The Collected Joe Abercrombie (247 page)

‘Exactly so. On other occasions Yoru took another face, and called himself the Tanner, and incited a few peasants to some rather unbecoming behaviour.’ Bayaz examined his fingernails. ‘All in a good cause, though, Superior.’

‘To lend glamour to your latest puppet. To make him a favourite with the people. To make him familiar to the nobles, to the Closed Council. You were the source of the rumours.’

‘Heroic acts in the ruined west? Jezal dan Luthar?’ Bayaz snorted. ‘He did little more than whine about the rain.’

‘Amazing the rubbish idiots will believe if you shout it loudly enough. And you rigged the Contest too.’

‘You noticed that?’ Bayaz’ smile grew wider. ‘I am impressed, Superior, I am most impressed. You have fumbled so very close to the truth this whole time.’
And yet so very far away
. ‘I wouldn’t feel badly about it. I have many advantages. Sult groped towards the answers, in the end, but far too late. I suspected from the first what his plans might be.’

‘Which is why you asked me to investigate?’

‘The fact that you did not oblige me until the very last moment was the source of some annoyance.’

‘Asking nicely might have helped.’
It would have been refreshing, at least.
‘I regret that I found myself in a difficult position. A case of too many masters.’

‘No longer, though, eh? I was almost disappointed when I found out how limited Sult’s studies were. Salt, and candles, and incantations? How pathetically adolescent. Enough to put a timely end to that would-be democrat Marovia, perhaps, but nothing to pose the slightest threat to me.’

Glokta frowned down at the squares board.
Sult and Marovia. For all their cleverness, for all their power, their ugly little struggle was an irrelevance. They were small pieces in this game. So small they never even guessed how vast the board truly was. Which makes me what? A speck of dust between the squares, at best.

‘What of the mysterious visitor to your chambers the day I first met you?’
A visitor to my chambers too, perhaps? A woman, and cold . . .

Angry lines cut across Bayaz’ forehead. ‘A mistake made in my youth. You will speak no more of it.’

‘Oh, as you command. And the Great Prophet Khalul?’

‘The war will continue. On different battlefields, with different soldiers. But this will be the last battle fought with the weapons of the past. The magic leaks from the world. The lessons of the Old Time fade into the darkness of history. A new age dawns.’

The Magus made a careless movement with one hand and something flickered into the air, clattered to the centre of the board and spun round and round until it lay flat, with the unmistakable sound of falling money. A golden fifty-mark piece, glinting warm and welcoming in the lamplight. Glokta almost laughed.
Ah, even now, even here, it always comes down to this. Everything has a price.

‘It was money that bought victory in King Guslav’s half-baked Gurkish war,’ said Bayaz. ‘It was money that united the Open Council behind their bastard king. It was money that brought Duke Orso rushing to the defence of his daughter and tipped the balance in our favour. All my money.’

‘It was money that enabled me to hold Dagoska as long as I did.’

‘And you know whose.’
Who would have thought? More first of the moneylenders than First of the Magi. Open Council and Closed, commoners and kings, merchants and torturers, all caught up in a golden web. A web of debts, and lies, and secrets, each strand plucked in its proper place, played like a harp by a master. And what of poor Superior Glokta, fumbling buffoon? Is there a place for his sour note in this sweet music? Or is the loan of my life about to be called in?

‘I suppose I should congratulate you on a hand well played,’ muttered Glokta bitterly.

‘Bah.’ Bayaz dismissed it with a wave. ‘Forcing a clutch of primitives together under that cretin Harod and making them act like civilised men. Keeping the Union in one piece through the civil war and bringing that fool Arnault to the throne. Guiding that coward Casamir to the conquest of Angland. Those were hands well played. This was nothing. I hold all the cards and always will do. I have—’

I tire of this.
‘And blah, blah, fucking blah. The stench of self-satisfaction is becoming quite suffocating. If you mean to kill me, blast me to a cinder now and let’s be done, but, for pity’s sake, subject me to no more of your boasting.’

They sat still for a long moment, gazing at each other in silence across the darkened table. Long enough for Glokta’s leg to start trembling, for his eye to start blinking, for his toothless mouth to turn dry as the desert.
Sweet anticipation. Will it be now? Will it be now? Will it be—
‘Kill you?’ asked Bayaz mildly. ‘And rob myself of your winning sense of humour?’

Not now. ‘Then . . . why reveal your game to me?’

‘Because I will soon be leaving Adua.’ The Magus leaned forwards, his hard face sliding into the light. ‘Because it is necessary that you understand where the power lies, and always will lie. It is necessary that you, unlike Sult, unlike Marovia, have a proper perspective. It is necessary . . . if you are to serve me.’

‘To serve you?’
I would sooner spend two years in the stinking darkness. I would sooner have my leg chopped to mincemeat. I would sooner have my teeth pulled from my head. But since I have done all those things already . . .

‘You will take the task that Feekt once had. The task that a score of great men bore before him. You will be my representative, here in the Union. You will manage the Closed Council, the Open Council, and our mutual friend the king. You will ensure him heirs. You will maintain stability. In short, you will watch the board, while I am gone.’

‘But the rest of the Closed Council will never—’

‘Those that survive have been spoken to. They all will bow to your authority. Under mine, of course.’

‘How will I—’

‘I will be in touch. Frequently. Through my people at the bank. Through my apprentice, Sulfur. Through other means. You will know them.’

‘I don’t suppose I have any choice in the matter?’

