The Trouble with Peace

by Joe Abercrombie

  “I’m one o’ you,” growled Broad, trying to scrape together as much dignity as he could with his life hanging from a thread and a badly spun one at that. “I fought the good fight here. Stood on the barricades. Stayed to the bitter end. Chance might’ve landed us in different places, but we want the same thing. Food for our families. A safe place for ’em to sleep. An honest wage for honest work.” All the old slogans, puked up like he still believed them. “Malmer was my friend. I was angry as anyone when they hanged him. But the Young Lion had no part o’ that. He wants to fight the Closed Council like he fought the Northmen—”

  He winced as Judge pressed that cleaver harder into his neck, right on the point of drawing blood, chair legs grinding as she started to tip him backwards. “Is that a fact?”

  “It is.” Broad’s voice had a scared squeak to it. Or was it an excited one? He had to keep a grip on himself. “The whole army of Angland. On the last day of summer, they’ll land on the coast of Midderland. Thousands of Stour Nightfall’s warriors, too. They’ll join up with the noblemen and they’ll march on Adua.”

  “Rebellion against Old Sticks and his Closed Council. Against His fucking Majesty?” The cold metal was of a sudden whipped away and Judge stood, letting Broad’s chair lurch forward onto its front legs. She gave a shiver all over, chains and knives rattling. “I got chills, Sarlby. You got chills?”

  “I got lice,” said Sarlby.

  “Who hasn’t? Well, apart from Savine dan fucking Brock. Daresay that bitch shits soap and pisses perfume.” Judge narrowed her eyes to black slits, with a gleam of flame at the corners. It was hard to look into them. Hard to look away. “So she wants us to rise up, does she? Keep the king’s soldiers busy so she can walk a carpet of flowers right into the Agriont and slip her pretty little arse onto the king’s throne. Am I close to it?”

  Broad glanced around at the men. “You’re Burners, no? I thought rising up was what you’re all about. You’ll get no better chance than this.”

  Couple of them looked like they were buying it, but Judge only sneered. “Let’s say it all goes your way, and the Young Lion tears the Closed Council down and buries his wife’s father and all the other vultures, what then?” She poked him in the gut with her cleaver, made him wince. “It’s the nobles backing him. The owners still. We’ll have done nothing but swapped one set of users for another!”

  “You’ll get a say in how things are done. Might not be a Great Change, but it’ll be a change for the better. The Brocks have done some good up in Angland. Limits on workers’ hours. Rules to keep gears and driveshafts safe. Controls on truck shops and overseers’ penalties. All sorts o’ things the Breakers been after for years.”

  “That’s true,” said Sarlby. “I heard about that.”

  Some of the others mumbled agreement. “Aye, my cousin’s got a place in a mine, he’s working three hours less a day.”

  One even went so far as to mutter, “They call her the Darling o’ the Slums—”

  “Do me a fucking favour!” Judge leaned down snarling over Broad again, lamplight gleaming on the edge of her raised cleaver. “You must take me for some new kind o’ fool.”

  “No one’s saying they’re your friends!” Trying to stay calm in spite of his thudding heart. “But they’re the next best thing. Your enemies’ enemies.” Broad tried to smile. The way Savine smiled, like she held all the cards however bad things looked. Probably didn’t work too well chained to a chair, but he tried. “Come to the docks. See what I brought with me. Then you can be… the judge.”

  “Oh, I like that.” She smiled, switched back in an instant from fury to oily desire, and she settled herself in Broad’s lap again, closer than ever, making him grunt through gritted teeth. “I expected fisticuffs from you, but never wordplay.” He could hardly think for the horrible, beautiful reek of spirits on her breath. “Did you bring me a present?” Had to keep a grip on himself. Had to. “How romantic.”

  There was a squeal of complaining wood as Bannerman wrenched the crate open. The Burners clustered close, staring down eager as winter tramps around a brazier.

  Swords glittered inside. A neat row of brand-new swords, all the same, with a long, straight, single-edged blade and a dull steel grip, fresh oiled from the foundry.

