Last Argument of Kings (56 page)

It would be so very nice to stop. Most likely the Gurkish will burn the whole city and kill us all, and then who will care who told who what? If by some miracle they fail, no doubt Sult will finish me, or Valint and Balk will collect their debt in my blood. What will it matter when I am floating face-down in the docks whether certain questions were ever answered? Then why do I do this? Why?

The blood reached the edge of the wood and started dripping to the floor with a steady tap, tap, tap. No other answer. Glokta felt a flurry of twitches run up the side of his face. He took hold of the cleaver again.

“Look at this.” He gestured at the pieces of bloody flesh scattered across the table. “Look what you’ve lost here, already. All because you won’t tell me what I need to know. Do you not value your own fingers? They’re no use to you now, are they? They’re no use to me, I can tell you that. They’re no use to anyone, besides a hungry dog or two, maybe.” Glokta bared the yawning hole in his front teeth, and ground the point of the cleaver into the wood between Severard’s outspread fingers. “One more time.” He pronounced the words with icy precision. “What… did you tell… his Eminence?”

“I… told him… nothing!” The tears ran down Severard’s hollow cheeks, his chest shuddered with sobs. “I told him nothing! Valint and Balk, I had no choice! I’ve never spoken to Sult in my fucking life! Not a word! Never!”

Glokta looked into his Practical’s eyes, his prisoner’s eyes, for a long moment, trying to see the truth. All was silent except for Severard’s gurgling, agonised breath. Then Glokta wrinkled his lip and tossed the cleaver down rattling on the table.
Why give up your other hand, when you have confessed already?
He gave a long sigh, reached out and gently wiped the tears from Severard’s pale face. “Alright. I believe you.”

But what then? We are left with more questions than before, and nowhere to look for the answers.
He arched his back, wincing at the aches in his twisted spine, down his twisted leg, through his toeless foot.
Sult must have gained his information elsewhere. Who else survived Dagoska, who else saw enough? Eider? She would never dare reveal herself. Vitari? If she wanted to spill her guts she could have done it at the time. Cosca? His Eminence would never work with a man that unpredictable. I only use him myself because I have no other choice. Then who?

Glokta’s eyes met Frost’s. Pink eyes, unblinking. They stared at him, bright and hard as pink gemstones. And the wheels clicked into place.

I see.

Neither one of them spoke. Frost reached out, without much haste, his eyes never leaving Glokta’s, and wrapped both his thick arms around Severard’s neck. The ex-Practical could only stare, helpless.

“What’re—” Frost frowned slightly. There was a sharp crunching sound as he wrenched Severard’s head sideways.
As simple and careless as killing a chicken.
Severard’s skull flopped backwards as Frost let him go, and far past backwards, unnatural knobbly shapes sticking from the pale skin of his twisted neck.

The albino stood up, between Glokta and the door, hanging ajar.
No way out.
Glokta winced as he stumbled backwards, the tip of his cane scraping against the floor. “Why?” Frost came on, slowly and surely, his white fists clenched tight, his white face expressionless behind his mask. Glokta held up one hand. “Just tell me why, damn it!”

The albino shrugged.
I suppose some questions have no answers, after all.
Glokta’s twisted back hit the curved wall.
And my time is up. Ah well.
He took a long breath.
The odds were always stacked against me. I do not mind dying, so very much.

Frost raised his white fist, then grunted. The cleaver sank deep into his heavy shoulder with a dull smack. Blood began to leak out from it into his shirt. Frost turned. Ardee stood behind him. The three of them stared at each other for a moment. Then Frost punched her in the face. She reeled away and crashed into the side of the table, slid limp to the floor, dragging it over on its side, Glokta’s case clattering down beside her, instruments tumbling, blood and bits of flesh scattering. Frost started to turn back, the cleaver still wedged in his flesh, his left arm hanging limp.

Glokta’s lips curled away from his empty gums.
I do not mind dying. But I refuse to be beaten.

He set his feet as best he could, ignoring the pain that stabbed through his toeless foot and up his front leg. He brought up his cane and jammed his thumb into its hidden catch. It had been made to his precise instructions by the same man who had made the case for his instruments.
And is an even finer piece of craftsmanship.

There was a gentle click as the wood sprang open on secret hinges and dropped away revealing a two-foot needle of mirror-bright metal. He let go a piercing shriek.

