He squirmed around, new cloth scratching at his clammy skin. He’d come a long way, since he dragged himself out of a river without even a pair of boots to his name. Dragged himself across the High Places with nothing but a pot for company. He’d come a long way, but he wasn’t sure he hadn’t liked himself better before. He’d laughed when he’d heard that Bethod was calling himself a king. Now here he was, doing the same, and even worse suited to the job. Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s a cunt. Simple as that. And that’s not something any man likes to admit about himself.
The drunkard, Hoff, was doing most of the talking. “The Lords’ Round lies in ruins, alas. For the time being, therefore, until a venue of grandeur suitable for this noble institution has been built—a new Lords’ Round, richer and greater than the last—it has been decided that the Open Council will stand in recess.”
There was a pause. “In recess?” someone muttered.
“How will we be heard?”
“Where will the nobles have their voice?”
“The nobles will speak through the Closed Council.” Hoff had that tone a man uses talking down to a child. “Or may apply to the Undersecretary for Audiences to obtain a hearing with the king.”
“But any peasant may do so!”
Hoff raised his eyebrows. “True.”
A ripple of anger spread out through the Lords in front of them. Logen might not have understood too much about politics, but he could recognise one set of men getting stood on by another. Never a nice thing to be part of, but at least he was on the side doing the standing, for once.
“The king and the nation are one and the same!” Bayaz’ harsh voice cut over the chatter. “You only borrow your lands from him. He regrets that he requires some portion of them back, but such is the spur of necessity.”
“A quarter.” The cripple licked at his empty gums with a faint sucking sound. “From each one of you.”
“This will not stand!” shouted an angry old man in the front row.
“You think not, Lord Isher?” Bayaz only smiled at him. “Those who do not think so may join Lord Brock in dusty exile, and surrender all their lands to the crown instead of just a portion.”
“This is an outrage!” shouted another man. “Always, the king has been first among equals, the greatest of nobles, not above them. Our votes brought him to the throne, and we refuse—”
“You dance close to a line, Lord Heugen.” The cripple’s face twitched with ugly spasms as he frowned across the room. “You might wish to remain on that side of it, where it is safe, and warm, and loyal. The other side will not suit you so well, I think.” A long tear ran from his flickering left eye and down his hollow cheek. “The Surveyor General will be assessing your estates over the coming months. It would be wise for you all to lend him your fullest assistance.”
A lot of men were on their feet now, scowling, shaking fists. “This is outrageous!”
“Unprecedented!”
“Unacceptable!”
“We refuse to be intimidated!”
Jezal sprang from his throne, raising his jewelled sword high, and struck at the platform again and again with the end of the scabbard, filling the room with booming echoes. “I am the king!” he bellowed at the suddenly silent chamber. “I am not offering a choice, I am issuing a royal decree! Adua will be rebuilt, and more glorious than ever! This is the price! You have grown too used to a weak crown, my Lords! Believe me when I say that those days are now behind us!”
Bayaz leaned sideways to mutter in Logen’s ear. “Surprisingly good at this, isn’t he?”
The Lords grumbled, but they sat back down as Jezal spoke on, voice washing around the room with easy confidence, sheathed sword still held firmly in one fist. “Those who lent me their wholehearted support in the recent crisis will be exempt. But that list, to your shame, is all too brief. Why, it was friends from outside the borders of the Union who sustained us in our time of need!”
The man in black swept from his chair. “I, Orso of Talins, stand always at the side of my royal son and daughter!” He seized Jezal’s face and kissed both his cheeks. Then he did the same with the queen. “Their friends are my friends.” He said it with a smile, but the meaning was hard to miss. “Their enemies? Ah! You all are clever men. You can guess the rest.”
“I thank you for your part in our deliverance,” said Jezal. “You have our gratitude. The war between the Union and the North is at an end. The tyrant Bethod is dead, and there is a new order. I am proud to call the man who threw him down my friend. Logen Ninefingers! King of the Northmen!” He beamed, holding out his hand. “It is fitting that we should stride into this bold new future as brothers.”
“Aye,” said Logen, pushing himself painfully up from his chair. “Right.” He folded Jezal in a hug, slapped him on the back with a thump that echoed round the great chamber. “Reckon we’ll be staying our side of the Whiteflow from now on. Unless my brother has trouble down here, of course.” He swept the sullen old men in the front row with a graveyard scowl. “Don’t make me fucking come back here.” He sat down in the big chair and frowned out. The Bloody-Nine might not have known too much about politics, but he knew how to make a threat alright.
“We won the war!” Jezal rattled the golden hilt of his sword, then slid it smoothly back through the clasp on his belt. “Now we must win the peace!”
“Well said, your Majesty, well said!” The red-faced drunkard stood, not giving anyone the chance to get a word in. “Then only one order of business remains before the Open Council stands in recess.” He turned with an oily smile and a hand-rubbing bow. “Let us offer our thanks to Lord Bayaz, the First of the Magi, who, by the wisdom of his council and the power of his Art, drove out the invader and saved the Union!” He began to clap. The cripple Glokta joined him, then Duke Orso.
A burly lord in the front row sprang up. “Lord Bayaz!” he roared, smashing his fat hands together. Soon the whole hall was resounding with reluctant applause. Even Heugen joined in. Even Isher, although he had a look on his face as if he was clapping at his own burial. Logen let his hands stay where they were. If he was honest, he felt a touch sick even being there. Sick and angry. He slumped back in his chair, and kept on frowning.
Jezal watched the great worthies of the Union file unhappily out of the Chamber of Mirrors. Great men. Isher, Barezin, Heugen, and all the rest. Men that he had once gaped at the sight of. All humbled. He could hardly keep the smile from his face as they grumbled their helpless discontent. It felt almost like being a king, until he caught sight of his queen.
Terez and her father, the Grand Duke Orso, were engaged in what appeared to be a heartfelt argument, carried out in expressive Styrian, accentuated on both sides by violent hand movements. Jezal might have been relieved that he was not the only family member she appeared to despise, had he not suspected that he was the subject of their argument. He heard a soft scraping behind him, and was mildly disgusted to see the twisted face of his new Arch Lector.
“Your Majesty.” Glokta spoke softly, as if he planned to discuss secrets, frowning towards Terez and her father. “Might I ask… is all well between you and the queen?” His voice dropped even lower. “I understand that you rarely sleep in the same room.”
Jezal was on the point of giving the cripple a backhanded blow across the face for his impudence. Then he caught Terez looking at him, out of the corner of his eye. That look of utter contempt that was his usual treatment as a husband. He felt his shoulders sag. “She can scarcely stand to be in the same country as me, let alone the same bed. The woman’s an utter bitch!” he snarled, then hung his head and stared down at the floor. “What am I to do?”
Glokta worked his neck to one side, then the other, and Jezal suppressed a shudder as he heard a loud click. “Let me speak to the queen, your Majesty. I can be quite persuasive when I have the mind. I understand your difficulties. I am myself but recently married.”