Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

“What happened to you?” asked Jezal.

Bayaz frowned, a muscle trembling under one dark-ringed eye. “I could ask you the same question.”

Jezal noted that the Magus had not even bothered with a “your Majesty”. He touched a hand to the bloody bandage round his skull. “I was involved in a charge.”

“In a what?”

“The Gurkish brought down a section of Arnault’s Wall while I was surveying the city. There was no one to turn them back, and so… I did it myself.” He was almost surprised to hear himself saying the words. He was far from proud of the fact, certainly. He had done little more than ride, fall, and hit his head. Bremer dan Gorst and his own dead horse had done the majority of the fighting, and against meagre opposition to boot. But he supposed he had done the right thing, for once, if there was any such a thing.

Bayaz did not agree. “Have what little brains fate saved for you turned to shit?”

“Have they…” Jezal blinked as the meaning of Bayaz’ words soaked slowly into his consciousness. “How dare you, you meddling old turd? You are talking to a king!” That was what he wanted to say, but his head was pounding, and something in the Magus’ twitching, wasted face prevented him. Instead he found himself mumbling in a tone almost apologetic. “But… I don’t understand. I thought… isn’t that what Harod the Great would have done?”

“Harod?” Bayaz sneered in Jezal’s face. “Harod was an utter coward, and an utter fathead to boot! That idiot could scarcely dress himself without my help!”

“But—”

“It is easy to find men to lead charges.” The Magus pronounced each word with exaggerated care, as though addressing a simpleton. “Finding men to lead nations is considerably more difficult. I do not intend that the effort I have put into you should be wasted. Next time you experience a yearning to risk your life, perhaps you might lock yourself in the latrine instead. People respect a man with a fighter’s reputation, and that you have been fortunate enough to have been gifted. People do not respect a corpse. Not there!” roared Bayaz, limping past Jezal and waving one arm angrily at one of the smiths. The poor man started like a frightened rabbit, glowing embers spattering from his crucible. “I told you, fool! You must follow the charts precisely! Exactly as I have drawn it! One mistake could be worse than fatal!”

Jezal stared after him, outrage, guilt, and simple exhaustion fighting for control of his body. Exhaustion won. He trudged over to the barrels and slumped down next to Ferro.

“Your fucking Majesty,” she said.

He rubbed at his eyes with finger and thumb. “You do me too much honour with your kind attentions.”

“Bayaz not happy, eh?”

“It seems not.”

“Well. When is that old bastard happy with anything?”

Jezal gave a grunt of agreement. He realised that he had not spoken to Ferro since he was crowned. It was not as though they had been fast friends before, of course, but he had to admit that he was finding her utter lack of deference to him an unexpected tonic. It was almost like being, for a brief moment, the vain, idle, worthless, happy man he used to be. He frowned over at Bayaz, stabbing his finger at something in his old book. “What ever is he up to, anyway?”

“Saving the world, he tells me.”

“Ah. That. He’s left it a little late, don’t you think?

She shrugged. “I’m not in charge of the timing.”

“How does he plan to do it? With picks and forges?”

Ferro watched him. He still found those devil-yellow eyes as off-putting as ever. “Among other things.”

Jezal planted his elbows on his knees, his chin drooping down onto his palms, and gave vent to a long sigh. He was so very, very tired. “I seem to have done the wrong thing,” he muttered.

“Huh.” Ferro’s eyes slid away. “You’ve got a knack for it.”

General Poulder squirmed in his field chair, moustaches quivering, as though he could only just control his body so overpowering was his fury. His ruddy complexion and snorting breath seemed to imply that he might spring from the tent at any moment and charge the Gurkish positions alone. General Kroy sat rigidly erect on the opposite side of the table, clenched jaw-muscles bulging from the side of his close-cropped skull. His murderous frown clearly demonstrated that his anger at the invader, while no less than anyone else’s, was kept under iron command, and if any charging was to be done it would be managed with fastidious attention to detail.

In their first briefings West had found himself outnumbered twenty to one by the two Generals’ monstrous staffs. He had reduced them, by a relentless process of attrition, to a meagre two officers a piece. The meetings had lost the charged atmosphere of a tavern brawl and instead taken on the character of a small and bad-tempered family event—perhaps the reading of a disputed will. West was the executor, trying to find an acceptable solution for two squabbling beneficiaries to whom nothing was acceptable. Jalenhorm and Brint, sitting to either side of him, were his dumbstruck assistants. What role the Dogman played in the metaphor it was hard to judge, but he was adding to the already feverish pitch of worry in the tent by picking at his fingernails with a dagger.

“This will be a battle like no other!” Poulder was frothing, pointlessly. “Never since Harod forged the Union has an invader set foot upon the soil of Midderland!”

Kroy growled his agreement.

“The Gurkish mean to overturn our laws, smother our culture, make slaves of our people! The very future of our nation hangs in the—”

The tent flap snapped back and Pike ducked through, his melted face expressionless. A tall man shuffled behind, stooped over and wobbly with fatigue, a heavy blanket wrapped round his shoulders, his face smeared with dirt.

“This is Fedor dan Hayden,” said Pike. “A Knight Herald. He was able to swim from the docks in Adua under cover of night, and slip around the Gurkish lines.”

“An action of conspicuous bravery,” said West, to grumbles of grudging agreement from Poulder and Kroy. “You have all of our thanks. How do things stand inside the city?”

“Frankly, my Lord Marshal, they are dire.” Hayden’s voice was scratchy with weariness. “The western districts—the Arches and the Three Farms—belong to the Emperor. The Gurkish breached Arnault’s Wall two days ago, and the defences are stretched to breaking point. At any moment they could burst through, and threaten the Agriont itself. His Majesty asks that you march on Adua with all possible speed. Every hour could be vital.”

“Does he have any particular strategy in mind?” asked West. Jezal dan Luthar never used to have anything in mind beyond getting drunk and bedding his sister, but he hoped that time might have wrought changes.

“The Gurkish have the city surrounded, but they are spread thin. On the eastern side, particularly. Lord Marshal Varuz believes you could break through with a sharp attack.”

“Though the western districts of the city will still be crawling with Gurkish swine,” growled Kroy.

“Bastards,” whispered Poulder, his jowls twitching. “Bastards.”

“We have no choice but to march on Adua immediately,” said West. “We will make use of every road and move with all possible speed to take up a position east of the city, marching by torchlight if necessary. We must assault the Gurkish encirclement at dawn and break their hold on the walls. Admiral Reutzer will meanwhile lead the fleet in an attack against the Gurkish ships in the harbour. General Kroy, order some cavalry forward to scout the way and screen our advance. I want no surprises.”