Joe Abercrombie - The Blade Itself

The Announcer puffed out his chest. “I call this meeting,” he said, in slow and sonorous tones, as though he were giving the eulogy at a funeral, “of the Open Council of the Union…” he gave an unnecessarily long and significant pause. The Lord Chamberlain’s eyes flicked angrily towards him, but the Announcer was not to be robbed of his moment of glory. He made everyone wait an instant longer before finishing, “…to order!”

“Thank you,” said Hoff sourly. “I believe we were about to hear from the Lord Governor of Dagoska before we were interrupted by luncheon.” The scratching nibs of quills accompanied his voice, as two clerks recorded his every word. The faint echoes of the pens merged with the echoes of his words in the great space above.

An elderly man struggled to his feet in the front row close to Jezal, some papers clasped before him in shaky hands.

“The Open Council,” droned the Announcer, as ponderously as he dared, “recognises Rush dan Thuel, accepted proxy of Sand dan Vurms, the Lord Governor of Dagoska!”

“Thank you, sir.” Thuel’s cracking, wispy voice was absurdly small in the vast space. It barely carried as far as Jezal, and he was no more than ten strides away. “My Lords—” he began.

“Speak up!” called someone from the back. There was a ripple of laughter. The old man cleared his throat and tried again.

“My Lords, I come before you with an urgent message from the Lord Governor of Dagoska.” His voice had already faded to its original, barely audible level, each word accompanied by the persistent scratching of quills. Whispers began to emanate from the public gallery above, making it still harder to hear him. “The threat posed to that great city by the Emperor of Gurkhul increases with every passing day.”

Vague sounds of disapproval began to float up from the far side of the room, where the representatives from Angland were seated, but the bulk of the councillors simply looked bored. “Attacks on shipping, harassment of traders, and demonstrations beyond our walls, have compelled the Lord Governor to send me—”

“Lucky us!” somebody shouted. There was another wave of laughter, slightly louder this time.

“The city is built on but a narrow peninsula,” persisted the old man, straining to make himself heard over the increasing background noise, “attached to a land controlled entirely by our bitter enemies the Gurkish, and separated from Midderland by wide leagues of salt water! Our defences are not all they might be! The Lord Governor is sorely in need of more funds…”

The mention of funds brought instant uproar from the assembly. Thuel’s mouth was still moving, but there was no chance of hearing him now. The Lord Chamberlain frowned and took a swallow from his goblet. The clerk furthest from Jezal had laid down his quill and was rubbing his eyes with his inky thumb and forefinger. The clerk closest had just finished writing a line. Jezal craned forward to see. It said simply:

Some shouting here.

The Announcer thumped his staff on the tiles with a look of great self-satisfaction. The hubbub eventually died down but Thuel had now been taken with a coughing fit. He tried to speak but was unable, and eventually he waved his hand and sat down, very red in the face, while his neighbour thumped him on the back.

“If I may, Lord Chamberlain?” shouted a fashionable young man in the front row on the other side of the hall, leaping to his feet. The scratching of the quills began once again. “It seems to me—”

“The Open Council,” cut in the Announcer, “recognises Hersel dan Meed, third son and accepted proxy of Fedor dan Meed, the Lord Governor of Angland!”

“It seems to me,” continued the handsome young man, only slightly annoyed by this interruption, “that our friends in the south are forever expecting a full-scale attack by the Emperor!” Dissenting voices were now raised on the other side of the room. “An attack which never materialises! Did we not defeat the Gurkish only a few short years ago, or does my memory deceive me?” The booing increased in volume. “This scaremongering represents an unacceptable drain on the Union’s resources!” He was shouting to be heard. “In Angland we have many miles of border and too few soldiers, while the threat from Bethod and his Northmen is very real! If anyone is in need of funds…”

The shouting was instantly redoubled. Cries of “Hear, hear!”, “Nonsense!”, “True!” and “Lies!” could be vaguely made out over the hubbub. Several of the representatives were on their feet, shouting. Some vigorously nodded their agreement, some violently shook their heads in dissent. Others yawned and stared around. Jezal could see one fellow, near to the back in the centre, who was almost certainly asleep, and in imminent danger of slumping into his neighbour’s lap.

He allowed his eyes to wander up, over the faces ranged around the rail of the public gallery. He felt a strange tugging in his chest. Ardee West was up there, looking straight down at him. As their eyes met she smiled and waved. He was smiling himself, with his arm halfway up to wave, when he remembered where he was. He pushed his arm behind his back and looked around nervously, but was relieved to find that no one important had noticed his mistake. The smile would not quite leave his face though.

“My Lords!” roared the Lord Chamberlain, smashing his empty goblet down on the high table. He had the loudest voice Jezal had ever heard. Even Marshal Varuz could have learned a thing or two about shouting from Hoff. The sleeping man near the back started up, sniffing and blinking. The noise died away almost immediately. Those representatives left standing looked around guiltily, like naughty children called to account, and gradually sat down. The whispers from the public gallery went still. Order was restored.

“My Lords! I can assure you, the King has no more serious concern than the safety of his subjects, no matter where they are! The Union does not permit aggression against its people or property!” Hoff punctuated each comment by smashing his fist down in front of him. “From the Emperor of Gurkhul, from these savages in the North, or from anyone else!” He struck the table so hard on this last comment that ink splashed from a well and ran all over one of the clerks’ carefully prepared documents. Calls of agreement and support greeted the Lord Chamberlain’s patriotic display.

“As for the specific circumstance of Dagoska!” Thuel looked up hopefully, chest still shaking with suppressed coughs. “Is that city not possessed of some of the most powerful and extensive defences in the world? Did it not resist a siege by the Gurkish, less than a decade ago, for over a year? What has become of the walls, sir, the walls?” The great room fell quiet as everyone strained to hear the reply.

“Lord Chamberlain,” wheezed Thuel, his voice nearly drowned out as one of the clerks turned the crackling page of his huge book and began scratching on the next, “the defences have fallen into poor repair, and we lack the soldiers to keep them properly manned. The Emperor is not ignorant of this,” he whispered, all but inaudible, “I beg of you…” He dissolved into another fit of coughing, and dropped into his seat, accompanied by some light jeering from the Angland delegation.

Hoff frowned even more deeply. “It was my understanding that the defences of the city were to be maintained by monies raised locally, and by trade levies upon the Honourable Guild of Spicers, who have operated in Dagoska under an exclusive and highly profitable licence these past seven years. If resources cannot be found even to maintain the walls,” and he swept the assembly with a dark eye, “perhaps it is time that this licence was put out to tender.” There was a volley of angry mutterings around the public gallery.