  “Two-score infantry swords.” Bannerman pulled one from the crate with a practised flourish and displayed it to Judge. “Latest pattern. Still warm from the Ostenhorm Armoury. Better than the King’s Own carry.” He nodded towards some other crates. “Two-score horseman’s axes and two-score halberds, too. Two-score breastplates and two-score helms. All best Angland steel.”

  Another crate screeched as Halder ripped the lid off. He pulled out a flatbow, sleek and deadly looking, even the frame made of metal, bored through with slots to make it lighter.

  “Latest design with the new Wearing crank,” said Halder. “A dressmaker could draw it and it’ll still pierce the heaviest armour.” He tossed the bow across to Sarlby and he snatched it from the air, twisted it over, rattled the trigger, seeming to stand a little straighter with a weapon in his hand.

  “Good?” asked Judge.

  “Good,” said Sarlby, holding the flatbow to his eye and sighting down it, then slowly starting to smile. “Very good.”

  “Then there’s this.” Broad ripped the top from the biggest case, dragging a fistful of wood-shavings out of the way. Dull metal shone underneath. A great dark, tapering tube three strides long, and stamped into it: Armoury of Ostenhorm, 606.

  “What’s this?” whispered Judge. “You’ve got a fucking thunder pipe?”

  “No. You’ve got one. The newest kind. Can throw a solid ball a mile or turn a few handfuls of ironware into a rain of death. They’ve taken to calling ’em cannons,” said Broad. “From some Styrian word, I hear. But whatever you call it, it comes to the same thing.” He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Lightning in your pocket.”

  “Never saw such a beautiful thing.” Judge stroked that metal with her fingertips, up and down with a steady swish, swish, and Broad felt that sick tickle stronger than ever, not sure whether it was Judge or the weapons or some combination of the two that dried his mouth out so.

  Made him wonder, for a moment, what she might do with all this machine-sharpened steel. She who’d killed dozens in Valbeck with just a bit of rope? He told himself all he was doing was taking a thing from here to there on the orders of his mistress. Wasn’t his concern what folk chose to do with it after. A tale traders in weapons been telling themselves since weapons first were made, no doubt.

  Judge’s black eyes rolled across to him, gleaming wetly in the echoing gloom of the warehouse. “Well, I don’t think I was ever brought nicer presents, Gunnar Broad. I thought nothing could warm me to Savine dan Brock, but she’s managed to light a fire in my quim even so. Perhaps she really will be the Darling of the Slums in the end.”

  “And this is just a taste,” said Broad.

  “Just slipping me the tip, eh, you fucking tease?”

  “I tell the Brocks we’ve got a deal, there’s a full shipload waiting on the docks in Ostenhorm. Enough to arm a whole rebellion. And all they want is for you to speak to the Weaver, get the Breakers and Burners to do what they want to do anyway. Rise up, all at once. On the last day of summer. Throw up the barricades and fix the King’s Own where they are. Make sure they can’t come to help His Majesty. The Young Lion will do the rest.”

  “Huh.” Judge considered him through narrowed eyes, point of her tongue showing between her teeth.

  “What?”

  “You know why they call me Judge? ’Cause I’m the best judge o’ character. One look and I know a body better than they know themselves.” She pulled a wicked-looking axe from a freshly opened crate, all bright steel with no ornament. “You say you’re one of us. Malmer’s old mate. Good old Bull Broad, doing his best for the simple folk. But I reckon the jury’s still out.”

  Felt like Broad stood at a cliff-edge, one foot hovering in t
he empty air. But he was surrounded by angry madmen. Ones he’d just armed. There was no way back. His voice sounded husky in his ear. “How can I convince you?”

  Judge smiled wide. “The very question I’ve been thirsting for. There’s three dozen fellow travellers of ours been jailed after a little riot. They’re being brought into Valbeck for a show trial and summary execution. Tomorrow night, is it, Sarlby?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Sarlby, holding a vicious-looking flatbow bolt up to the light.

  “We’re going to free those good people.”

  “And you want me to help?”

  “You want you to help. Admit it. You can’t wait to get your hands bloody.”

  Broad swallowed. He should’ve known words weren’t going to get this done. “They’ll be guarded.”

  “Heavily,” said Judge, the axe whistling faintly as she swung it back and forth.

