Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

“Thirdly,” shouted the General, with a nervous glance sideways towards Mamun, “the man known as Bayaz, the First of the Magi, be delivered over to us, bound and in chains, that he may be conveyed to the Temple of Sarkant, for judgement by the Prophet Khalul. Those are our terms. Refuse them, and the Emperor has decreed that Midderland shall be treated as any other conquered province. Many will be killed, and many more made slaves, Gurkish governors will be installed, your Agriont will be made a temple, and your current rulers… conveyed to cells beneath the Emperor’s palace.”

Jezal half opened his mouth to refuse on an instinct. Then he paused. Harod the Great, no doubt, would have spat his defiance at any odds, and probably pissed on the emissary to boot. The slightest notion of negotiating with the Gurkish was against every long-held belief he possessed.

But, thinking about it, the terms were far more generous than he had ever expected. Jezal would probably have enjoyed more authority as a subject of Uthman-ul-Dosht than he did with Bayaz staring over his shoulder every moment of every day. He could save lives by saying a word. Real lives, of real people. He reached up and rubbed gently at his scarred lips with a fingertip. He had experienced enough suffering on the endless plains of the Old Empire to think long and hard about risking so much pain to so many, and himself in particular. The notion of cells beneath the Emperor’s palace caused him some pause.

It was bizarre that such a vital decision should fall to him. A man who, no more than a year ago, had proudly confessed to knowing nothing about anything, and caring still less. But then Jezal was beginning to doubt that anyone in a position of high authority ever really knew what they were doing. The best one could hope for was to maintain some shred of an illusion that one might. And occasionally, perhaps, try to give the mindless flood of events the slightest push in one direction or another, hoping desperately that it would turn out to be the right one.

But what was the right one?

“Give me your answer!” shouted Malzagurt. “I have preparations to make!”

Jezal frowned. He was sick of being dictated to by Bayaz, but at least the old bastard had played some role in his ascension to the throne. He was sick of being slighted by Terez, but at least she was his wife. Quite aside from any other consideration, his patience was stretched very thin. He simply refused to be ordered around at sword-point by some posturing Gurkish General and his damn fool priest.

“I reject your terms!” he called airily down from the walls. “I reject them utterly and completely. I am not in the habit of surrendering my advisers, or my cities, or my sovereignty simply when asked. Particularly not to a pack of Gurkish curs with small manners and even smaller wits. You are not in Gurkhul now, General, and here your arrogance becomes you even less than that absurd helmet. I suspect that you will learn a harsh lesson before you leave these shores. Might I add, before you scuttle off, that I encourage you and your priest to fuck each other? Who knows? Perhaps you could persuade the great Uthman-ul-Dosht—and the all-knowing Prophet Khalul too for that matter—to join you!”

General Malzagurt frowned. He conferred quickly with an aide, evidently having not entirely understood the finer points of that last utterance. Once he had finally taken them in he gave an angry slash of his dark hand and barked an order in Kantic. Jezal saw men moving among the buildings scattered outside the walls, torches in their hands. The Gurkish General took one last look up at the gatehouse. “Damn pinks!” he snarled. “Animals!” And he tore at the reins of his horse and sprang away, his officers clattering after him.

The priest Mamun sat there a moment longer, a sadness on his perfect face. “So be it. We will put on our armour. May God forgive you, Bayaz.”

“You need forgiveness more than I, Mamun! Pray for yourself!”

“So I do. Every day. But I have seen no sign in all my long life that God is the forgiving kind.” Mamun turned his horse away from the gates and rode slowly back towards the Gurkish lines, through the abandoned buildings, flames already licking hungrily at their walls.

Jezal took a long, ragged breath as his eyes flicked up to the mass of men moving through the fields. Damn his mouth, it got him in all kinds of trouble. But it was a little late now for second thoughts. He felt Bayaz’ fatherly touch on his shoulder, that steering touch that had become so very annoying to him over the past few weeks. He had to grit his teeth to keep from shaking free.

“You should address your people,” said the Magus.

“What?”

“The right words could make all the difference. Harod the Great could speak at a moment’s notice. Did I tell you of the time he—”

“Very well!” snapped Jezal, “I am going.”

He walked towards the opposite parapet with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man to his scaffold. The crowd was spread out below in all its disturbing variety. Jezal had to stop himself fussing with his belt-buckle. He kept worrying for some reason that his trousers would fall down in front of all those people. A ridiculous notion. He cleared his throat. Someone saw him, pointed.

“The king!”

“King Jezal!”

“The king speaks!”

The crowd shifted and stretched, drawn towards the gatehouse, a sea of hopeful, fearful, needy faces. The noise in the square slowly died and a breathless silence fell.

“My friends… my countrymen… my subjects!” His voice rang out with pleasing authority. A good beginning, very… rhetorical. “Our enemies may be many… very many…” Jezal cursed to himself. That was hardly an admission to give courage to the masses. “But I urge you to take heart! Our defences are strong!” He slapped at the firm stones under his hand. “Our courage is indomitable!” He thumped at his polished breastplate. “We will hold firm!” This was better! He had discovered a natural talent for speaking. The crowd was warming to him now, he could feel it. “We need not hold out forever! Lord Marshal West is even now bringing his army to our assistance—”

“When?” someone screamed out. There was a wave of angry muttering.

“Er…” Jezal, wrong-footed, glanced nervously across at Bayaz, “er…”

“When will they come? When?” The First of the Magi hissed at Glokta, and the cripple made a sharp gesture to someone below.

“Soon! You may depend upon it!” Curse Bayaz, this had been an awful notion. Jezal did not have the ghost of an idea of how to put heart into a rabble.

“What about our children? What about our homes? Will your house burn? Will it?” A swell of unhappy calls went up.

“Do not fear! I beg of you… please…” Damn it! He had no business pleading, he was a king. “The army is on its way!” Jezal noticed black figures forcing through the press. Practicals of the Inquisition. They converged, somewhat to his relief, on the point where the heckles were coming from. “They are even now leaving the North! Any day they will come to our aid, and teach these Gurkish dogs a—”

“When? When will—” Black sticks rose and fell in the midst of the crowd and the question was cut off in a high-pitched shriek.

Jezal did his best to shout over it. “In the meantime, will we let these Gurkish scum ride free over our fields? Over the fields of our fathers?”

“No!” someone roared, to Jezal’s great relief.

“No! We will show these Kantic slaves how a free Union citizen can fight!” A volley of lukewarm agreements. “We will fight as bravely as lions! As fiercely as tigers!” He was warming to his work, now, the words were spilling out as if he really meant them. Perhaps he did. “We will fight as we did in the days of Harod! Of Arnault! Of Casamir!” A rousing cheer went up. “We will not rest until these Gurkish devils are driven back across the Circle Sea! There will be no negotiation!”