  “Uh,” said Grim, trimming at some feathers with a razor.

  Dow was busy mopping grease out of a pan with a chunk o’ bread.

  “How’d the Union get on with them hills, then?” And he had a sneer to his voice that said he knew the answer already. “Make a shit from it, did they?”

  “Well, they came out second, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Second o’ two sides is what I call shit.”

  Dogman took a deep breath and let it pass. “Bethod’s dug in good, watching the roads to Carleon. No one can see an easy way to come at him, or an easy way around him neither. He was good and ready for this, I reckon.”

  “I could’ve bloody told you that!” barked Dow, spraying out greasy crumbs. “He’ll have Littlebone on one o’ them hills, and Whitesides on the other, then he’ll have Pale-as-Snow and Goring further out. Those four won’t be giving anyone any chances, but if they decide to, Bethod’ll be sat behind with the rest, and his Shanka, and his fucking Feared, ready to snuff ’em out double-time.”

  “More’n likely.” Tul held his sword up to the light, peered at it, then set to polishing up the blade again. “Always liked to have a plan, did Bethod.”

  “And what do them that hold our leash have to say?” sneered Dow. “What sort of work’s the Furious got for his animals?”

  “Burr wants us to move north a way, through the woods, see if Bethod’s left a weak spot up there.”

  “Huh,” snorted Dow. “Bethod ain’t in the habit of leaving holes. Not unless he’s left one he means for us to fall into. Fall into and break our necks.”

  “Well I guess we’d better be careful where we tread then, eh?”

  “More bloody errands.”

  Dogman reckoned he was getting about as sick of Dow’s moaning as Threetrees used to be. “And just
what else would it be, eh? That’s what life is. A bunch of errands. If you’re worth a shit you do your best at ’em. What’s got up your arse anyway?”

  “This!” Dow jerked his head into the trees. “Just this! Nothing’s changed that much, has it? We might be over the Whiteflow, and back in the North, but Bethod’s dug in good and proper up there, with no way for the Union to get round him that won’t leave their arses hanging out. And if they do knock him off them hills, what then? If they get to Carleon and they get in, and they burn it just as good as Ninefingers did the last time, so what? Don’t mean nothing. Bethod’ll keep going, just like he always does, fighting and falling back, and there’ll always be more hills to sit on, and more tricks to play. Time’ll come, the Union will have had their fill and they’ll piss off south and leave us to it. Then Bethod’s going to turn around, and what d’you know? He’ll be the one chasing us all the way across the fucking North and back. Winter, summer, winter, summer, and it’s more of the same old shit. Here we are, fewer of us than there used to be, but still pissing around in the woods. Feel familiar?”

  It did, somewhat, now it was mentioned, but Dogman didn’t see what he could do about it. “Logen’s back, now, eh? That’ll help.”

  Dow snorted again. “Hah! Just when did the Bloody-Nine bring anything but death along with him?”

  “Steady now,” grunted Tul. “You owe him, remember? We all do.”

  “There’s a limit on what a man should owe, I reckon.” Dow tossed his pan down by the fire and stood up, wiping his hands on his coat. “Where’s he been, eh? He left us up in the valleys without a word, didn’t he? Left us to the Flatheads and pissed off halfway across the world! Who’s to say he won’t wander off again, if it suits him, or go over to Bethod, or set to murder over nothing, or the dead know what?”

  Dogman looked at Tul, and Tul looked back, guilty. They’d all seen Logen do some damn dark work, when the mood was on him. “That was a long time ago,” said Tul. “Things change.”