  “And the guards’ll be expecting trouble.”

  Judge nodded towards the cannon. “Not this much.”

  “Men’ll die.”

  “Ain’t much worth doing don’t involve a few dead men.” She tossed the axe over to him and he caught it by its metal shaft. “That a point against the plan, in your mind, or in favour?”

  Broad frowned as he weighed the axe in his hand. Truth was he wasn’t sure.

  Changes at the Top

  “It seems our letter-writer may have been a friend after all,” said Orso. “Or at least an honest enemy. King Jappo confirmed it all.”

  Glokta stared bright-eyed across his desk. “Do you trust him?”

  “Not a bit. But I believe him. He told me he had been invited to join a conspiracy aimed at bringing down the Union’s government and offered Sipani in return. Numerous lords of the Open Council are involved, and at least one member of the Closed.”

  “Any names?”

  “Only two.” Orso pronounced them carefully, dropped into the silence like great stones dropped down a well. “Stour Nightfall… and Leo dan Brock.”

  The Arch Lector closed his eyes. Crushing news, especially for him, but Orso could have sworn he saw a wry smile at the corner of the old Inquisitor’s mouth. “Body found floating by the docks,” he murmured.

  “Sorry?”

  Glokta took a sharp breath and snapped his eyes open. “I must resign at once.”

  “Your Eminence, I need your advice more than ever—”

  “But we both know you cannot have it.” Glokta looked down at his white-gloved fist, clenched on the desktop. “When you have clung to power as tightly as I have, it can be difficult to let go.” He spread his fingers out flat, the purple stone on his ring of office glittering. “But the time has come. My son-in-law may very well be a traitor.” He curled his lips back from his ruined teeth. “Even… my daughter.”

  “But—”

  “Superior Pike!” shrieked Glokta, so piercingly Orso was obliged to narrow his eyes as Pike walked in, black coat flapping.

  “For twenty-five years, Superior Pike has been my right hand,” said Glokta. “No one has more experience or better judgement. No one understands so well what must be done. I suggest he serves as head of the Inquisition until you appoint a new Arch Lector.”

  Orso glanced up at Pike’s melted mask of a face. He would have liked to choose someone else. Someone softer, gentler, more just. He remembered the hanging of the prisoners at Valbeck. Remembered Pike gazing up unfeelingly at Malmer’s gibbet. He had proved himself ruthless and remorseless. A man feared and hated by all the Crown’s enemies, and most of its friends.

  The very qualities a king needs in an Arch Lector.

  “I see no reason not to make the appointment permanent,” said Orso. Perhaps Bayaz would have other ideas when he next visited, but for now the little people would have to make their own mistakes.

  Pike solemnly inclined his head. “I serve and obey, Your Majesty.”

  Orso had never liked Glokta. He was not really a man it was possible to like. But he had come to respect him. To rely upon him, even. And now, when Orso most needed support, he would be gone. “What will you do?”

  Glokta’s brows went up, as though the question had never occurred before. “Move to the country? Pin butterflies to a board? Argue with my wife? I always wanted to write a book about fencing.”

  “I… will look forward to reading it.” Though, in honesty, Orso had never been much of a reader. “I, and the Union, thank you for your distinguished service.”

  Glokta gave a little snort of laughter. “Only promise me one thing. Should you think me worthy of a statue on the Kingsway… have it stand up.” He waved a finger towards the Practical lurking behind him, and the man turned his wheeled chair towards the door.

  Pike lowered his head. “Your Eminence.”

  Glokta twisted the ring from his finger, weighed it in his hand a moment, then offered it to Pike. “Your Eminence.” He glanced around his office one last time. The bare walls. The stark furniture. The heaps of unfinished paperwork. “I wish you both the very best of luck.”

  And as simply as that, it was done. No ceremony, no medals, no grand speech and no cheering crowds. From the pinnacle of power to a toothless old cripple in one brief conversation. The chair squeaked from the room and the doors were shut upon Sand dan Glokta. The era of Old Sticks was at an end.