Jab, jab, Glokta. Jab, jab.

The steel was a blur. The first thrust ran Frost neatly through the left side of his chest. The second darted silently through the right side of his neck. The third punctured his mask and scraped against his jaw bone, the glinting point showing itself just under his white ear for an instant before it whipped back out.

Frost stood, motionless, his white eyebrows going up with mild surprise. Then blood welled from the tiny wound on his throat and ran down into his shirt in a black line. He reached out with one big white hand. He wobbled, blood bubbling from under his mask.

“Futh,” he breathed.

He crumpled to the ground as though his legs had been snatched suddenly from under him. He put out an arm to push himself up, but there was no strength in it. His breaths gurgled noisily, then quietly, and he was still.
And that is all.

Ardee was sitting up near the table, blood running out of her nose and down her top lip. “He’s dead.”

“I used to fence,” murmured Glokta. “It seems the trick never entirely leaves you.” He stared from one corpse to the other. Frost lay in a slowly widening dark pool, one pink eye staring ahead, still unblinking, even in death. Severard’s head was hanging back over the chair, mouth yawning wide open in a silent scream, his mutilated hand still manacled, the other hanging limp.
My boys. My eyes. My hands. All finished.
He frowned at the bloody length of metal in his fist.
Well. We must fumble onwards as best we can without them.

He winced as he reached down and picked up the fallen piece of his cane between two fingers, snapped it shut around the bloody steel. “If you wouldn’t mind closing that case for me.” Ardee stared wide-eyed at the instruments, at Severard’s yawning corpse, at the blood-stained table on its side and the fragments of flesh scattered across the floor. She coughed, and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
One forgets that some people are not used to dealing with these matters. But we need such help as we can get, and it is a little late for easing anyone into this gently. If she can chop into a man with a cleaver, she can carry a blade or two for me without swooning.
“The case,” he snapped. “I will still need my instruments.”

Ardee blinked, collected the few scattered tools with trembling hands and put them back in their places. She wedged the box under her arm and stood up, somewhat unsteadily, wiping the blood from her nose on her white sleeve. Glokta noticed that she had a piece of one of Severard’s fingers caught in her hair.

“You have something…” he pointed at his head, “just here.”

“What? Gah!” She tore the dead thing out and flung it on the ground, gave a shiver of disgust. “You should find another way to make a living.”

“I have been thinking that for some time. But there are still a few more questions I must have answered.”

The door creaked and Glokta felt a sudden stab of panic. Cosca stepped through into the room. He whistled softly as he surveyed the carnage, pushed his cap back on his head, its feather casting a spray of long shadows across the mural behind him. “You’ve made quite a mess, Superior, quite a mess.”

Glokta fingered his cane. His leg was on fire, his heart was thumping dully at his temples, he was damp with cold sweat under his scratchy clothes. “Unavoidable.”

“I thought you’d want to know that we had our visitors. Six Practicals of the Inquisition. I rather suspect they may have been sent here to kill you.”
Undoubtedly. On the Arch Lector’s orders, acting on information from the late Practical Frost.

“And?” asked Glokta. After the events of the past hour he was almost expecting Cosca to come at him, sword swinging.

But if the last hour has taught us anything, it is that the least trusted henchman is not always the least reliable.
“And we cut them to pieces, of course.” The Styrian grinned. “I’m insulted you might think otherwise.”

“Good. Good.”
At least something has gone to plan.
Glokta wanted nothing more than to slide to the floor and lie there, screaming.
But there is work to do.
He winced as he limped for the door. “We need to head for the Agriont immediately.”

The first traces of dawn were leaking into the cold, clear sky as Glokta hobbled out onto the Middleway, Ardee at his shoulder. There was still mist on the air, but it was fading, now.
A fine day in prospect, it would appear. A fine day for bloodshed, treachery, and—

Shapes were moving in the mist, away south down the wide cobbled road, towards the sea. There were noises too. Rattling, jingling. It sounded very much like a body of armoured men on the move. Further off, someone was shouting. A bell began to clang, sullen and muffled.
A warning bell.

Cosca frowned into the thinning mist. “What is that?”

The shapes grew more distinct. Armoured men, carrying spears, and in numbers. Their tall helmets were plainly not of Union design.

