Ah, of course. Those laws there can be no circumventing, even by a High Justice. You have my sympathy, Superior. One of my greatest pleasures is a good cut of meat, and the bloodier the better. Just show them the flame, I always tell my cook. Just show it to them. Funny. I tell my Practicals to start the same way. And to what do I owe this unexpected visit? Do you come on your own initiative, or at the urging of your employer, my esteemed colleague from the Closed Council, Arch Lector Sult?
Your bitter mortal enemy from the Closed Council, do you mean? His Eminence is aware that I am here.
Is he? Marovia carved another slice and lifted it dripping onto his plate. And with what message has he sent you? Something relating to tomorrows business in the Open Council, perhaps?
You spoil my surprise, your Worship. May I speak plainly?
If you know how.
Glokta showed the High Justice his empty grin. This affair with the vote is a terrible thing for business. The doubt, the uncertainty, the worry. Bad for everyones business.
Some more than others. Marovias knife squealed against the plate as he slit a ribbon of fat from the edge of his meat.
Of course. At particular risk are those that sit on the Closed Council, and those that struggle on their behalf. They are unlikely to be given such a free hand if powerful men such as Brock or Isher are voted to the throne. Some of us, indeed, are unlikely to live out the week.
Marovia speared a slice of carrot with his fork and stared sourly at it. A lamentable state of affairs. It would have been preferable for all concerned if Raynault or Ladisla were still alive. He thought about it for a moment. If Raynault were still alive, at least. But the vote will take place tomorrow, however much we might tear our hair. It is hard now to see our way to a remedy. He looked from the carrot to Glokta. Or do you suggest one?
You, your Worship, control between twenty and thirty votes on the Open Council.
Marovia shrugged. I have some influence, I cannot deny it.
The Arch Lector can call on thirty votes himself.
Good for his Eminence.
Not necessarily. If the two of you oppose each other, as you always have, your votes will mean nothing. One for Isher, the other for Brock, and no difference made.
Marovia sighed. A sad end to our two glittering careers.
Unless you were to pool your resources. Then you might have sixty votes between you. As many, almost, as Brock controls. Enough to make a King of Skald, or Barezin, or Heugen, or even some unknown, depending on how things go. Someone who might be more easily influenced in the future. Someone who might keep the Closed Council he has, rather than selecting a new one.
A King to make us all happy, eh?
If you were to express a preference for one man or another, I could take that back to his Eminence. More steps, more coaxing, more disappointments. Oh, to have a great office of my own, and to sit all day in comfort while cringing bastards slog up my stairs to smile at my insults, lap up my lies, beg for my poisonous support.
Shall I tell you what would make me happy, Superior Glokta?
Now for the musings of another power-mad old fart. By all means, your Worship.
Marovia tossed his cutlery onto his plate, sat back in his chair and gave a long, tired sigh. I would like no King at all. I would like every man equal under the law, to have a say in the running of his own country and the choosing of his own leaders. I would like no King, and no nobles, and a Closed Council selected by, and answerable to, the citizens themselves. A Closed Council open to all, you might say. What do you think of that?
I think some people would say that it sounds very much like treason. The rest would simply call it madness. I think, your Worship, that your notion is a fantasy.
Why so?
Because the vast majority of men would far rather be told what to do than make their own choices. Obedience is easy.
The High Justice laughed. Perhaps you are right. But things will change. This rebellion has convinced me of it. Things will change, by small steps.
I am sure Lord Brock on the throne is one small step none of us would like to see taken.
Lord Brock does indeed have very strong opinions, mostly relating to himself. You make a convincing case, Superior. Marovia sat back in his chair, hands resting on his belly, staring at Glokta through narrowed eyes. Very well. You may tell Arch Lector Sult that this once we have common cause. If a neutral candidate with sufficient support presents themselves, I will have my votes cast along with his. Who could have thought it? The Closed Council united. He slowly shook his head. Strange times indeed.
They certainly are, your Worship. Glokta struggled to his feet, wincing as he put his weight on his burning leg, and shuffled across the gloomy, echoing space towards the door. Strange, though, that our High Justice is so philosophical on the subject of losing his position tomorrow. I have scarcely ever seen a man look calmer. He paused as he touched the handle of the door. One would almost suppose that he knows something we do not. One might almost suppose that he already has a plan in mind.
He turned back. Can I trust you, High Justice?
Marovia looked sharply up, the carving knife poised in his hand. What a beautifully quaint question from a man in your line of work. I suppose that you can trust me to act in my own interests. Just as far as I can trust you to do the same. Our deal goes no further than that. Nor should it. You are a clever man, Superior, you make me smile. And he turned back to his joint of meat, prodding at it with a fork and making the blood run. You should find another master.
Glokta shuffled out. A charming suggestion. But I already have two more than Id like.
The prisoner was a scrawny, sinewy specimen, naked and bagged as usual, with hands manacled securely behind his back. Glokta watched as Frost dragged him into the domed room from the cells, his stumbling bare feet flapping against the cold floor.
He wasnt too hard to get a hold of, Severard was saying. He left the others a while ago, but hes been hanging round the city like the smell of piss ever since. We picked him up yesterday night.
Frost flung the prisoner down in the chair. Where am I? Who has me? What do they want? A horrifying moment, just before the work begins. The terror and the helplessness, the sick tingling of anticipation. My own memory of it was sharply refreshed, only the other day, at the hands of the charming Magister Eider. I was set free unmolested, however. The prisoner sat there, head tilted to one side, the canvas on the front of the bag moving back and forth with his hurried breath. I very much doubt that he will be so lucky.
Gloktas eyes crept reluctantly to the painting above the prisoners bagged head. Our old friend Kanedias. The painted face stared grimly down from the domed ceiling, the arms spread wide, the colourful fire behind. The Maker fell burning He weighed the heavy hammer reluctantly in his hand. Lets get on with it, then. Severard snatched the canvas bag away with a showy flourish.
The Navigator squinted into the bright lamplight, a weather-beaten face, tanned and deeply lined, head shaved, like a priest. Or a confessed traitor, of course.
Your name is Brother Longfoot?
Indeed! Of the noble Order of Navigators! I assure you that I am innocent of any crime! The words came out in rush. I have done nothing unlawful, no. That would not be my way at all. I am a law-abiding man, and always have been. I can think of no possible reason why I should be manhandled in this way! None! His eyes swivelled down and he saw the anvil, gleaming on the floor between him and Glokta, where the table would usually have been. His voice rose an entire octave higher. The Order of Navigators is well respected, and I am a member in good standing! Exceptional standing! Navigation is the foremost of my many remarkable talents, it is indeed, the foremost of