The Collected Joe Abercrombie (164 page)

Many of the pages had a blob of coloured wax on their corner. Some had two, or even three. Allegiances.
Which way will they vote? Blue for Lord Brock, red for Lord Isher, black for Marovia, white for Sult, and so on. All subject to change, of course, depending which way the wind blows them
. Below were written lines of small, dense script. Too small for Glokta to read from where he was sitting, but he knew what they said.
Wife was once a whore. Partial to young men. Drinks too much for his good. Murdered a servant in a rage. Gambling debts he cannot cover. Secrets. Rumours. Lies. The tools of this noble trade. Three hundred and twenty names, and just as many sordid little stories, each one to be picked at, and dug out, and jabbed our way. Politics. Truly, the work of the righteous.

So why do I do this? Why?

The Arch Lector had more pressing concerns. ‘Brock still leads,’ he murmured in a dour drone, staring at the shifting papers with his white gloved hands clasped behind his back. ‘He has some fifty votes, more or less certain.’ As certain as we can be in these uncertain times. ‘Isher is not far behind, with forty or more to his name. Skald has made some recent gains, as far as we can tell. An unexpectedly ruthless man. He has the Starikland delegation more or less in his hand, which gives him thirty votes, perhaps, and Barezin about the same. They are the four main contenders, as things stand.’

But who knows? Perhaps the King will live another year, and by the time it comes to a vote we’ll all have killed each other.
Glokta had to stifle a grin at the thought. The Lords’ Round heaped with richly-dressed corpses, every great nobleman in the Union and all twelve members of the Closed Council.
Each stabbed in the back by the man beside. The ugly truth of government . . .

‘Did you speak to Heugen?’ snapped Sult.

Goyle tossed his balding head and sneered at Glokta with seething annoyance. ‘Lord Heugen is still struggling under the delusion that he could be our next king, though he cannot certainly control more than a dozen chairs. He barely had time to hear our offer he was so busy scrabbling to coax out more votes. Perhaps in a week, or two, he will see reason. Then he might be encouraged to lean our way, but I wouldn’t bet on it. More likely he’ll throw in his lot with Isher. The two of them have always been close, I understand.’

‘Good for them,’ hissed Sult. ‘What about Ingelstad?’

Glokta stirred in his seat. ‘I presented him with your ultimatum in very blunt terms, your Eminence.’

‘Then we can count on his vote?’

How to put this?
‘I could not say so with absolute certainty. High Justice Marovia was able to make threats almost identical to our own, through his man Harlen Morrow.’

‘Morrow? Isn’t he some lickspittle of Hoff’s?’

‘It would seem he has moved up in the world.’
Or down, depending on how you look at it.

‘He could be taken care of.’ Goyle wore a most unsavoury expression. ‘Quite easily—’

‘No!’ snapped Sult. ‘Why is it, Goyle, that no sooner does a problem appear than you want to kill it! We must tread carefully for now, and show ourselves to be reasonable men, open to negotiation.’ He strode to the window, the bright sunlight glittering purple through the great stone on his ring of office. ‘Meanwhile the business of actually running the country is ignored. Taxes go uncollected. Crimes go unpunished. This bastard they call the Tanner, this demagogue, this traitor, speaks in public at village fairs, urging open rebellion! Daily now, peasants leave their farms and turn to banditry, perpetrating untold theft and damage. Chaos spreads, and we have not the resources to stamp it out. There are only two regiments of the King’s Own left in Adua, scarcely enough to maintain order in the city. Who knows if one of our noble Lords will tire of waiting and decide to try and seize the crown prematurely? I would not put it past them!’

‘Will the army return from the North soon?’ asked Goyle.

‘Unlikely. That oaf Marshal Burr has spent three months squatting outside Dunbrec, and given Bethod ample time to regroup beyond the Whiteflow. Who knows when he’ll finally get the job done, if ever!’
Months spent destroying our own fortress. It almost makes one wish we’d put less effort into building the place.

‘Twenty-five votes.’ The Arch Lector scowled at the crackling papers. ‘Twenty-five, and Marovia has eighteen? We’re scarcely making progress! For every vote we gain we lose one somewhere else!’

