Last Argument of Kings (63 page)

Men bent down, tending to fellows injured, giving them water and soft words, a splint or two being fixed. Logen and Shivers just stood there, giving each other a look. Not hatred, exactly, and not respect. It was hard for the Dogman to say what it was, and he didn’t much care about that either.

“What were you thinking?” he snapped. “Pissing off on your own like that? Thought you were supposed to be chief, now! That’s a poor effort, ain’t it?”

Logen only stared back, eyes gleaming in the gloom. “Got to help Ferro,” he muttered, half to himself. “Jezal too.”

Dogman stared at him. “Got to help who? There’s real folk here in need o’ help.”

“I ain’t much with the wounded.”

“Only with the making of ’em! Go on then, Bloody-Nine, if you must. Get to it.”

Dogman saw Logen’s face flinch when he heard that name. He backed away, one hand clamped to his side and his sword gripped bloody in the other. Then he turned and limped off down the glittering hallway.

“Hurts,” said Grim, as Dogman squatted down next to him.

“Where?”

He gave a bloody smile. “Everywhere.”

“Right, well…” Dogman pulled his shirt up. One side of his chest was caved in, a great blue-black bruise spread out all across it like a tar-stain. He could hardly believe a man could still be breathing with a wound like that. “Ah…” he muttered, not having a clue where to start even.

“I think… I’m done.”

“What, this?” Dogman tried to grin but didn’t have it in him. “No more’n a scratch.”

“Scratch, eh?” Grim tried to lift his head, winced and fell back, breathing shallow. He stared up, eyes wide open. “That’s a fucking beautiful ceiling.”

The Dogman swallowed. “Aye. I reckon.”

“Should’ve died fighting Ninefingers, long time ago. The rest was all a gift. Grateful for it, though, Dogman. I’ve always loved… our talks.”

He closed his eyes, and he stopped breathing. He’d never said much, Harding Grim. Famous for it. Now he’d stay silent forever. A pointless sort of a death, a long way from home. Not for anything he’d believed in, or understood, or stood to gain from. Nothing more’n a waste. But then Dogman had seen a lot of men go back to the mud, and there was never anything fine about it. He took a long breath, and stared down at the floor.

A single lamp cast creeping shadows across the mouldering hallway, over rough stone and flaking plaster. It made sinister outlines of the mercenaries, turned Cosca’s face and Ardee’s into unfamiliar masks. The darkness seemed to gather inside the heavy stonework of the archway and around the door within—ancient-looking, knotted and grained, studded with black iron rivets.

“Something amusing, Superior?”

“I stood here,” murmured Glokta. “In this exact spot. With Silber.” He reached out and brushed the iron handle with his fingertips. “My hand was on the latch… and I moved on.”
Ah, the irony. The answers we seek so long and far for—so often at our fingertips all along.

Glokta felt a shiver down his twisted spine as he leaned close to the door. He could hear something from beyond, a muffled droning in a language he did not recognise.
The Adeptus Demonic calls upon the denizens of the abyss?
He licked his lips, the image of High Justice Marovia’s frozen remains fresh in his mind.
It would be rash to plunge straight through, however keen we are to put our questions to rest. Very rash…

“Superior Goyle, since you have led us here, perhaps you would care to go first?”

“Geegh?” squeaked Goyle through his gag, his already bulging eyes going even wider. Cosca took the Superior of Adua by his collar, seized the iron handle with his other hand, thrust it swiftly open and applied his boot to the seat of Goyle’s trousers. He stumbled through, bellowing meaningless nonsense into his gag. The metallic sound of a flatbow being discharged issued from the other side of the door, along with the chanting, louder and harsher now by far.

