Wait! shrieked the Arch Lector, his white-gloved hands raised in entreaty. Sensing some faint glimmer of hope in the darkness, perhaps? Wait, my Lords! There is nothing to be lost by listening! We shall have the truth here, even if it is painful! The truth should be our only concern! Glokta had to chomp his gums down on a splutter of laughter. Oh, of course, your Eminence! The truth has ever been your only care!
But the babble gradually subsided. Those councillors who were on their feet were shamed back into line. Their habit of obedience to the Closed Council is not easily broken. But then habits never are. Especially of obedience. Only ask my mothers dogs. They grumbled their way back into their seats, and allowed Bayaz to continue.
Your Lordships have perhaps heard of Carmee dan Roth? A swell of noise from the gallery above confirmed that the name was not unfamiliar. She was a great favourite with the King, when he was younger. A very great favourite. So much so that she became pregnant with a child. Another wave of muttering, louder. I have always carried a sentimental regard for the Union. I have always had one eye on its welfare, despite the scant thanks I have received for it. And Bayaz gave the very briefest curl of his lip towards the members of the Closed Council. So, when the lady died in childbirth, I took the Kings bastard into my care. I placed him with a noble family, to be well raised and well educated, in case the nation should one day find itself without an heir. My actions now seem prudent indeed.
Lies! someone shrieked. Lies! But few voices joined in. Their tone instead was one of curiosity.
A natural son?
A bastard?
Carmee dan Roth, did he say?
They have heard this tale before. Rumours, perhaps, but familiar ones. Familiar enough to make them listen. To make them judge whether it will be in their interests to believe.
But Lord Brock was not convinced. A blatant fabrication! It will take more than rumour and conjecture to sway this house! Produce this bastard, if you can, so-called First of the Magi! Work your magic!
No magic is needful, sneered Bayaz. The Kings son is already with us in the chamber. Gasps of consternation from the gallery, sighs of amazement from the councillors, stunned silence from the Closed Council and their aides, every eye fixed on Bayaz pointing finger as he swept out his hand towards the wall. No other man than Colonel Jezal dan Luthar!
The spasm began in Gloktas toeless foot, shot up his ruined leg, set his twisted spine shivering from his arse right to his skull, made his face twitch like an angry jelly, made his few teeth rattle in his empty gums, set his eyelid flickering fast as a flys wings.
The echoes of Bayaz last utterance whispered round the suddenly silent hall. Luthar, Luthar, Luthar
You must be fucking joking.
The pale faces of the councillors were frozen, hanging in wide-eyed shock, squashed up in narrow-eyed rage. The pale men behind the table gaped. The pale people at the balcony pressed their hands over their mouths. Jezal dan Luthar, who had wept with self-pity while Ferro had stitched his face. Jezal dan Luthar, that leaky piss-pot of selfishness, and arrogance, and vanity. Jezal dan Luthar, who she had called the princess of the Union, had a chance of ending the day as its King.
Ferro could not help herself.
She let her head drop back and she hacked, and coughed, and gurgled with amusement. Tears sprung up in her eyes, her chest shook and her knees trembled. She clung to the rail of the balcony, she gasped, blubbered, drooled. Ferro did not laugh often. She could scarcely remember the last time. But Jezal dan Luthar, a King?
This was funny.
High above, in the public gallery, someone had started laughing. A jagged cackling completely inappropriate to the solemnity of the moment. But Jezals first impulse, when he realised that it was his name that Bayaz had called out, when he realised that it was him the outstretched finger was pointing to, was to join in. His second, as every face in the entire vast space turned instantly towards him, was to vomit. The result was an ungainly cough, a shame-faced grin, an unpleasant burning at the very back of the mouth, and an instant paling of the complexion.
I he found himself croaking, but without the slightest idea of how he would continue his sentence. What words could possibly help at a time like this? All he could do was stand there, sweating profusely, trembling under his stiff uniform, as Bayaz continued in ringing tones, his voice cutting over the laughter bubbling down from above.
I have the sworn statement of his adoptive father here, attesting that all I say is true, but does it matter? The truth of it is plain for any man to see! His arm shot out towards Jezal again. He won a Contest before you all, and accompanied me on a journey full of peril with never a complaint! He charged the bridge at Darmium, without a thought for his own safety! He saved Adua from the revolt without a drop of blood spilled! His valour and his prowess, his wisdom and his selflessness are well known to all! Can it be doubted that the blood of kings flows in his veins?
Jezal blinked. Odd facts began to bob to the surface of his sluggish mind. He was not much like his brothers. His father had always treated him differently. He had got all the looks in the family. His mouth was hanging open, but he found he could not close it. When his father had seen Bayaz, at the Contest, he had turned white as milk, as though he recognised him.
He had done, and he was not Jezals father at all.
When the king had congratulated Jezal on his victory, he had mistaken him for his own son. Not such blinding folly, evidently, as everyone might have thought. The old fool had been closer to the mark than anyone. Suddenly, it all made horrible sense.
He was a bastard. Literally.
He was the natural son of a king. What was much more, he was slowly and with increasing terror beginning to realise, he was now being seriously considered as his replacement.
My Lords! shouted Bayaz over the disbelieving chatter gaining steadily in volume with every passing moment. You sit amazed! It is a difficult fact to accept, I can understand. Especially with the suffocating heat in here! He signalled to the guards at both ends of the hall. Open the gates, please, and let us have some air!
The doors were heaved open and a gentle breeze washed into the Lords Round. A cooling breeze, and something else with it. Hard to make out at first, and then coming more clearly. Something like the noise of the crowd at the Contest. Soft, repetitive, and more than a little frightening.
Luthar! Luthar! Luthar! The sound of his own name, chanted over and over from a multitude of throats beyond the walls of the Agriont, was unmistakable.
Bayaz grinned. It would seem that the people of the city have already chosen their favoured candidate.
This is not their choice! roared Brock, still on his feet but only now regaining his composure. Any more than it is yours!
But it would be foolish to ignore their opinion. The support of the commoners cannot be lightly dismissed, especially in these restless times. If they were to be disappointed, in their current mood, who knows what might occur? Riots in the streets, or worse? None of us wants that, surely, Lord Brock?
Several of the councillors shifted nervously on their benches, glancing towards the open doors, whispering to their neighbours, if the atmosphere in the Round had been confused before, it was flabbergasted now. But the worry and surprise of the Open Council was nothing compared to Jezals own.
A fascinating tale, but if he supposes that the Unions greediest men will simply take his word for it and give the crown away he has made a staggering blunder, whether commoners wet themselves at the name of Luthar or not. Lord Isher rose from the front row for the first time, stately and magnificent, the jewels on his chain of office flashing. And so the furious objections, the outraged denials, the demands for punishment begin.