Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

“You have to admire their organisation,” said Varuz grimly.

“Yes… their organisation…” Jezal’s voice was suddenly creaky as old floorboards. Putting a brave face on this seemed more like insanity than courage.

A dozen horsemen had detached themselves from the Gurkish lines and now rode forward at a steady trot. Two long flags streamed above their heads, red and yellow silk, worked with Kantic characters in golden thread. There was a white flag too, so small as to be barely noticeable.

“Parleys,” growled the First of the Magi, slowly shaking his head.

“What are they but an excuse for old fools who love to hear their own voices to prattle about fair treatment before they start on the butchery?”

“I suppose on the subject of old fools who love to hear their own voices, you are the absolute expert.” That was what Jezal thought but he kept it to himself, watching the Gurkish party approach in brooding silence. A tall man came at their head, gold shining on his sharply pointed helmet and his polished armour, riding with that upright arrogance that shouts, even from a distance, of high command.

Marshal Varuz frowned. “General Malzagurt.”

“You know him?”

“He commanded the Emperor’s forces, during the last war. We grappled with each other for months. We parleyed more than once. A most cunning opponent.”

“You got the better of him though, eh?”

“In the end, your Majesty.” Varuz looked far from happy. “But I had an army then.”

The Gurkish commander clattered up the road, through the jumble of deserted buildings scattered beyond Casamir’s wall. He reined in his horse before the gate, staring proudly upwards, one hand resting casually on his hip.

“I am General Malzagurt,” he called in a sharp Kantic accent, “the chosen representative of his magnificence, Uthman-ul-Dosht, Emperor of Gurkhul.”

“I am King Jezal the First.”

“Of course. The bastard.”

It was pointless to deny it. “That’s right. The bastard. Why don’t you come in, General? Then we can speak face to face, like civilised men.”

Malzagurt’s eyes flickered across to Glokta. “Forgive me, but the response of your government to unarmed emissaries of the Emperor has not always been… civilised. I think I will remain outside the walls. For now.”

“As you wish. I believe you are already acquainted with Lord Marshal Varuz?”

“Of course. It seems an age since we tussled in the dry wastelands. I would say that I have missed you… but I have not. How are you, my old friend, my old enemy?”

“Well enough,” grunted Varuz.

Malzagurt gestured towards the vast array of manpower deploying behind him. “Under the circumstances, eh? I do not know your other—”

“He is Bayaz. First of the Magi.” A smooth, even voice. It came from one of Malzagurt’s companions. A man dressed all in simple white, somewhat in the manner of a priest. He seemed hardly older than Jezal, and very handsome, with a dark face, perfectly smooth. He wore no armour, carried no weapon. There was no adornment on his clothes or his simple saddle. And yet the others in the party, even Malzagurt himself, seemed to look at him with great respect. With fear, almost.

“Ah.” The General peered up, stroking thoughtfully at his short grey beard. “So this is Bayaz.”

The young man nodded. “This is he. It has been a long time.”

“Not long enough, Mamun, you damned snake!” Bayaz clung to the parapet, teeth bared. The old Magus was so good at playing the kindly uncle that Jezal had forgotten how terrifying his sudden fury could be. He took a shocked step away, half raising a hand to shield his face. The Gurkish aides and flag-carriers cringed, one going so far as to be noisily sick. Even Malzagurt lost a sizeable chunk of his heroic bearing.

But Mamun gazed up just as levelly as before. “Some among my brothers thought that you would run, but I knew better. Khalul always said your pride would be the end of you, and here is the proof. It seems strange to me, now, that I once thought you a great man. You look old, Bayaz. You have dwindled.”

“Things seem smaller when they are far above you!” growled the First of the Magi. He ground the toe of his staff into the stones under his feet, his voice carrying now a terrible menace. “Come closer, Eater, and you can judge my weakness while you burn!”

“The time was you could have crushed me with a word, I do not doubt it. But now your words are only empty air. Your power has leaked away with the slow years, while mine has never been greater. I have a hundred brothers and sisters behind me. What allies have you, Bayaz?” He swept the battlements with a mocking smile. “Only such as you deserve.”

“I may yet find allies to surprise you.”

“I doubt it. Long ago, Khalul told me what your final, desperate hope would be. Time proved him right, as it always has. So you went to the very edge of the World, chasing shadows. Dark shadows indeed, for one who calls himself righteous. I know that you failed.” The priest showed two rows of perfect white teeth. “The Seed passed out of history, long ago. Interred, dark leagues beneath the earth. Sunk, far below the bottomless ocean. Your hopes are sunk with it. You have only one choice left to you. Will you come with us willingly, and be judged by Khalul for your betrayal? Or must we come in and take you?”

“You dare to speak to me of betrayal? You who betrayed the highest principals of our order, and broke the sacred law of Euz? How many have you murdered, so that you could be powerful?”

Mamun only shrugged. “Very many. I am not proud. You left us a choice of dark paths, Bayaz, and we made the sacrifices we had to. There is no purpose in our arguing over the past. After these long centuries, standing on opposite sides of a great divide, I think neither one of us will convince the other. The victors can decide who was right, just as they always have, since long before the Old Time. I know your answer already, but the Prophet would have me ask the question. Will you come to Sarkant, and answer for your great crimes? Will you be judged by Khalul?”

“Judged?” snarled Bayaz. “ He will judge me , the swollen-headed old murderer?” He barked harsh laughter down from the walls. “Come and take me if you dare, Mamun, I will be waiting!”

“Then we will come,” murmured Khalul’s first apprentice, frowning up from under his fine black brows. “We have been preparing long years to do it.”

The two men fell to sullen glaring, and Jezal frowned with them. He resented the sudden feeling that the whole business was somehow an argument between Bayaz and this priest and that he, although a king, was like a child eavesdropping on his parents’ conversation, and with just as little say in the outcome.

“Speak your terms, General!” he bellowed down.

Malzagurt cleared his throat. “Firstly, if you surrender the city of Adua to the Emperor, he is prepared to allow you to retain your throne, as his subject, of course, paying regular tribute.”

“How generous of him. What of the traitor, Lord Brock? We understood that you have promised him the crown of the Union.”

“We are not altogether committed to Lord Brock. He does not hold the city, after all. You do.”

“And we have scant respect for those who turn on their own masters,” added Mamun, with a dark look up at Bayaz.

“Secondly, the citizens of the Union will be permitted to continue to live according to their own laws and customs. They will continue to live in freedom. Or as close to it as they have ever really been, at least.”

“Your generosity is astonishing.” Jezal had meant to sneer it, but in the end it escaped without much irony.