Goyle leaned forwards in his chair. ‘Perhaps, your Eminence, the time has come to call again on our friend at the University—’

The Arch Lector hissed furiously, and Goyle snapped his mouth shut. Glokta looked out the great window, pretending that he had heard nothing out of the ordinary. The six crumbling spires of the University dominated the view.
But what help could anyone possibly find there? Amongst the decay, and the dust, from those old idiots of Adepti?

Sult did not give him long to consider it. ‘I will speak to Heugen myself.’ And he jabbed one of the papers with a finger. ‘Goyle, write to Lord Governor Meed and try to elicit his support. Glokta, arrange an interview with Lord Wetterlant. He has yet to declare himself one way or the other. Get out there, the pair of you.’ Sult turned from his sheets full of secrets and fixed on Glokta with his hard blue eyes. ‘Get out there and get . . . me . . . votes!’

Being Chief

C
old night!’ shouted the Dogman. ‘Thought it was meant to be summer!’ The three of ’em looked up. The nearest was an old man with grey hair and a face looked like it had seen some weather. Just past him was a younger man, missing his left arm above the elbow. The third was no more’n a boy, stood down the end of the quay and frowning out at the dark sea.

Dogman faked a nasty limp as he walked over, dragging one leg behind him and wincing like he was in pain. He shuffled under the lamp, dangling on its high pole with the warning bell beside it, and held up the jar so they could all see.

The old man grinned, and leaned his spear against the wall. ‘Always cold, down by the water.’ He came up, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just as well we got you to keep us warm, eh?’

‘Aye. Good luck all round.’ Dogman pulled out the stopper and let it dangle, lifted one of the mugs and poured out a slosh.

‘No need to be shy, eh, lad?’

‘I guess there ain’t at that.’ Dogman sloshed out some more. The man with one arm had to set his spear down when he got handed his mug. The boy came up last, and looked Dogman over, wary.

The old one nudged him with an elbow. ‘You sure your mother’d care for you drinking, boy?’

‘Who cares what she’d say?’ he growled, trying to make his high voice sound gruff.

Dogman handed him a mug. ‘You’re old enough to hold a spear, you’re old enough to hold a cup, I reckon.’

‘I’m old enough!’ he snapped, snatching it out o’ Dogman’s hand, but he shuddered when he drank from it. Dogman remembered his first drink, feeling mighty sick and wondering what all the fuss was about, and he smiled to himself. The boy thought he was being laughed at, most likely. ‘Who are you anyway?’

The old boy tutted. ‘Don’t mind him. He’s still young enough to think that rudeness wins respect.’

‘‘S’ alright,’ said Dogman, pouring himself a mug then setting the jar down on the stones, taking time to think out what to say, make sure he didn’t make no mistakes. ‘My name’s Cregg.’ He’d known a man called Cregg once, got killed in a scrap up in the hills. Dogman hadn’t liked him much, and he’d no idea why that name came to mind, but one was about as good as another right then, he reckoned. He slapped his thigh. ‘Got poked in the leg up at Dunbrec and it ain’t healed right. Can’t march no more. Reckon my days at holding a line are over, so my chief sent me down here, to watch the water with you lot.’ He looked out at the sea, flapping and sparkling under the moon like a thing alive. ‘Can’t say I’m too sorry about it, though. Being honest, I had a skin full o’ fighting.’ That last bit was no lie, at least.

‘Know how you feel,’ said One-Arm, waving his stump in Dogman’s face. ‘How’re things up there?’

‘Alright. Union are still sat outside their own walls, trying everything to get in, and we’re on the other side o’ the river, waiting for ’em. Been that way for weeks.’

‘I heard some boys have gone over to the Union. I heard old Threetrees was up there, got killed in that battle.’

‘He was a great man, Rudd Threetrees,’ said the old boy, ‘great man.’

‘Aye.’ Dogman nodded. ‘That he was.’

‘Heard the Dogman took his place, though,’ said One-Arm.

‘That a fact?’

‘So I heard. Mean bastard, that. Huge big lad. They call him Dogman ’cause he bit some woman’s teats off one time.’

Dogman blinked. ‘Do they now? Well, I never saw him.’

‘I heard the Bloody-Nine was up there,’ whispered the boy, eyes big like he was talking about a ghost.

