Joe Abercrombie - Last Argument of Kings

“Collem…”

There was hair wedged between his fingers. A lot of hair. His own, by the colour. He blinked at it, mystified, then coughed with disbelieving laughter. A wet, salty cough from down under his ribs. “I know it’s been thinning for years,” he croaked, “but really, this is too much.”

Ardee did not laugh. She was staring at his hands, eyes wide with horror.

Glokta winced as he carefully lowered himself into his chair. There was no fanfare to mark the moment when his aching arse touched the hard wood. No round of applause. Only a sharp clicking in his burning knee. And yet it is a moment of the greatest significance, and not only for me.

The designers of the White Chamber’s furniture had ventured beyond austerity and into the realm of profound discomfort. One would have thought that they could have stretched to some upholstery for the most powerful men in the realm. Perhaps the intention was to remind the occupants that one should never become too comfortable at the pinnacle of power. He glanced sideways, and saw Bayaz watching him. Well, uncomfortable is about as good as I ever get. Have I not often said so? He winced as he tried to worm his way forwards, the legs of his chair squealing noisily against the floor.

Long ago, when I was handsome, young, and promising, I dreamed of one day sitting at this table as a noble Lord Marshal, or a respected High Justice, or even an honourable Lord Chamberlain. Who could ever have suspected, even in their darkest moments, that beautiful Sand dan Glokta would one day sit on the Closed Council as the feared, the abhorred, the all-powerful Arch Lector of the Inquisition? He could scarcely keep the smile from his toothless mouth as he slumped back against the unyielding wood.

Not everyone appeared amused by his sudden elevation, however. King Jezal in particular glowered at Glokta with the most profound dislike. “Remarkable that you are confirmed already in your position,” he snapped.

Bayaz interposed. “Such things can happen quickly when there is the will, your Majesty.”

“After all,” observed Hoff, stealing a rare moment away from his goblet to sweep the table with a melancholy glance, “our numbers are most sadly reduced.”

All too true. Several chairs loomed significantly empty. Marshal Varuz was missing, presumed dead. Certainly dead, given that he was conducting the defence from the Tower of Chains, a structure now scattered widely over the streets of the city. Farewell, my old fencing master, farewell. High Justice Marovia had also left a vacant seat. No doubt they are still trying to scrape the frozen meat from the walls of his office. Adieu to my third suitor, I fear. Lord Valdis, Commander of the Knights Herald, was not in attendance. Keeping watch on the southern gate, I understand, when the Gurkish detonated their explosive powder. Body never found, nor ever will be, one suspects. Lord Admiral Reutzer too, was absent. Wounded at sea by a cutlass to the guts. Not expected to survive, alas.

Truly, the pinnacle of power is less crowded than it used to be.

“Marshal West could not be with us?” asked Lord Chancellor Halleck.

“He regrets that he cannot.” General Kroy seemed to pinch off each word with his teeth. “He has asked me to take his place, and speak for the army.”

“And how is the Marshal?”

“Wounded.”

“And further afflicted by the wasting illness that has recently swept the Agriont,” added the king, frowning grimly down the table at the First of the Magi.

“Regrettable.” Bayaz’ face showed not the slightest sign of regret or anything else.

“A terrible business,” lamented Hoff. “The physicians are utterly baffled.”

“Few survive.” Luthar’s glare had become positively deadly.

“Let us ardently hope,” gushed Torlichorm, “that Marshal West is one of the lucky ones.” Let us hope so indeed. Although hope changes nothing.

“To business, then?” Wine gurgled from the pitcher as Hoff filled his goblet for the second time since entering the room. “How fares the campaign, General Kroy?”

“The Gurkish army is utterly routed. We have pursued them towards Keln, where some few managed to flee on the remnant of their fleet. Duke Orso’s ships soon put an end to that, however. The Gurkish invasion is over. Victory is ours.” And yet he frowns as though he is admitting defeat.

“Excellent.”

“The nation owes a debt of thanks to its brave soldiers.”

“Our congratulations, General.”

Kroy stared down at the table-top. “The congratulations belong to Marshal West, who gave the orders, and to General Poulder and the others who gave their lives carrying them out. I was no more than an observer.”

“But you played your part, and admirably.” Hoff raised his goblet. “Given the unfortunate absence of Marshal Varuz, I feel confident his Majesty will soon wish to confer a promotion upon you.” He glanced towards the king, and Luthar grunted his unenthusiastic assent.

“I am honoured to serve in whatever capacity his Majesty should decide, of course. The prisoners are a more urgent matter, however. We have many thousands of them, and no food with which to—”

“We have not enough food for our own soldiers, our own citizens, our own wounded,” said Hoff, dabbing at his wet lips.

“Ransom any men of quality back to the Emperor?” suggested Torlichorm.

“There were precious few men of quality among their entire damn army.”

Bayaz frowned down the table. “If they are of no value to the Emperor they are certainly of no value to us. Let them starve.”

A few men shifted uncomfortably. “We are talking of thousands of lives, here—” began Kroy.

The gaze of the First of the Magi fell upon him like a great stone and squashed his objections flat. “I know what we are talking of, General. Enemies. Invaders.”

“Surely we can find a way?” threw in the king. “Could we not ship them back to Kantic shores? It would be a shameful epilogue to our victory if—”

“Each prisoner fed is one citizen that must go hungry. Such is the terrible arithmetic of power. A difficult decision, your Majesty, but those are the only kind we have in this room. What would your opinion be, Arch Lector?”

The eyes of the king, and the old men in the high chairs, all turned towards Glokta. Ah, we know what must be done, and we do not flinch, and so forth. Let the monster pronounce the sentence, so the rest can feel like decent men. “I have never been a great admirer of the Gurkish.” Glokta shrugged his aching shoulders. “Let them starve.”

King Jezal settled further into his throne with an even grimmer frown. Could it be that our monarch is a touch less house-broken than the First of the Magi would like to believe? Lord Chancellor Halleck cleared his throat. “Now that victory is ours, our first concern, without question, is the clearing of the ruins, and the rebuilding of the damage caused by…” his eyes shifted nervously sideways to Bayaz, and back. “Gurkish aggression.”

“Hear, hear.”

“Rebuilding. We are all agreed.”

“The costs,” and Halleck winced as if the word caused him pain, “even of clearing the wreckage in the Agriont alone, may run to many tens of thousands of marks. The price of rebuilding, many millions. When we consider the extensive damage to the city of Adua besides… the costs…” Halleck scowled again and rubbed at his ill-shaved jaw with one hand. “Difficult even to guess at.”

“We can only do our best.” Hoff sadly shook his head. “And find one mark at a time.”

“I, for one, suggest we look to the nobles,” said Glokta. There were several grumbles of agreement.