Last Argument of Kings tfl-3

by Joe Abercrombie

  Longfoot hobbled along in front, tethered by a rope to one of the mercenaries. “North! Due north, give or take. We are just beside the Middleway.”

  “Huh.” Above us, not ten strides distant, are some of the most fashionable addresses in the city. The shimmering palaces and a river of shit, so much closer together than most would ever like to believe. Everything beautiful has a dark side, and some of us must dwell there, so that others can laugh in the light. His snort of laughter turned to a squeak of panic as his toeless foot slid on the sticky walkway. He flailed at the wall with his free hand, fumbled his cane and it clattered to the slimy stones. Ardee caught his elbow before he fell and pulled him upright. He could not stop a girlish whimper of pain hissing out from the gaps in his teeth.

  “You’re really not enjoying yourself, are you?”

  “I’ve had better days.” He smacked the back of his head against the stone as Ardee leaned down to retrieve his cane. “To be betrayed by both,” he found himself muttering. “That hurts. Even me. One I expected. One I could have taken. But both? Why?”

  “Because you’re a ruthless, plotting, bitter, twisted, self-pitying villain?” Glokta stared at her, and she shrugged. “You asked.” They set off once again through the nauseating darkness.

  “The question was meant to be rhetorical.”

  “Rhetoric? In a sewer?”

  “Wait up, there!” Cosca held up his hand and the grumbling procession shuffled to a halt again. A sound filtered down from above, softly at first, then louder—the rhythmic boom of tramping feet, seeming to come, disconcertingly, from everywhere at once. Cosca pressed himself to the sticky wall, stripes of daylight falling across his face from a grate above, the long feather on his cap drooping with slime. Voices settled through the murk. Kantic voices. Cosca grinned, and jabbed one finger up towards the roof. “Our old friends the Gurkish. Those bastards don’t give up, eh?”

  “They’ve moved quickly,” grunted Glokta as he tried to catch his breath.

  “No one much fighting in the streets any more, I imagine. All pulled back to the Agriont, or surrendered.”

  Surrendering to the Gurkish. Glokta winced as he stretched out his leg. Rarely a good idea, and not one a man I would ever consider twice. “We must hurry, then. Move along there, Brother Longfoot!”

  The Navigator hobbled on. “Not much further, now! I have not led you wrong, oh no, not I! That would not have been my way. We are close now, to the moat, very close. If there is a way inside the walls, I will find it, on that you may depend. I will have you inside the walls in a—”

  “Shut your mouth and get on with it,” growled Glokta.

  One of the workmen shook the last of the wood shavings from his barrel, another raked the heap of pale powder smooth, and they were done. The whole Square of Marshals, from the towering white walls of the Halls Martial on Ferro’s right to the gilded gates of the Lords’ Round on her left, was entirely covered in sawdust. It was as if snow had come suddenly, only here, and left a thin blanket across the smooth flags. Across the dark stone, and across the bright metal.

  “Good.” Bayaz nodded with rare satisfaction. “Very good!”

  “Is that all, my Lord?” called their foreman from the midst of their cringing group.

  “Unless any of you wish to stay, and witness the destruction of the indestructible Hundred Words?”

  The foreman squinted sideways at one of his fellows with some confusion. “No. No, I think we’ll just… you know…” He and the rest of the workmen began to back off, taking their empty barrels with them. Soon they were away between the white palaces. Ferro and Bayaz were left alone in all that flat expanse of dust.

  Just the two of them, and the Maker’s box, and the thing that it contained.

  “So. The trap is set. We need merely wait for our quarry.” Bayaz tried his knowing grin, but Ferro was not fooled. She saw his gnarled hands fussing with each other, the muscles clenching and unclenching on the side of his bald head. He was not sure if his plans would work. However wise he was, however subtle, however cunning, he could not be sure. The thing in the box, the cold and heavy thing that Ferro longed to touch, was an unknown. The only precedent for its use was far away, in the empty wastes of the Old Empire. The vast ruin of blighted Aulcus.

  Ferro frowned, and loosened her sword in its scabbard.

  “If they come, that will not save you.”