Ardee touched Glokta on the arm. “Are they—”

“Gurkish.” Their armour glinted in the thin, grey light as the fog drifted aside. A vast body of them, marching north up the Middleway.
They must finally have landed men at the docks, broken through into the centre of the city. What astonishingly poor timing.
“Back!” Glokta turned towards the alley, slipped and nearly fell, grimacing as Ardee caught him by the elbow and dragged him up straight.

“Back to the mansion!”
And hope we weren’t seen already.
“And keep those lamps with you, we’ll need them.” He hurried to the stinking alley as best he could, barged and jostled by Cosca’s mercenaries.

“Damn these Gurkish,” hissed the Styrian. “I don’t know for the life of me what I did to upset them so.”

“You have my sympathy.” The gate squealed shut and a couple of the mercenaries started dragging a broken fountain behind it.
I’m not sure how long that will keep out one of the Emperor’s legions.

“Might I ask what the plan is now, exactly, Superior? Charming though your palace is, sitting here and waiting for relief would hardly seem to be an option.”

“No.” Glokta struggled up the steps and through the open front door. “We need to get to the Agriont.”

“Something tells me our Gurkish friends will have had the same idea. We will not be getting there overground, that is certain.”

“Then we must go underground.” Glokta limped into the guts of the building as smartly as he could, Ardee and the mercenaries following behind in a worried crowd. “There is an entrance to the sewers here. One can get all the way to the Agriont, if one knows the route.”

“Sewers?” Cosca grinned. “I like nothing more than wading through life’s filth, as you well know, but sewers can be quite… confusing. Do you know the route?”

“Actually, no.”
But I know a man who says he can find a way through anything, even a river of shit.
“Brother Longfoot!” he called out as he hobbled towards the steps. “I have a proposition for you!”

The Day of Judgement

Lord Marshal West stood in the shadow of an abandoned barn, up on a rise above the fertile plains of Midderland, his eye-glass clutched tightly in one gloved hand. There was still a trace of morning mist clinging to the flat autumn fields—patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim homecoming.

There was not so much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be sure of nothing.

“They must be expecting us. They must be.”

“Maybe they’re sleeping late,” said Jalenhorm, ever the optimist.

Pike was more direct. “What difference if they are?”

“Not much,” West admitted. King Jezal’s orders had been specific. The city was infested with Gurkish troops and the defences were close to complete collapse. There was no time for clever stratagems, for careful approaches, for probing the enemy for weak spots. Prince Ladisla, ironically, would probably have been as good a commander for this particular situation as anyone else. For once, circumstances called for a magnificent charge, followed closely by death or glory. The only thing under West’s control was the timing.

Brint pulled up his horse nearby, sending a shower of grit into the cold air. He swung down from the saddle and gave a smart salute. “General Kroy’s cavalry is in position on the right wing, Lord Marshal, and ready to charge at your order.”

“Thank you, Captain. His foot?”

“Perhaps halfway to deploying. Some companies are still spread out down the roads.”

“Still?”

“Muddy-going, sir.”

“Huh.” Armies left mud behind them like a slug left a trail. “What about Poulder?”

“A similar position, as far as I can tell,” said Brint. “No messages?”

Jalenhorm shook his head. “General Poulder has not been forthcoming this morning.”

West stared towards the city, that distant grey line beyond the fields. “Soon.” He chewed at his lip, already raw from his constant worrying. “Very soon. Mustn’t let fly half-drawn. When a little more of the foot comes up…”

Brint was frowning off to the south. “Sir, is that…” West followed his pointing finger. Over on the left wing, where Poulder had been gathering his division, the cavalry were already moving smartly forward.

West stared as the riders gathered pace. “What the…”

Two full regiments of heavy horse broke into a majestic gallop. Thousands of them, streaming forwards across the open farmland, surging round the trees and the scattered farmhouses, throwing up a wake of dusty earth. West could hear the hammering of their hooves now, like distant thunder, could almost feel the vibration of it through his boots. The sun glinted on raised sword and lance, on shield and full armour. Banners streamed and snapped in the wind. It was quite the display of martial grandeur. A scene from a lurid storybook with a muscular hero in which meaningless words like honour and righteousness were often repeated.

