Joe Abercrombie: Last Argument of Kings

“Do you know? I believe I will.” The mercenary scratched thoughtfully at the rash on his neck leaving red fingernail marks through the flaky skin. “At least until the gold runs out.”

“How quickly can you possibly spend what I have paid you?”

“Oh, you would be amazed. I have wasted ten fortunes in my time and more besides. I look forward to wasting another.” Cosca slapped his hands down on his thighs, pushed himself up, strolled, somewhat unsteadily, to the door, and turned with a flourish. “Make sure you call on me when you next have a desperate last stand organised.”

“My first letter will bear your name.”

“Then I bid you… farewell!” Cosca swept off his enormous hat and bowed low. Then, with a knowing grin, he stepped through the doorway, and was gone.

Glokta had moved the Arch Lector’s office to a large hall on the ground floor of the House of Questions. Closer to the real business of the Inquisition—the prisoners. Closer to the questions, and the answers. Closer to the truth. And, of course, the real clincher… no stairs.

There were well-tended gardens outside the large windows. The faint sound of a fountain splashing beyond the glass. But inside the room there was none of the ugly paraphernalia of power. The walls were plastered and painted simple white. The furniture was hard and functional. The whetstone of discomfort has kept me sharp this long. No reason to let the edge grow dull, simply because I have run out of enemies. New enemies will present themselves, before too long.

There were some heavy bookcases of dark wood. Several leather-covered desks, already stacked high with documents requiring his attention. Aside from the great round table with its map of the Union and its pair of bloody nail-marks, there was only one item of Sult’s furniture that Glokta had brought downstairs with him. The dark painting of bald old Zoller glowered down from above the simple fireplace. Bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain Magus I once knew. It is fitting after all, that we maintain the proper perspective. Every man answers to somebody.

There was a knocking at the door, and the head of Glokta’s secretary appeared at the gap. “The Lord Marshals have arrived, Arch Lector.”

“Show them in.”

Sometimes, when old friends meet, things are instantly as they were, all those years before. The friendship resumes, untouched, as though there had been no interruption. Sometimes, but not now. Collem West was scarcely recognisable. His hair had fallen out in ugly patches. His face was shrunken, had a yellow tinge about it. His uniform hung slack from his bony shoulders, stained around the collar. He shuffled into the room, bent over in an old man’s stoop, leaning heavily on a stick. He looked like nothing so much as a walking corpse.

Glokta had expected something of the kind, of course, from what Ardee had told him. But the sick shock of disappointment and horror he felt at the sight still caught him by surprise. Like returning to the happy haunt of one’s youth, and finding it all in ruins. Deaths. They happen every day. How many lives have I wrecked with my own hands? What makes this one so hard to take? And yet it was. He found himself lurching up from his chair, starting painfully forwards as if to lend some help.

“Your Eminence.” West’s voice was fragile and jagged as broken glass. He made a weak effort at a smile. “Or I suppose… I should call you brother.”

“West… Collem… it is good to see you.” Good, and awful both at once.

A cluster of officers followed West into the room. The wonderfully competent Lieutenant Jalenhorm I remember, of course, but a Major now. And Brint too, made a Captain by his friends swift advancement. Marshal Kroy we know and love from the Closed Council. Congratulations, all, on your advancement. Another man brought up the rear of the party. A lean man with a face horribly burned. But we, of all people, should hardly hold a repulsive disfigurement against him. Each one of them frowned nervously towards West, as though ready to pounce forward if he should slump to the floor. Instead he shuffled to the round table and sagged trembling into the nearest chair.

“I should have come to you,” said Glokta. I should have come to you far sooner.

West made another effort at a smile, even more bilious than the last. Several of his teeth were missing. “Nonsense. I know how busy you are, now. And I am feeling much better today.”

“Good, good. That is… good. Is there anything that I can get you?” What could possibly help? “Anything at all.”

West shook his head. “I do not think so. These gentlemen you know, of course. Apart from Sergeant Pike.” The burned man nodded to him.

“A pleasure.” To meet someone even more maimed than myself, always.

“I hear… happy news, from my sister.”

Glokta winced, almost unable to meet his old friend’s eye. “I should have sought your permission, of course. I surely would have, had there been time.”

“I understand.” West’s bright eyes were fixed on his. “She has explained it all. It is some kind of comfort to know that she’ll be well taken care of.”

“On that you can depend. I will see to it. She will never be hurt again.”

West’s gaunt face twisted. “Good. Good.” He rubbed gently at the side of his face. His fingernails were black, edged with dried blood, as though they were peeling from the flesh beneath. “There’s always a price to be paid, eh, Sand? For the things we do?”

Glokta felt his eye twitching. “It would seem so.”

“I have lost some of my teeth.”

“I see that, and can sympathise. Soup, I find…” I find utterly disgusting.

“I am… scarcely able to walk.”

“I sympathise with that also. Your cane will be your best friend.” As it will soon be mine, I think.

“I am a pitiable shell of what I was.”

“I truly feel your pain.” Truly. Almost more keenly than my own.

West slowly shook his withered head. “How can you stand it?”

“One step at a time, my old friend. Steer clear of stairs where possible, and mirrors, always.”

“Wise advice.” West coughed. An echoing cough, from right down beneath his ribs. He swallowed noisily. “I think my time is running out.”

“Surely not!” Glokta’s hand reached out for a moment, as if to rest on West’s shrunken shoulder, as if to offer comfort. He jerked it back, awkwardly. It is not suited to the task.

West licked at his empty gums. “This is how most of us go, isn’t it? No final charge. No moment of glory. We just… fall slowly apart.”

Glokta would have liked to say something optimistic. But that rubbish comes from other mouths than mine. Younger, prettier mouths, with all their teeth, perhaps. “Those who die on the battlefield are in some ways the lucky few. Forever young. Forever glorious.”

West nodded, slowly. “Here’s to the lucky few, then…” His eyes rolled back, he swayed, then slumped sideways. Jalenhorm was the first forward, catching him before he hit the ground. He flopped in the big man’s arms, a long string of thin vomit splattering against the floor.

“Back to the palace!” snapped Kroy. “At once!”

Brint hurried to swing the doors open while Jalenhorm and Kroy steered West out of the room, draped between them with his arms over their shoulders. His limp shoes scraped against the floor, his piebald head lolling. Glokta watched them go, standing helpless, his toothless mouth half open, as if to speak. As if to wish his friend good luck, or good health, or a merry afternoon. None of them seem quite to fit the circumstance, however.