Joe Abercrombie - Best Served Cold

“So you still haven’t got rid of it.” Vitari frowned at the vast portrait of Orso gazing down from the far wall.

“Why would I? Reminds me of my victories, and my defeats. Reminds me where I came from. And that I have no intention of going back.”

“And it is a fine painting,” observed Rubine, looking sadly about. “Precious few remain.”

“The Thousand Swords are nothing if not thorough.” The room had lost almost everything not nailed down or carved into the mountainside. Orso’s vast desk still crouched grimly at the far end, if somewhat wounded by an axe as someone had searched in vain for hidden compartments. The towering fireplace, held up by monstrous marble figures of Juvens and Kanedias, had proved impossible to remove and now contained a few flaming logs, failing utterly to warm the cavernous interior. The great round table too was still in place, the same map unrolled across it. As it had been the last day that Benna lived, but stained now in one corner with a few brown spots of Orso’s blood.

Monza walked to it, wincing at a niggle through her hip, and her ministers gathered around the table in a ring just as Orso’s ministers had. They say history moves in circles. “The news?”

“Good,” said Vitari, “if you love bad news. I hear the Baolish have crossed the river ten thousand strong and invaded Osprian territory. Muris has declared independence and gone to war with Sipani, again, while Sotorius’ sons fight each other in the streets of the city.” Her finger waved over the map, carelessly spreading chaos across the continent. “Visserine remains leaderless, a plundered shadow of her former glory. There are rumours of plague in Affoia, of a great fire in Nicante. Puranti is in uproar. Musselia is in turmoil.”

Rubine tugged unhappily at his beard. “Woe is Styria! They say Rogont was right. The Years of Blood are at an end. The Years of Fire are just beginning. In Westport, the holy men are proclaiming the end of the world.”

Monza snorted. “Those bastards proclaim the end of the world whenever a bird shits. Anywhere without calamities?”

“Talins?” Vitari glanced around the room. “Though I hear the palace at Fontezarmo did suffer some light looting recently. And Borletta.”

“Borletta?” It wasn’t much more than a year since Monza had told Orso, in this very hall, how she’d thoroughly looted that very city. Not to mention spiked its ruler’s head above the gates.

“Duke Cantain’s young niece foiled a plot by the nobles of the city to depose her. Apparently, she made such a fine speech they all threw aside their swords, fell to their knees and swore undying fealty to her on the spot. Or that’s the story they’re telling, at any rate.”

“Making armed men fall to their knees is a neat trick, however she managed it.” Monza remembered how Rogont won his great victory. Blades can kill men, but only words can move them, and good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm. “Do we have such a thing as an ambassador?”

Rubine looked around the table. “I daresay one could be produced.”

“Produce one and send him to Borletta, with a suitable gift for the persuasive duchess and… offers of our sisterly affection.”

“Sisterly… affection?” Vitari looked like she’d found a turd in her bed. “I didn’t think that was your style.”

“My style is whatever works. I hear good neighbours are the surest shelter in a storm.”

“Them and good swords.”

“Good swords go without saying.”

Rubine was looking deeply apologetic. “Your Excellency, your reputation is not… all it might be.”

“It never has been.”

“But you are widely blamed for the death of King Rogont, Chancellor Sotorius and their comrades in the League of Nine. Your lone survival was…”

Vitari smirked at her. “Damnably suspicious.”

“In Talins that only makes you better loved, of course. But elsewhere… if Styria were not so deeply divided, it would undoubtedly be united against you.”

Grulo frowned across at Scavier. “We need someone to blame.”

“Let’s put the blame where it belongs,” said Monza, “this once. Castor Morveer poisoned the crown, on Orso’s instructions, no doubt. Let it be known. As widely as possible.”

“But, your Excellency…” Rubine had moved from apologetic to abject. “No one knows the name. For great crimes, people must blame great figures.”

Monza’s eyes rolled up. Duke Orso smirked triumphantly at her from the painting of a battle he was never at. She found herself smirking back. Fine lies beat tedious truths every time.

“Inflate him, then. Castor Morveer, death without a face, most infamous of Master Poisoners. The greatest and most subtle murderer in history. A poisoner-poet. A man who could slip into the best-guarded building in Styria, murder its monarch and four of its greatest leaders and away unnoticed like a night breeze. Who is safe from the very King of Poisons? Why, I was lucky to escape with my life.”

“Poor innocent that you are.” Vitari slowly shook her head. “Rubs me wrong to heap fame on that slime of a man.”

“I daresay you live with worse.”

“Dead men make poor scapegoats.”

“Oh, come now, you can breathe some life into him. Bills at every corner, proclaiming his guilt in this heinous crime and offering, let’s say, a hundred thousand scales for his head.”

Volfier was looking more worried by the moment. “But… he is dead, isn’t he?”

“Buried with the rest when we filled in the trenches. Which means we’ll never have to pay. Hell, make it two hundred thousand, then we look rich at the same time.”

“And looking rich is almost as useful as being it,” said Scavier, frowning at Grulo.

“With the tale I’ll get told, the name of Morveer will be spoken with hushed awe when we’re long dead and gone.” Vitari smiled. “Mothers will scare their children with it.”

“No doubt he’s grinning in his grave at the thought,” said Monza. “I hear you unpicked a little revolt, by the way.”

“I wouldn’t insult the term by applying it to those amateurs. The fools put up bills advertising their meetings! We knew already, but bills? In plain sight? You ask me, they deserve the death penalty just for stupidity.”

“Or there is exile,” offered Rubine. “A little mercy makes you look just, virtuous and powerful.”

“And I could do with a touch of all three, eh?” She thought about it for a moment. “Fine them heavily, publish their names, parade them naked before the Senate House, then… set them free.”

“Free?” Rubine raised his thick white eyebrows.

“Free?” Vitari raised her thin orange ones.

“How just, virtuous and powerful does that make me? Punish them harshly, we give their friends a wrong to avenge. Spare them, we make resistance seem absurd. Watch them. You said yourself they’re stupid. If they plan more treason they’ll lead us to it. We can hang them then.”

Rubine cleared his throat. “As your Excellency commands. I will have bills printed detailing your mercy to these men. The Serpent of Talins forbears to use her fangs.”

“For now. How are the markets?”

A hard smile crossed Scavier’s soft face. “Busy, busy, morning until night. Traders have come to us fleeing the chaos in Sipani, in Ospria, in Affoia, all more than willing to pay our dues if they can bring in their cargoes unmolested.”

“The granaries?”

“The harvest was good enough to see us through the winter without riots, I hope.” Grulo clicked his tongue. “But much of the land towards Musselia still lies fallow. Farmers driven out when Rogont’s conquering forces moved through, foraging. Then the Thousand Swords left a sweep of devastation almost all the way to the banks of the Etris. The farmers are always the first to suffer in hard times.”