“Responsibility seems to have improved him,” muttered West. “Almost beyond recognition.”
“How long will it last, do you think?”
“I’d like to think that it could stick, but then I’ve always been an optimist.”
“That’s good.” Ardee watched the magnificent new king of the Union striding away, wounded men straining from their cots for the slightest touch of his cloak. “That one of us can be.”
“Marshal West!”
“Jalenhorm. Good to see you.” West pulled back the blankets with his good hand, eased his legs over the edge of the bed and winced his way up to sitting. The big man reached out and gave his hand a squeeze, clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re looking well!”
West smiled weakly. “Better ever day, Major. How’s my army?”
“Fumbling on without you. Kroy’s holding things together. Not such a bad sort, the General, once you get used to him.”
“If you say so. How many did we lose?”
“Still hard to say. Things are somewhat chaotic. Whole companies missing. Impromptu units still chasing Gurkish stragglers across half the countryside. I don’t think we’ll have numbers for a while. I don’t know if we’ll ever get them. No one did well, but the ninth regiment were the ones fighting at the western end of the Agriont. They took the worst of…” He fumbled for the words. “It.”
West grimaced. He remembered that black column of whirling matter reaching from the tortured earth to the circling clouds. The debris lashing at his skin, the screaming of the wind all around him. “What was… it?”
“I’m damned if I know.” Jalenhorm shook his head. “Damned if anyone does. But the rumour is that this Bayaz was involved, somehow. Half the Agriont’s in ruins, and they’ve barely started shifting the rubble. You never saw anything like it, that I promise you. A lot of people dead in all that. Bodies stacked up in the open…” Jalenhorm took a long breath. “And there are more dying every day. A lot of people getting ill.” He shuddered. “This… sickness.”
“Disease. Always a part of war.”
“Not like this. Hundreds of cases, now. Some die in a day, almost before your eyes. Some take longer. They wither to skin and bone. They have whole halls full of them. Stinking, hopeless places. But you don’t need to worry about that.” He shook himself. “I have to go.”
“Already?”
“Flying visit, sir. I’m helping to arrange Poulder’s funeral, would you believe? He’s being buried in state, by order of the king… that is to say Jezal. Jezal dan Luthar.” He blew out his cheeks. “Strange business.”
“The strangest.”
“All that time. A king’s son sitting in the midst of us. I knew there had to be a reason why he was so bloody good at cards.” He slapped West on the back again. “Good to see you looking so well, sir. Knew they wouldn’t be able to keep you down for long!”
“Keep out of trouble!” West called after him as he made for the door.
“Always!” The big man grinned as he pulled it shut.
West took his stick from the side of the bed, gritted his teeth as he pushed himself up to standing. He hobbled across the expanse of chequered tiles to the window, one painstaking step at a time, and finally stood blinking into the morning sunlight.
Looking down on the palace gardens it was hard to believe that there had been any war, that there were any acres of ruins, any heaps of dead. The lawns were neatly trimmed, the gravel well-raked. The last few brown leaves had fallen from the trees, leaving the smooth wood black and bare.
It had been autumn when he set out for Angland. Could it really have been only a year ago? He had lived through four great battles, a siege, an ambush, a bloody melée. He had witnessed a duel to the death. He had stood at the centre of great events. He had survived a slog of hundreds of miles through the bleak Angland winter. He had found new comrades in unlikely places, and he had seen friends dead before his eyes. Burr, Kaspa, Cathil, Threetrees, all back to the mud, as the Northmen said. He had faced death, and he had delivered it. He shifted his aching arm uncomfortably in the sling. He had murdered the heir to the throne of the Union with his own hands. He had risen, by a stroke of chance that verged on the impossible, to one of the highest posts in the nation.
Busy year.
And now it was over. Peace, of a kind. The city was in ruins, and every man had to do his part, but he owed himself a rest. Surely no one would begrudge him that. Perhaps he could insist on Ariss dan Kaspa to tend him to health. A rich and beautiful nurse seemed like just the thing he needed…
“You shouldn’t be up.” Ardee stood in the doorway.
He grinned. It was good to see her. For the last few days they had been close. Almost as it had been long ago, when they were children. “Don’t worry. Getting stronger every day.”
She walked across to the window. “Oh yes, in a few weeks time you’ll be strong as a little girl. Back to bed.” She slid one arm under his and took the cane from his hand, started to guide him back across the room. West made no effort to resist. If he was being honest, he was starting to feel tired anyway. “We’re taking no chances,” she was saying. “You’re all I have, I’m sorry to say. Unless you count that other invalid, my good friend Sand dan Glokta.”
West almost snorted with laughter. “That worked out?”
“The man is utterly loathsome, of course, in a way. Terrifying and pitiful at once. And yet… having had no one else to talk to, I find that I’ve strangely warmed to him.”
“Huh. He used to be loathsome in an entirely different way. I’ve never been sure quite why I warmed to him then. And yet I did. I suppose there’s no—”
He felt a sudden wave of sickness cramp up his guts, stumbled and almost fell, sank onto the bed, stiff leg stretched out in front of him. His vision was blurry, his head spun. He pressed his face into his palms, teeth gritted, as spit rushed into his mouth. He felt Ardee’s hand on his shoulder.
“Are you alright?”
“Ah, yes, it’s just… I’ve been having these sick spells.” The feeling was already passing. He rubbed at his sore temples, then the back of his skull. He lifted his head, and smiled up at her again. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Collem…”
There was hair wedged between his fingers. A lot of hair. His own, by the colour. He blinked at it, mystified, then coughed with disbelieving laughter. A wet, salty cough from down under his ribs. “I know it’s been thinning for years,” he croaked, “but really, this is too much.”
Ardee did not laugh. She was staring at his hands, eyes wide with horror.
Patriotic Duties
Glokta winced as he carefully lowered himself into his chair. There was no fanfare to mark the moment when his aching arse touched the hard wood. No round of applause. Only a sharp clicking in his burning knee. And yet it is a moment of the greatest significance, and not only for me.
The designers of the White Chamber’s furniture had ventured beyond austerity and into the realm of profound discomfort. One would have thought that they could have stretched to some upholstery for the most powerful men in the realm. Perhaps the intention was to remind the occupants that one should never become too comfortable at the pinnacle of power. He glanced sideways, and saw Bayaz watching him. Well, uncomfortable is about as good as I ever get. Have I not often said so? He winced as he tried to worm his way forwards, the legs of his chair squealing noisily against the floor.
Long ago, when I was handsome, young, and promising, I dreamed of one day sitting at this table as a noble Lord Marshal, or a respected High Justice, or even an honourable Lord Chamberlain. Who could ever have suspected, even in their darkest moments, that beautiful Sand dan Glokta would one day sit on the Closed Council as the feared, the abhorred, the all-powerful Arch Lector of the Inquisition? He could scarcely keep the smile from his toothless mouth as he slumped back against the unyielding wood.