“Shit,” growled West through gritted teeth, feeling the familiar pulsing coming up behind his eyes. General Poulder had been itching to mount one of his fabled cavalry charges all across the North and back. There the harsh terrain, or the harsh weather, or the harsh circumstances had all prevented it. Now, with the perfect conditions, it seemed he had been unable to resist the opportunity.

Jalenhorm slowly shook his head. “Bloody Poulder.”

West gave a snarl of frustration, raised up his eye-glass to dash it on the ground. He managed to stop himself at the last moment, forced in a heavy breath, and slapped the thing angrily closed. He could not afford to indulge himself today. “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it? Order the charge, all across the line!”

“Sound the charge!” roared Pike. “The charge!”

The sharp bugle call rang out, blaringly loud on the chill morning air, doing nothing to ease West’s throbbing headache. He stuck one muddy boot in his stirrup and dragged himself reluctantly up into his saddle, already sore from riding all night. “I suppose we must follow General Poulder to glory. At a less honourable distance, though, perhaps. Someone still needs to co-ordinate this shambles.” The sounds of answering bugles further down the line floated up to them, and on the right Kroy’s horsemen began to trot forwards.

“Major Jalenhorm, order the foot forward in support as soon as they come up.” West worked his mouth. “Piecemeal if need be.”

“Of course, Lord Marshal.” The big man was already turning his horse to give the orders.

“War,” muttered West. “A noble business.”

“Sir?” asked Pike.

“Nothing.”

Jezal took the last few steps two at a time, Gorst and a dozen of his Knights clattering after him, sticking to his heels as tightly as his shadow. He swept imperiously past the guard and into the bright morning light at the top of the Tower of Chains, high above the stricken city. Lord Marshal Varuz was already at the parapet, surrounded by a gaggle of his staff, all glaring out across Adua. The old soldier stood stiffly, his hands clasped behind him, just the way he had always done at fencing practice, long ago. Jezal had never noticed his hands shake in the old days, however. They shook now, and badly. High Justice Marovia stood beside him, black robes stirred by the gentle breeze.

“The news?” demanded Jezal.

The Lord Marshal’s tongue darted nervously over his lips. “The Gurkish mounted an assault before dawn. The defenders of Arnault’s wall were overwhelmed. Not long afterwards they managed to land men at the docks. A great number of men. We have been fighting a rearguard action with the greatest courage, but… well…”

There was really no need to say more. As Jezal moved closer to the parapet, and wounded Adua came into view, he could plainly see the Gurkish flooding down the Middleway, the tiny golden standards of the Emperor’s legions bobbing above the mass of humanity like flotsam on a glittering tide. Like seeing one ant on the carpet, then gradually becoming aware of hundreds all across his living room, Jezal began to notice movement elsewhere, then everywhere. The very centre of the city was infested with Gurkish soldiers.

“Fighting a rearguard action with… mixed success,” finished Varuz lamely.

Down below, a few men burst out from the buildings near the western gate of the Agriont, ran across the cobbled square before the moat, heading for the bridge.

“Gurkish?” someone squealed.

“No,” muttered the Lord Marshal. “Those are ours.” Men doing their very best to escape the slaughter that was no doubt taking place down in the ruined city. Jezal had faced death often enough to guess at how they felt.

“Have those men brought to safety,” he said, voice cracking slightly.

“I am afraid… the gates have been sealed, your Majesty.”

“Then unseal them!”

Varuz’ dewy eyes wandered nervously to Marovia. “That would… not be wise.”

A dozen or more had made it to the bridge now, were shouting and waving their arms. Their words were lost over the distance, but the tone of helpless, abject terror was impossible to miss.

“We should do something.” Jezal’s hands gripped tight to the parapet. “We must do something! There will be others out there, many more!”

Varuz cleared his throat. “Your Majesty—”

“No! Have my horse saddled. Gather the Knights of the Body. I refuse to—”

High Justice Marovia had moved to block the door to the stairs, and now looked calmly, sadly into Jezal’s face. “If you were to open the gates now, you would be putting everyone in the Agriont at risk. Many thousands of citizens, all looking to you for protection. Here we can keep them safe, at least for now. We must keep them safe.” His eyes slid sideways to the streets. Different-coloured eyes, Jezal noticed, one blue, one green. “We must weigh the greater good.”