What would Colonel Glokta have said? Onwards to victory, lads!
Glokta lurched through the doorway, almost tripping over his own aching foot on the threshold, and gazed about him in surprise. A large, circular hall with a domed ceiling, its shadowy walls painted with a vast, exquisitely detailed mural.
And one that seems uncomfortably familiar.
Kanedias, the Master Maker, loomed up over the chamber with arms outspread, five times life-size or more, fire blazing from behind him in vivid crimson, orange, white. On the opposite wall lay his brother Juvens, stretched out on the grass beneath flowering trees, blood running from his many wounds. In between the two men, the Magi marched to take their revenge, six on one side, five on the other, bald Bayaz in the lead.
Blood, fire, death, vengeance. How wonderfully appropriate, given the circumstances.

An intricate design had been laid out with obsessive care, covering wide floor. Circles within circles, shapes, symbols, figures of frightening complexity, all described in neat lines of white powder.
Salt, unless I am much mistaken.
Goyle lay on his chest a stride or two from the door, at the edge of the outermost ring, his hands still tied behind him. Dark blood spread out from under him, the point of a flatbow bolt sticking out of his back.
Just where his heart should be. I would never have taken that for his weak spot.

Four of the University’s Adepti stood in various stages of amazement. Three of them: Chayle, Denka, and Kandelau, held candles in both hands, their sputtering wicks giving off a choking corpse-stink. Saurizin, the Adeptus Chemical, clutched an empty flatbow. The faces of the old men, lit in bilious yellow from beneath, were pantomime masks of fear.

At the far side of the room Silber stood behind a lectern, a great book open before him, staring down with intense concentration by the light of a single lamp. His finger hissed across the page, his thin lips moving ceaselessly. Even at this distance, and despite the fact the room was icy cold, Glokta could see fat beads of sweat running down his thin face. Beside him, painfully upright in his pure white coat and glaring blue daggers across the width of the chamber, stood Arch Lector Sult.

“Glokta, you crippled bastard!” he snarled, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“I could well ask you the same question, your Eminence.” He waved his cane at the scene. “Except the candles, the ancient books, the chanting and the circles of salt rather give the game away, no?”
And a rather infantile game it seems, suddenly. All that time, while I was torturing my way through the Mercers, while I was risking my life in Dagoska, while I was blackmailing votes in your name, you were up to… this?

But Sult seemed to be taking it seriously enough. “Get out, you fool! This is our last chance!”

“This? Seriously?” Cosca was already through the door, masked mercenaries following. Silber’s eyes were still fixed on the book, lips still moving, more sweat on his face than ever. Glokta frowned. “Someone shut him up.”

“No!” shouted Chayle, a look of utter horror on his tiny face. “You mustn’t stop the incantations! It is a profoundly dangerous operation! The consequences could be… could be—”

“Disastrous!” shrieked Kandelau. One of the mercenaries took a step towards the middle of the room nonetheless.

“Don’t tread near the salt!” screeched Denka, wax dripping from his wobbling candle. “Whatever you do!”

“Wait!” snapped Glokta, and the man paused at the edge of the circle, peering at him over his mask. The room was growing colder even as they spoke. Unnaturally cold. Something was happening in the centre of the circles. The air was trembling, like the air above a bonfire, more and more as Silber’s harsh voice droned on. Glokta stood frozen, his eyes flicking between the old Adepti.
What to do? Stop him, or don’t stop him? Stop him, or—

“Allow me!” Cosca stepped forwards, delving into his black coat with his spare left hand.
But you can’t be—
He whipped his arm out with a careless flourish and his throwing knife came with it. The blade flashed in the candlelight, spun directly through the shimmering air in the centre of the room, and imbedded itself to the hilt in Silber’s forehead with a gentle thud.

“Ha!” Cosca seized Glokta by the shoulder. “What did I tell you? Have you ever seen a knife thrown better?”

Blood ran down the side of Silber’s face in a red trickle. His eyes rolled upwards, flickered, then he sagged sideways, dragging over his lectern, and crashed to the floor. His book tumbled down on top of him, aged pages flapping, the lamp spilled over and sprayed streaks of burning oil across the floor.

“No!” shrieked Sult.