  Arch Lector Pike stepped behind the desk. There was no chair now, of course, and so he stood, spreading his burned hands out on the leather top and frowning down at the ring on his finger. It seemed Glokta had found the one man even more monstrous than he as his replacement. But these were desperate times. And in desperate times, one must sometimes call upon the services of monsters.

  “How shall we proceed, Your Majesty?” asked Pike. “Softly, or… otherwise?”

  Orso took a breath through his nose. “Could you send for Inquisitor Teufel? I have some ideas.”

  Colonel Forest and Corporal Tunny were waiting outside the House of Questions. Forest, typically, standing to attention in a modest uniform. Tunny, typically, sprawling on a bench with a newsbill over his face.

  “Gentlemen,” said Orso. “Would you walk with me?” He felt an irrepressible need to stay busy, and the two old soldiers fell in on either side as he strode towards the palace, his retinue of Knights of the Body clattering after.

  For twenty years, he could have done anything he wanted, and he had done nothing. With his future blindingly bright, surrounded by comfort and buoyed up by every privilege, getting out of bed had sometimes felt impossible. Now, beset by enemies and with the gloomiest of outlooks, he fizzed with energy.

  “How many men do we have now?”

  Forest kept his voice low. “Over four thousand, Your Majesty. Lot of ’em served with the Crown Prince’s Division, keen to follow you again.”

  “Really?” Orso found that hard to believe.

  “You never pretended to be a general yourself, but you gave ’em pride.”

  “That’s… rather moving. Thank you.”

  “Their gear was gathering dust in the Agriont’s cellars in any case. It only needed passing out again.”

  There was an irony. Savine had paid for the weapons they would fight her husband with. “Where are you keeping them?”

  “Some in disused barracks outside the city. Some camped in woods and valleys. Some still at their old jobs, waiting for the call. But they can be gathered quickly.”

  Orso smiled. Finally, a sunny spot in the darkness. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, General Forest.”

  “I’m a colonel, Your Majesty.”

  “If the High King of the Union says a man’s a general, who’s to deny it? Consider yourself promoted.”

  “Look at that!” Tunny gave Forest a slovenly salute. “From enlisted man to general and it only took you forty years. You should get yourself a bigger hat.”

  Forest pulled off his worn fur hat, revealing his sizeable bald patch, and frowned down at it. “What’s wrong with my hat?”

  “It’s a f
ine, rugged, manly hat,” said Orso. “Don’t listen to him.”

  “Only looks a little bit like a quim,” said Tunny.

  Orso sternly shook his head. “Now, now, Corporal. Any more insubordination and I’ll promote you.”

  “I’d sooner face the hangman.”

  “Oh, I daresay we’ll all be doing that.” And Orso found he had actually delivered a carefree chuckle. They came out into the park, crunching down a gravel path, shadows stretching across the dew-glittering lawns from the early morning sun. Bloody hell, had he ever been up this early before? Everything was so crisp and clean and beautiful at this time of day. “It’s looking likely that we’ll have to fight in the not too distant future.” And he slapped a hand down on Forest’s shoulder. “Can you gather more men?”

  The newly minted general glanced cautiously about, but there were few prying ears. Those without rebellions to crush were still in bed. “I can, Your Majesty, if you can gather more money.”

  “Valint and Balk put no limit on my credit. Recruit as many as we can arm, pick officers you trust and get them drilling. And secure whatever horses you can lay your hands on, too, we may have to move quickly.”

  “Your Majesty.” Forest made to put his hat on, then stopped. “Bloody thing does look like a quim.” And he strode away.

  “Valint and Balk.” Tunny slowly shook his head. “They’ve got a ruthless reputation.”

  “A bank with a reputation for mercy is like a whore with a reputation for chastity—one fears they won’t get the job done. No doubt our conspirators are watching me, though. Too many visits to my financiers might arouse suspicion. Which is why you’ll be my representative to the bank.”

  Tunny was not an easy man to surprise. Orso found it rather gratifying when his jaw dropped. “I’ll be bloody what?”

  “The only real skill a king needs is to pick the best men to serve him. You may like to paint yourself as the least dependable man in the Union, but… I rather suspect it’s all a front. When it comes to it, I’m not sure there’s a man in the Circle of the World I trust more.”