Joe Abercrombie: Before They Are Hanged

“A fitting punishment, I suppose,” whispered Ardee as she watched the envoy’s bloody gut slithering out of his body, “for the murderer of the Crown Prince.”

Glokta bowed his head to whisper in her ear. “I’m reasonably sure that he did not kill anyone. I suspect he is guilty of nothing more than being a courageous man, who came to us speaking truth and holding out the hand of peace.”

Her eyes widened. “Then why hang him?”

“Because the Crown Prince has been murdered. Someone has to hang.”

“But… who really killed Raynault?”

“Someone who wants no peace between Gurkhul and the Union. Someone who wants the war between us to grow, and spread, and never end.”

“Who could want that?”

Glokta said nothing. Who indeed?

You don’t have to admire that Fallow character, but he can certainly pick a good chair. Glokta settled back into the soft upholstery with a sigh, stretching his feet out towards the fire, working his aching ankles round and round in clicking circles.

Ardee did not seem quite so comfortable. But then this morning’s diversion was hardly a comforting spectacle. She stood frowning out of the window, thoughtful, one hand pulling nervously at a strand of hair. “I need a drink.” She went to the cabinet and opened it, took out a bottle and a glass. She paused, and looked round. “Aren’t you going to tell me it’s a little early in the day?”

Glokta shrugged. “You know what the time is.”

“I need something, after that…”

“Then have something. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I’m not your brother.”

She jerked her head round and gave him a hard look, opened her mouth as though about to speak, then she shoved the bottle angrily away and the glass after it, snapped the doors of the cabinet shut. “Happy?”

He shrugged. “About as close as I get, since you ask.”

Ardee dumped herself into a chair opposite, staring sourly down at one shoe. “What happens now?”

“Now? Now we will delight each other with humorous observations for a lazy hour, then a stroll into town?” He winced. “Slowly, of course. Then a late lunch, perhaps, I was thinking of—”

“I meant about the succession.”

“Oh,” muttered Glokta. “That.” He reached round and dragged a cushion into a better position, then stretched out further with a satisfied grunt. One could almost pretend, sitting in this warm and comfortable room, in such attractive and agreeable company, that one still had some kind of life. He nearly had a smile on his face as he continued. “There will be a vote in Open Council. Meaning, I have no doubt, that there will be an orgy of blackmail, bribery, corruption and betrayal. A carnival of deal-making, alliance-breaking, intrigue and murder. A merry dance of fixing, of rigging, of threats and of promises. It will go on until the king dies. Then there will be a vote in Open Council.”

Ardee gave her crooked smile. “Even commoners’ daughters are saying the king cannot live long.”

“Well, well,” and Glokta raised his eyebrows. “Once the commoners’ daughters start saying a thing, you know it must be true.”

“Who are the favourites?”

“Why don’t you tell me who the favourites are?”

“Alright, then, I will.” She sat back, one fingertip rubbing thoughtfully at her jaw. “Brock, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Then Barezin, I suppose, Heugen, and Isher.”

Glokta nodded. She’s no fool. “They’re the big four. Who else, do we think?”

“I suppose Meed sunk his chances when he lost to the Northmen. What about Skald, the Lord Governor of Starikland?”

“Very good. You could get long odds for him, but he’d be on the sheet—”

“And if the Midderland candidates split the vote enough—”

“Who knows what could happen?” They grinned at each other for a moment. “At this point it really could be anyone,” he said. “And then any illegitimate children of the king might also be considered…”

“Bastards? Are there any?”

Glokta raised an eyebrow. “I believe I could point out a couple.” She laughed, and he congratulated himself on it. “There are rumours, of course, as there always are. Carmee dan Roth, have you heard of her? A lady-at-court, and reckoned an exceptional beauty. She was quite a favourite with the king at one point, years ago. She disappeared suddenly and was later said to have died, perhaps in childbirth, but who can say? People love to gossip, and beautiful young women will die from time to time, without ever bearing a royal bastard.”

“Oh, it’s true, it’s true!” Ardee fluttered her eyelashes and pretended to swoon. “We certainly are a sickly breed.”

“You are, my dear, you are. Looks are a curse. I thank my stars every day to have been cured of that.” And he leered his toothless grin at her. “Members of the Open Council are flooding to the city in their scores, and I daresay many of them have never set foot in the Lords’ Round in their lives. They smell power, and they want to be a part of it. They want to get something out of it, while there’s something to be had. It might well be the only time in ten generations that the nobles get to make a real decision.”

“But what a decision,” muttered Ardee, shaking her head.

“Indeed. The race could be lengthy and the competition near the front will be savage.” If not to say lethal. “I would not like to discount the possibility of some outsider coming up at the last moment. Someone without enemies. A compromise candidate.”

“What about the Closed Council?”

“They’re forbidden from standing, of course, to ensure impartiality.” He snorted. “Impartiality! What they passionately want is to foist some nobody on the nation. Someone they can dominate and manipulate, so they can continue their private feuds uninterrupted.”

“Is there such a candidate?”

“Anyone with a vote is an option, so in theory there are hundreds, but of course the Closed Council cannot agree on one, and so they scramble with scant dignity behind the stronger candidates, changing their loyalties day by day, hoping to insure their futures, doing their best to stay in office. Power has shifted so quickly from them to the nobles their heads are spinning. And some of them will roll one way or another, you may depend on that.”

“Will yours roll, do you think?” asked Ardee, looking up at him from under her dark brows.

Glokta licked slowly at his gums. “If Sult’s does, it may well be that mine will follow.”

“I hope not. You’ve been kind to me. Kinder than anyone else. Kinder than I deserve.” It was a trick of utter frankness that he had seen her use before, but still an oddly disarming one.

“Nonsense,” mumbled Glokta, wriggling his shoulders in the chair, suddenly awkward. Kindness, honesty, comfortable living rooms… Colonel Glokta would have known what to say, but I am a stranger here. He was still groping for a reply when a sharp knocking echoed in the hallway. “Are you expecting anyone?”

“Who would I be expecting? My entire acquaintance is here in the room.”

Glokta strained to listen as the front door opened, but could hear nothing more than vague muttering. The door handle turned and the maid poked her head into the room.

“Begging your pardon, but there is a visitor for the Superior.”

“Who?” snapped Glokta. Severard, with news of Prince Raynault’s guard? Vitari, with some message from the Arch Lector? Some new problem that needs solving? Some new set of questions to ask?

“He says his name is Mauthis.”

Glokta felt the whole left side of his face twitching. Mauthis? He had not thought about him for some time, but an image of the gaunt banker sprang instantly into his mind now, holding out the receipt, neatly and precisely, for Glokta to sign. A receipt for a gift of one million marks. It may be that in the future, a representative of the banking house of Valint and Balk will come to you requesting… favours.