  “You can never have too many knives,” she growled back. “How do you know they will even come this way?”

  “What else can they do? They must come to wherever I am. That is their purpose.” Bayaz pulled in a ragged breath through his nose, and blew it out. “And I am here.”

  Sacrifices

  Dogman squeezed through the gate along with a rush of others, some Northmen and an awful lot of Union boys, all pouring into the city after that excuse for a battle outside. There were a few folk scattered on the walls over the archway, cheering and whooping like they were at a wedding. A fat man in a leather apron was standing on the other side of the tunnel, clapping folk on the back as they came past. “Thank you, friend! Thank you!” He shoved something into Dogman’s hand, grinning like a madman all the way. A loaf of bread.

  “Bread.” Dogman sniffed at it, but it smelled alright. “What the hell’s all that about?” The man had a whole heap of loaves on a cart. He was handing them out to any soldier that came past, Union or Northman. “Who’s he, anyway?”

  Grim shrugged. “A baker?”

  There weren’t much time to think on it. They were all getting shoved together into a big space full of men pushing, and grumbling, and making mess. All kind of soldiers and some old men and women round the edge, starting to get tired of cheering. A well-clipped lad in a black uniform was standing on top of a cart in the midst of this madness and screeching like a lost goat.

  “Eighth regiment, towards the Four Corners! Ninth towards the Agriont! If you’re with the tenth you came through the wrong damn gate!”

  “Thought we were to the docks, Major!”

  “Poulder’s division are dealing with the docks! We’re for the north part of the city! Eighth regiment towards the Four Corners!”

  “I’m with the Fourth!”

  “Fourth? Where’s your horse?”

  “Dead!”

  “What about us?” roared Logen. “Northmen!”

  The lad stared at them, wide-eyed, then he threw up his hands. “Just get in there! If you see any Gurkish, kill them!” He turned back towards the gate, jerking his thumb over his shoulder into the city. “Ninth regiment towards the Agriont!”

  Logen scowled. “We’ll get no sense here.” He pointed down a wide street, full of walking soldiers. Some great tall tower poked up above the buildings. Huge thing, must’ve been built on a hill. “We get split up we’ll just aim at that.” He struck off down that street and Dogman came after, Grim behind with Shivers and his boys, Red Hat and his crew further back. Wasn’t long before the crowds thinned out and they were marching down empty streets, quiet except for some birds calling, happy as ever, not caring a thing for there having been a battle just now, and caring even less that there was another one coming.

  Dogman wasn’t giving it a lot of thought either, for all he had his bow loose in one hand. He was too busy staring at the houses down either side of the road. Houses the like of which he’d never seen in his life. Made of little square, red stones, and black wood filled in with white render. Each one of ’em was big enough for a chieftain to be happy with, most with glass windows in as well.

  “Bloody palaces, eh?”

  Logen snorted. “You think this is something? You should see this Agriont we’re aiming at. The buildings they got there. You never dreamed o’ the like. Carleon’s a pigsty beside this place.”

  Dogman had always found Carleon a good bit too built-up. This was downright ridiculous. He dropped back a way, found he was walking next to Shivers. He lore the loaf and held one half out.

  “Thanks.” Shiver
s took a bite out of the end, then another. “Not bad.”

  “Ain’t nothing quite like it, is there? That taste o’ new bread? Tastes like… peace, I guess.”

  “If you say so.” They chewed together for a while, saying nothing.

  Dogman looked sideways. “I think you need to put this feud o’ yours behind you.”

  “What feud’s that?”

  “How many you got? The one with our new king up there. Ninefingers.”

  “Can’t say I haven’t tried.” Shivers frowned up the road at Logen’s back. “But whenever I turn around, there it is beside me.”

  “Shivers, you’re a good man. I like you. We all do. You got bones, lad, and brains too, and men’ll follow you. You could go a long way if you don’t get yourself killed, and there’s the problem. I don’t want to see you start up something you can’t put a good end to.”

  “You needn’t worry then. Anything I start I’ll make sure I finish.”