‘Not unless you can repay the million marks I leant you. Plus interest.’

Glokta patted at the front of his shirt. ‘Damn it. I left my purse at work.’

‘Then I fear you have no choice. But why would you refuse me? I offer you the chance to help me forge a new age.’
To bury my hands to the elbow in your dirty work. ‘To be a great man. The very greatest of men.’ To bestride the Closed Council like a crippled colossus.
‘To leave your likeness set in stone on the Kingsway.’
Where its hideousness can make the children cry. Once they clear away the rubble and the corpses, of course.
‘To shape the course of a nation.’

‘Under your direction.’

‘Naturally. Nothing is free, you know that.’ Again the Magus flicked his hand and something clattered spinning across the squares board. It came to rest in front of Glokta, gold glinting. The Arch Lector’s ring.
So many times I bent to kiss this very jewel. Who could have dreamed that I might one day wear it?
He picked it up, turned it thoughtfully round and round.
And so I finally shake off a dark master, only to find my leash in the fist of another, darker and more powerful by far. But what choice do I have? What choices do any of us truly have?
He slid the ring onto his finger. The great stone shone in the lamplight, full of purple sparks.
From a dead man to the greatest in the realm, and all in one evening.

‘It fits,’ murmured Glokta.

‘Of course, your Eminence. I always knew it would.’

The Wounded

W
est woke with a start and tried to jerk up to sitting. Pain shot up one leg, across his chest, through his right arm, and stayed there, throbbing. He dropped back with a groan and stared at the ceiling. A vaulted stone ceiling, covered in thick shadows.

Sounds crept at him now from all around. Grunts and whimpers, coughs and sobs, quick gasping, slow growling. The occasional outright shriek of pain. Sounds between men and animals. A voice whispered throatily from somewhere to his left, droning endlessly away like a rat scratching at the walls. ‘I can’t see. Bloody wind. I can’t see. Where am I? Somebody. I can’t see.’

West swallowed, feeling the pain growing worse. In the hospitals in Gurkhul there had been sounds like that, when he had come to visit wounded soldiers from his company. He remembered the stink and noise of those horrible tents, the misery of the men in them, and above all the overpowering desire to leave and be among the healthy. But it was already awfully clear that leaving would not be so easy this time.

He was one of the wounded. A different, contemptible and disgusting species. Horror crept slowly through his body and mingled with the pain. How badly was he injured? Did he have all his limbs, still? He tried to move his fingers, wriggle his toes, clenched his teeth as the aching in his arm and leg grew worse. He brought his left hand trembling up before his face, turned it over in the dimness. It seemed intact, at least, but it was the only limb that he could move, and even that was a crushing effort. Panic slithered up his throat and clutched at him.

‘Where am I? Bloody wind. I can’t see. Help. Help. Where am I?’

‘Fucking shut up!’ West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.

‘Shhhh.’ A soft touch on his chest. ‘Just be still.’

A blurry face swam into view. A woman’s face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘You were wounded.’

‘I know that. I mean . . . in the city. The wind.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.’

‘Did we win?’

‘I suppose that . . . the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.’

Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.’

‘Ariss . . .’ West fumbled with the name. ‘I knew your cousin. Knew him well . . . a good man. He always used to talk about . . . how beautiful you were. And rich,’ he muttered, vaguely aware he should not be saying this, but unable to stop his mouth from working. ‘Very rich. He died. In the mountains.’

‘I know.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Trying to help with the wounded. It would be best for you to sleep now, if you—’

‘Am I whole?’

A pause. ‘Yes. Sleep now, if you can.’

Her dark face grew blurry, and West let his eyes close. The noises of agony slowly faded around him. He was whole. All would be well.

Someone was sitting next to his bed. Ardee. His sister. He blinked, worked his sour mouth, unsure where he was for a moment.

‘Am I dreaming?’ She reached forward and dug her nails into his arm. ‘Ah!’

‘Painful dream, eh?’

‘No,’ he was forced to admit. ‘This is real.’

She looked well. Far better than the last time he had seen her, that was sure. No blood on her face for one thing. No look of naked hatred, for another. Only a thoughtful frown. He tried to bring himself up to sitting, failed, and slumped back down. She did not offer to help. He had not really expected her to. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing too serious, apparently. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, and a leg badly bruised, they tell me. Some cuts on your face that may leave a scar or two, but then I got all the looks in the family anyway.’

He gave a snort of laughter and winced at the pain across his chest. ‘True enough. The brains too.’

‘Don’t feel badly about it. I’ve used them to make the towering success of my life that you see before you. The kind of achievement that you, as a Lord Marshal of the Union, can only dream of.’

‘Don’t,’ he hissed, clamping his good hand across his ribs. ‘It hurts.’

‘No less than you deserve.’

His laughter quickly stuttered out, and they were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Even that much was difficult. ‘Ardee . . .’ His voice caught in his sore neck. ‘Can you . . . forgive me?’

‘I already did. The first time I heard you were dead.’ She was trying to smile, he could tell. But she still had that twist of anger to her mouth. Probably she would have liked to dig her nails into his face rather than his arm. He was almost glad then, for a moment, that he was wounded. She had no choice but to be soft with him. ‘It’s good that you’re not. Dead, that is . . .’ She frowned over her shoulder. There was some manner of commotion at one end of the long cellar. Raised voices, the clatter of armoured footsteps.

‘The king!’ Whoever it was nearly squealed it in their excitement. ‘The king is come again!’