The other two snorted at him. ‘The Bloody-Nine’s dead, boy, and good riddance to that evil fucker.’ One-Arm shuddered. ‘Damn it but you get some fool notions!’

‘Just what I heard, is all.’

The old boy swilled down some more grog and smacked his lips. ‘Don’t much matter who’s where. Union’ll most likely get bored once they’ve got their fort back. Get bored and go home, across the sea, and everything back to normal. None of ’em will be coming down here to Uffrith, anyway.’

‘No,’ said One-Arm happily. ‘They’ll not be coming here.’

‘Then why we out here watching for ’em?’ whined the boy.

The old man rolled his eyes, like he’d heard it ten times before and always made the same answer. ‘ ’Cause that’s the task we been given, lad.’

‘And once you got a task, you best do it right.’ Dogman remembered Logen telling him the same thing, and Threetrees too. Both gone now, and back in the mud, but it was still as true as it ever was. ‘Even if it’s a dull task, or a dangerous, or a dark one. Even if it’s a task you’d rather not do.’ Damn it, but he needed to piss. Always did, at a time like this.

‘True enough,’ said the old man, smiling down into his mug. ‘Things’ve got to get done.’

‘That they do. Shame, though. You seem a nice enough set o’ lads.’ And the Dogman reached behind his back, just like he was scratching his arse.

‘Shame?’ The boy looked puzzled. ‘How d’you mean a—’

That was when Dow came up behind him and cut his neck open.

Same moment, almost, Grim’s dirty hand clamped down on One-Arm’s mouth and the bloody point of a blade slid out the gap in his cloak. Dogman jumped forward and gave the old man three quick stabs in the ribs. He wheezed, and stumbled, eyes wide, mug still hanging from his hand, groggy drool spilling out his open mouth. Then he fell down.

The boy crawled a little way. He had one hand to his neck, trying to keep the blood in, the other reaching out towards the pole the warning bell was hung on. He had some bones, the Dogman reckoned, to be thinking of the bell with a slit throat, but he didn’t drag himself more’n a stride before Dow stomped down hard on the back of his neck and squashed him flat.

Dogman winced as he heard the boy’s neck bones crunch. He hadn’t deserved to die like that, most likely. But that’s what war is. A lot of folk getting killed that don’t deserve it. The job had needed doing, and they’d done it, and were all three still alive. About as much as he could’ve hoped for from a piece of work like that, but somehow it still left a sour taste on him. He’d never found it easy, but it was harder than ever, now he was chief. Strange, how it’s that much easier to kill folk when you’ve got someone telling you to do it. Hard business, killing. Harder than you’d think.

Unless your name’s Black Dow, of course. That bastard would kill a man as easy as he’d take a piss. That was what made him so damn good at it. Dogman watched him bend down, strip the cloak from One-Arm’s limp body and pull it round his own shoulders, then roll the corpse off into the sea, careless as dumping rubbish.

‘You got two arms,’ said Grim, already with the old man’s cloak on.

Dow looked down at himself. ‘What’re you saying exactly? I ain’t cutting my arm off to make for a better disguise, y’idiot!’

‘He means keep it out o’ sight.’ Dogman watched Dow wipe out a mug with a dirty finger, pour himself a slug and knock it back. ‘How can you drink at a time like this?’ he asked, pulling the boy’s bloody cloak off his corpse.

Dow shrugged as he poured himself another. ‘Shame to waste it. And like you said. Cold night.’ He broke a nasty grin. ‘Damn it, but you can talk, Dogman. Name’s Cregg.’ He took a couple of limping steps. ‘Stabbed in me arse up at Dunbrec! Where d’you get it from?’ He slapped Grim’s shoulder with the back of his hand. ‘Fucking lovely, eh? They got a word for it, don’t they? What’s that word, now?’

‘Plausible,’ said Grim.

Dow’s eyes lit up. ‘Plausible. That’s what y’are, Dogman. You’re one plausible bastard. I swear, you could’ve told ’em you was Skarling Hoodless his own self and they’d have believed it. Don’t know how you can keep a straight face!’

Dogman didn’t feel too much like laughing. He didn’t like looking at them two corpses, still laid out on the stones. Kept worrying that the boy’d get cold without his cloak. Damn fool thing to think about, given he was lying in a pool of his own blood a stride across.