  Dogman shook his head. “No, no, that ain’t my point, lad, not at all. Maybe you come out on top, maybe you don’t. My point is neither one’s a victory. Blood makes blood, and nothing else. My point is it ain’t too late for you. It ain’t too late for you to be better’n that.”

  Shivers frowned at him. Then he tossed the heel of bread away, turned his big shoulder and headed off without another word. Dogman sighed. Some things can’t be put right just with talk. Some things can’t be put right at all.

  They came out from the maze of buildings and onto a river. It must’ve been as wide as the Whiteflow, only the banks on each side were made of stone. The biggest bridge the Dogman had ever seen spanned it, railings made of curly iron, wide enough to drive two carts across side by side. Another wall stood at the far end, even bigger than the one they came through first. Dogman took a few gawping steps forward, and he looked up and down the gleaming water, and he saw that there were more bridges. A lot more, and some even bigger, standing out from a great forest of walls, and towers, and soaring high buildings.

  A lot of the others were staring too, eyes wide open like they’d stepped out onto the moon. Even Grim had a twist to his face that might’ve been surprise.

  “Bloody hell,” said Shivers. “You ever see the like o’ this?”

  Dogman’s neck was aching from staring round at it all. “They’ve got so much here. Why do they even want bloody Angland? Place is a shit-hole.”

  Logen shrugged. “Couldn’t say. Some men always want more, I guess.”

  “Some men always want more, eh, Brother Longfoot?” Glokta gave a disapproving shake of his head. “I spared your other foot. I spared your life. Now you want freedom, too?”

  “Superior,” he wheedled. “If I may, you did undertake to release me… I have upheld my side of the bargain. That door should open onto a square not far from the House of Questions—”

  “We shall see.”

  One last splintering blow of the axe and the door shuddered back on its rusty hinges, daylight spilling into the narrow cellar. The mercenary with the tattooed neck stood aside and Glokta limped up and peered out. Ah, fresh air. A gift we so often take for granted. A short set of steps led up to a cobbled yard, hemmed in by the grubby backs of grey buildings. Glokta knew it. Just round the corner from the House of Questions, as promised.

  “Superior?” murmured Longfoot.

  Glokta curled his lip. But where’s the harm? The chances are none of us will live out the day in any case, and dead men can afford to be merciful. The only kind of men that can, in fact. “Very well. Let him go.” The one-eyed mercenary slid out a long knife and sawed through the rope round Longfoot’s wrists. “It would be best if I didn’t ever see you again.”

  The Navigator had the ghost of a grin on his face. “Don’t worry, Superior. I was only this moment thinking the very same thing.” He hobbled back the way they had come, down the dank stairway towards the sewers, rounded a corner and was gone.

  “Tell me you brought the things,” said Glokta.

  “I’m untrustworthy, Superior. Not incompetent.” Cosca flicked a hand at the mercenaries. “Time, my friends. Let’s black up.”

  As a unit they pulled out black masks and buckled them on, pulled off their ragged coats, their torn clothes. Every man wore clean black underneath, from head to toe, with weapons carefully stowed. In a few moments a crowd of criminal villains was transformed into a well-ordered unit of Practicals of his Majesty’s Inquisition. Not that there’s too much of a leap from one to the other.

  Cosca himself whisked his coat off, pulled it quickly inside out and dragged it back on. The lining was black as night. “Always wise to wear a choice of colours,” he explained. “In case one should be called upon to change sides in a pinch.” The very definition of a turncoat. He took off his hat, flicked at the filthy feather. “Can I keep it?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a hard man, Superior.” He grinned as he tossed the cap away into the shadows. “And I love you for it.” He pulled his own mask on, then frowned at Ardee, standing, confused and exhausted in a corner of the store-room. “What about her?”

  “Her? A prisoner, Practical Cosca! A spy in league with the Gurkish. His Eminence expressed his desire to question her personally.” Ardee blinked at him. “It’s easy. Just look scared.”

  She swallowed. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Wandering through the House of Questions with the aim of arresting the Arch Lector? I should say not. Glokta snapped his fingers. “We need to move.”

  “We need to move,” said West. “Have we cleared the docks? Where the hell is Poulder?”