“The greater good.” Jezal looked the other way, into the Agriont. Brave defenders were ranged around the walls, he knew, ready to fight to the death for king and country, however undeserving. He pictured civilians too, scurrying for safety through the narrow lanes. Men, women, children, the old and the young, driven from their ruined homes. People to whom he had promised safety. His eyes flickered across the high white buildings around the green park, the wide Square of Marshals, the long Kingsway with its tall statues. They were filled, he knew, with the helpless and the needy. Those unlucky enough to have no one better to rely on than the gutless fraud, Jezal dan Luthar.

It stuck in his throat, but he knew the old bureaucrat was right. There was nothing he could do. He had been shockingly lucky to survive his last magnificent charge, and it was far too late for another. Outside the Agriont, Gurkish soldiers were beginning to boil into the square before the gate. A few of them knelt, bows in hand, and sent a flight of arrows arcing across onto the bridge. Tiny figures tumbled and fell, splashed into the moat. Tiny screams wafted gently up to the top of the Tower of Chains.

An answering volley rattled from the walls, peppered the Gurkish with flatbow bolts. Men dropped, others faltered and fell back, leaving a few bodies scattered across the cobbles. They scurried for cover in the buildings around the edge of the square, men darting through the shadows from house to house. A Union soldier jumped from the bridge and splashed along in the moat for a few strokes before disappearing. He did not resurface. Behind him a last handful of the stranded defenders were still crawling, desperately holding up their arms. The notion of the greater good was likely to be scant consolation for them as they choked their last breaths. Jezal squeezed his eyes shut and looked away.

“There! To the east!”

Varuz and a few members of his staff had clustered around the far parapet, gazing out past the House of the Maker and towards the distant fields outside the city. Jezal strode over to them, shielded his eyes against the rising sun. Beyond the great wall of the Agriont, beyond the shining river and the wide curve of the city, he thought he caught some trace of movement. A wide crescent of movement, crawling slowly towards Adua.

One of the officers lowered an eye-glass. “Cavalry! Union Cavalry!”

“Are you sure?”

“The Army!”

“Late to the party,” muttered Varuz, “but no less welcome for that.”

“Hurrah for Marshal West!”

“We are delivered!”

Jezal was in no mood to whoop for joy. Hope was a fine thing, of course, and had long been in short supply, but celebrations were decidedly premature. He crossed back to the other side of the tower and frowned down.

More Gurkish were surging into the square outside the citadel, and more still, and they were coming well prepared. They wheeled great sloping wooden screens forward, each one big enough for a score of men or more to hide behind. The foremost of them already bristled with flatbow bolts, but they continued to creep towards the bridge. Arrows flitted up and down. The wounded fell, did their best to crawl for the rear. One of the buildings at the side of the square had already caught fire, flames licking hungrily round the eaves of its roof.

“The army!” someone whooped from the opposite battlement. “Marshal West!”

“Indeed.” Marovia frowned down at the carnage below, the sounds of battle growing steadily more frantic. “Let us hope he has not come too late.”

The noise of fighting crept up through the cool air. Clashing and clicking, echoing calls. Logen glanced left and right at the men around him, jogging forward over the open fields, quick breath hissing, gear rattling, all blunt frowns and sharp weapons.

Hardly a heartening thing, to be part of all this again.

The sad fact was that Logen had felt more warmth and more trust with Ferro and Jezal, Bayaz and Quai than he did with his own kind now. They’d been a difficult set of bastards, each in their own way. It wasn’t that he’d really understood them, or even liked them much. But Logen had liked himself when he was with them. Out there in the deserted west of the World, he’d been a man you could rely on, like his father had been. A man with no bloody history breathing on his shoulder, no name blacker than hell, no need to watch his back every moment. A man with hopes for something better.

The thought of seeing those folk again, the chance at being that man again, put the spur to him, made Logen want to run at the grey wall of Adua all the faster. It seemed, in that moment anyway, as if he might be able to leave the Bloody-Nine outside it.

But the rest of the Northmen didn’t share his eagerness. It was closer to a stroll than a charge. They ambled up to a stand of trees, a couple of birds went flapping into the white sky, and they stopped altogether. No one said anything. One lad even sat down, with his back to a tree, and started supping water from a flask.

Logen stared at him. “By the dead, I don’t reckon I ever saw such a piss-weak charge as this. Did you leave your bones back in the North?”