Arch Lector Sult stood glaring at them, like a shepherd at his troublesome flock, his white coat rumpled, his white hair in disarray. Glokta had never before seen him look anything less than perfectly presented. He must, at last, taste blood. His own. I would almost want to laugh, if my own mouth were not so terribly salty.
Brock has seventy-five, Sult was hissing to himself, white gloved hands fussing with each other behind his back. Brock has seventy-five. Isher has fifty-five. Skald and Barezin, forty a piece. Brock has seventy-five He muttered the numbers over and over, as though they were a charm to protect him from evil. Or from good, perhaps. Isher has fifty-five
Glokta had to suppress a smile. Brock, then Isher, then Skald and Barezin, while the Inquisition and Judiciary struggle over scraps. For all our efforts, the shape of things is much the same as when we began this ugly dance. We might as well have led the country then and saved ourselves the trouble. Perhaps it is still not too late
Glokta noisily cleared his throat and Sults head jerked round. You have something to contribute?
In a manner of speaking, your Eminence. Glokta kept his tone as servile as he possibly could. I received some rather troubling information recently.
Sult scowled, and nodded his head at the papers. More troubling than this?
Equally, at any rate. After all, whoever wins the vote will have but a brief celebration if the Gurkish arrive and slaughter the lot of us a week later. It has been suggested to me that the Gurkish are preparing to invade Midderland.
There was a brief, uncomfortable pause. Scarcely a promising reception, but we have set sail now. What else to do but steer straight for the storm? Invade? sneered Goyle. With what?
It is not the first time I have been told they have a fleet. Trying desperately to patch my foundering vessel. A considerable fleet, built in secret, after the last war. We could easily make some preparations, then if the Gurkish do come
And what if you are wrong? The Arch Lector was frowning mightily. From whom did this information come?
Oh, dear me no, that would never do. Carlot dan Eider? Alive? But how? Body found floating by the docks An anonymous source, Arch Lector.
Anonymous? His Eminence glowered through narrowed eyes. And you would have me go to the Closed Council, at a time like this, and put before them the unproven gossip of your anonymous source? The waves swamp the deck
I merely wished to alert your Eminence to the possibility
When are they coming? The torn sailcloth flaps in the gale
My informant did not
Where will they land? The sailors topple screaming from the rigging
Again, your Eminence I cannot
What will be their numbers? The wheel breaks off in my shaking hands
Glokta winced, and decided not to speak at all.
Then kindly refrain from distracting us with rumours, sneered Sult, his lip twisted with contempt. The ship vanishes beneath the merciless waves, her cargo of precious warnings consigned to the deep, and her captain will not be missed. We have more pressing concerns than a legion of Gurkish phantoms!
Of course, your Eminence. And if the Gurkish come, who will we hang? Oh, Superior Glokta, of course. Why ever did that damn cripple not speak up?
Sults mind had already slipped back into its well-worn circles. We have thirty-one votes and Marovia has something over twenty. Thirty-one. Not enough to make the difference. He shook his head grimly, blue eyes darting over the papers. As if there were some new way to look at them that would alter the terrible mathematics. Nowhere near enough.
Unless we were to come to an understanding with High Justice Marovia. Again, a pause, even more uncomfortable than last time. Oh dear. I must have said that out loud.
An understanding? hissed Sult.
With Marovia? squealed Goyle, his eyes bulging with triumph. When the safe options are all exhausted, we must take risks. Is that not what I told myself as I rode down to the bridge, while the Gurkish massed upon the other side? Ah well, once more into the tempest
Glokta took a deep breath. Marovias seat on the Closed Council is no safer than anyone elses. We may have been working against each other, but only out of habit. On the subject of this vote our aims are the same. To secure a weak candidate and maintain the balance. Together you have more than fifty votes. That might well be enough to tip the scales.
Goyle sneered his contempt. Join forces with that peasant-loving hypocrite? Have you lost your reason?
Shut up, Goyle. Sult glared at Glokta for a long while, his lips pursed in thought. Considering my punishment, perhaps? Another tongue-lashing? Or a real lashing? Or my body found floating You are right. Go and speak to Marovia.
Sand dan Glokta, once more the hero! Goyles jaw hung open. But your Eminence!
The time for pride is far behind us! snarled Sult. We must seize any chance of keeping Brock and the rest from the throne. We must find compromises, however painful, and we must take whatever allies we can. Go! he hissed over his shoulder, folding his arms and turning back to his crackling papers. Strike a deal with Marovia.
Glokta got stiffly up from his chair. A shame to leave such lovely company, but when duty calls He treated Goyle to the briefest of toothless smiles, then took up his cane and limped for the door.
And Glokta! He winced as he turned back into the room. Marovias aims and ours may meet for now. But we cannot trust him. Tread carefully.
Of course, your Eminence. I always do. What other choice, when every step is agony?
The private office of the High Justice was as big as a barn, its ceiling covered in festoons of old moulding, riddled with shadows. Although it was only late afternoon, the thick ivy outside the windows, and the thick grime on the panes, had sunk the place into a perpetual twilight. Tottering heaps of papers were stacked on every surface. Wedges of documents tied with black tape. Piles of leather-bound ledgers. Stacks of dusty parchments in ostentatious, swirling script, stamped with huge seals of red wax and glittering gilt. A kingdoms worth of law, it looked like. And, indeed, it probably is.
Superior Glokta, good evening. Marovia himself was seated at a long table near the empty fireplace, set for dinner, a flickering candelabra making each dish glisten in the gloom. I hope you do not mind if I eat while we talk? I would rather dine in the comfort of my rooms, but I find myself eating here more and more. So much to do, you see? And one of my secretaries appears to have taken a holiday unannounced. A holiday to the slaughterhouse floor, in fact, by way of the intestines of a herd of swine. Would you care to join me? Marovia gestured at a large joint of meat, close to raw in the centre, swimming in bloody gravy.
Glokta licked at his empty gums as he manoeuvred himself into a chair opposite. I would be delighted, your Worship, but the laws of dentistry prevent me.