  “Nobody seems to know, sir.” Brint tried to push his horse further, but they were squashed in by a grumbling throng. Spears waved, their points flailing dangerously close. Soldiers cursed. Sergeants bellowed. Officers clucked like frustrated chickens. It was hard to imagine more difficult terrain than the narrow streets behind the docks through which to manoeuvre an army of thousands. To make matters worse there was now an ominous flow of wounded, limping or being carried, in the opposite direction.

  “Make some room for the Lord Marshal!” roared Pike. “The Lord Marshal!” He lifted his sword as though he was more than willing to lay about him with the flat, and men rapidly cleared out of the way, a valley forming through the rattling spears. A rider came clattering up out of their midst. Jalenhorm, a bloody cut across his forehead.

  “Are you alright?”

  The big man grinned. “It’s nothing, sir. Caught my head on a damn timber.”

  “Progress?”

  “We’re forcing them back towards the western side of the city. Kroy’s cavalry made it to the Four Corners, as far as I can tell, but the Gurkish still have the Agriont well surrounded, and now they’re regrouping, counterattacking from the west. A lot of Kroy’s foot are still all caught up in the streets on the other side of the river. If we don’t get reinforcement there soon—”

  “I need to speak to General Poulder,” snapped West. “Where the hell is bloody Poulder? Brint?”

  “Sir?”

  “Take a couple of these fellows and bring Poulder here, right away!” He stabbed at the air with a finger. “In person!”

  “Yes, sir!” Brint did his best to turn his horse around.

  “What about at sea? Is Reutzer up?”

  “As far as I’m aware he’s engaged the Gurkish fleet, but I’ve no idea how…” The smell of rotting salt and burning wood intensified as they emerged from the buildings and onto the harbour. “Bloody hell.”

  West could only agree.

  The graceful curve of Adua’s docks had been transformed into a crescent of carnage. Near to them the quay was blackened, wasted, scattered with broken gear and broken bodies. Further off, crowds of men were struggling in ill-formed groups, polearms sticking up in all directions like hedgehog’s spines, the air heavy with their noise. Union battle-flags and Gurkish standards flailed like scarecrows in the breeze. The epic conflict covered almost the entire long
sweep of the shoreline. Several warehouses were in flames, sending up a shimmering heat-haze, lending a ghostly air to the hundreds of men locked in battle beyond them. Long smears of choking smoke, black, grey, white, rolled from the burning buildings and out into the bay. There, in the churning harbour, a host of ships was engaged in their own desperate struggle.

  Vessels ploughed this way and that under full sail, turning, tacking, jockeying for position, flinging glittering spray high into the air. Catapults hurled flaming missiles, archers on the decks loosed flaming volleys, sailors crawled high in the cobwebs of rigging. Other ships were locked together in ungainly pairs by rope and grapple, like fighting dogs snapping at one another, glinting sunlight showing men in savage melée on their decks. Stricken vessels limped vainly, torn sailcloth hanging, slashed rigging dangling. Several were burning, sending up brown columns of smoke, turning the low sun into an ugly smudge.

  Wreckage floated everywhere on the frothing water—barrels, boxes, shivered timbers and dead sailors.

  West knew the familiar shapes of the Union ships, yellow suns stitched into their sails, he could guess which were the Gurkish vessels. But there were others there too—long, lean, black-hulled predators, each one of their white sails marked with a black cross. One in particular towered far over every other vessel in the harbour, and was even now being secured at one of the few wharves still intact.

  “Nothing good ever comes from Talins,” muttered Pike.

  “What the hell are Styrian ships doing here?”

  The ex-convict pointed to one in the very act of ramming a Gurkish ship in the side. “Fighting the Gurkish, by the look of it.”

  “Sir,” somebody asked. “What shall we do?”

  The eternal question. West opened his mouth, but nothing came out. How could one man hope to exert any measure of control over the colossal chaos spread out before him? He remembered Varuz, in the desert, striding around with his huge staff crowding after him. He remembered Burr, thumping at his maps and wagging his thick ringer. The greatest responsibility of a commander was not to command, but to look like he knew how to. He swung his sore leg over the saddle bow and slid down to the sticky cobbles.