Chayle gasped, his mouth falling open. Kandelau threw his candle aside and sank grovelling to the floor. Denka gave a terrified squeak, one hand over his face, staring out pop-eyed from between his fingers. There was a long pause while everyone except Cosca stared, horrified, towards the corpse of the Adeptus Demonic. Glokta waited, his few teeth bared, his eyes almost squeezed shut.
Like that horrible, beautiful moment between stubbing your toe and feeling the hurt. Here it comes. Here it comes.

Here comes the pain…

But nothing came. No demonic laughter echoed through the chamber. The floor did not fall in to expose a gate to hell. The shimmering faded, the room began to grow warmer. Glokta raised his brows, almost disappointed. “It would seem the diabolical arts are decidedly overrated.”

“No!” snarled Sult again.

“I am afraid so, your Eminence. And to think I used to respect you.” Glokta grinned at the Adeptus Chemical, still clinging weakly to his empty flatbow. He waved a hand at Goyle’s body. “A good shot. I congratulate you. One less mess for me to tidy up.” He waved a finger at the crowd of mercenaries behind him. “Now seize that man.”

“No!” bellowed Saurizin, throwing his flatbow to the floor. “None of it was my idea! I had no choice! It was him!” He stabbed a thick finger at Silber’s lifeless body. “And… and him!” He pointed to Sult with a trembling arm.

“You’ve got the right idea, but it can wait for the interrogation. Would you be kind enough to take his Eminence into custody?”

“Happily.” Cosca strolled across the floor of the wide room, his boots sending up puffs of white powder, leaving a trail of ruination through the intricate patterns.

“Glokta, you blundering idiot!” shrieked Sult. “You have no idea of the danger Bayaz poses! This First of the Magi and his bastard king! Glokta! You have no right! Gah!” He yelped as Cosca dragged his arms behind his back and forced him to his knees, his white hair in disarray. “You have no idea—”

“If the Gurkish don’t kill the lot of us, you’ll get ample time to explain it to me. Of that I assure you.” Glokta leered his toothless smile as Cosca drew the rope tight around Sult’s wrists.
If you only knew how long I have dreamed of saying these words.
“Arch Lector Sult. I arrest you for high treason against his Majesty the King.”

Jezal could only stand and stare. One of the twins, the one spattered in blood, lifted her long arms slowly over her head and gave a long, satisfied stretch. The other raised an eyebrow.

“How would you like to die?” she asked.

“Your Majesty, get behind me.” Gorst hefted his long steel in his one good hand.

“No. Not this time.” Jezal pulled the crown from his head, the crown that Bayaz had been so particular in designing, and tossed it clattering away. He was done with being a king. If he was to die, he would die a man, like any other. He had been given so many advantages, he realised now. Far more than most men could ever dream of. So many chances to do good, and he had done nothing besides whine and think of himself. Now it was too late. “I’ve lived my life leaning on others. Hiding behind them. Climbing on their shoulders. Not this time.”

One of the twins raised her hands and started slowly to clap, the regular tap, tap, echoing from the mirrors. The other giggled. Gorst raised his sword. Jezal did the same, one last act of pointless defiance.

Then High Justice Marovia flashed between them. The old man moved with impossible speed, his dark robe snapping around him. He had something in his hand. A long rod of dark metal with a hook on the end.

“What—” muttered Jezal.

The hook blazed suddenly, searingly white, bright as the sun on a summer’s day. A hundred hooks burned like stars, reflected back from the mirrors round the walls, and back, and back, into the far distance. Jezal gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, holding one hand over his face, the long trail left by that brilliant point burned fizzing into his vision.

He blinked, gaped, lowered his arm. The twins stood, the High Justice beside them, just where they had before, still as statues. Tendrils of white steam hissed up from vents in the end of the strange weapon and curled around Marovia’s arm. For a moment, nothing moved.

Then a dozen of the great mirrors at the far end of the hall fell in half across the middle, as though they were sheets of paper slashed suddenly by the world’s sharpest knife. A couple of the bottom halves and one of the top toppled slowly forwards into the room and shattered, scattering bright fragments of glass across the tiled floor.