The words were painful, of course. But far, far worse was the unbearable stabbing that cut up Jezal’s spine, that tore at his eyes, burned his skin, seared the very roots of his hair and made him thrash like a frog in boiling water.
“I had others waiting, of course. I know better than to trust all to one throw of the dice. Other sons of mysterious parentage, ready to step into the role. There was a family called Brint, as I recall, and plenty more besides. But you floated to the top, Jezal, like a turd in the bath. When I crossed that bridge into the Agriont and saw you grown, I knew you were the one. You simply looked right, and you can’t teach that. You have even come to speak like a king, which is a bonus I never expected.”
Jezal moaned and slobbered, unable even to scream. He felt Bayaz’ boot slide under him and kick him over onto his back. The Magus’ scowling face loomed down towards him, blurred by tears.
“But if you insist on being difficult… if you insist on going your own way… well, there are other options. Even kings die unexplained deaths. Thrown by a horse. Choked on an olive-pit. Long falls to the hard, hard cobblestones. Or simply found dead in the morning. Life is always short for you insects. But it can be very short for those who are not useful. I made you out of nothing. Out of air. With a word I can unmake you.” Bayaz snapped his fingers, and the sound was like a sword through Jezal’s stomach. “Like that you can be replaced.”
The First of the Magi leaned down further. “Now, dolt, bastard, son of a whore, consider carefully your answers to these questions. You will do as your Arch Lector advises, yes?”
The cramps relaxed a merciful fraction. Enough for Jezal to whisper, yes.
“You will be guided by him in all things?”
“Yes.”
“You will abide by his orders, in public and in private?”
“Yes,” he gasped, “yes.”
“Good,” said the Magus, straightening up, towering over Jezal as his statue had once towered over the people on the Kingsway. “I knew that you would say so, because although I know that you are arrogant, ignorant, and ungrateful, I know this also… you are a coward. Remember that. I trust that this is one lesson you will not ignore.” The agony ebbed suddenly away. Enough for Jezal to lift his spinning head from the tiles.
“I hate you,” he managed to croak.
Bayaz spluttered with laughter. “Hate me? The arrogance of you! To suppose that I might care. I, Bayaz, first apprentice of great Juvens! I, who threw down the Master Maker, who forged the Union, who destroyed the Hundred Words!” The Magus slowly lifted his foot and planted it on the side of Jezal’s jaw. “I don’t care whether you like me, fool.” He ground Jezal’s face into the vomit-spattered floor with his boot. “I care that you obey. And you will. Yes?”
“Yes,” Jezal slobbered through his squashed mouth.
“Then, your Majesty, I take my leave. Pray that you never give me cause to return.” The crushing pressure on his face released and Jezal heard the Magus’ footsteps tap away to the far side of the room. The door creaked open, and then clicked firmly shut.
He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his breath heaving quickly in and out. After a while he drew up the courage to roll over, dragged himself dizzily up to his hands and knees. There was an unpleasant stink, and not just from the vomit smeared across his face. He realised with a meagre flicker of shame that he had soiled himself. He crawled across to the window, still limp as a wrung-out rag, drew himself gasping up to his knees, and looked down into the chilly gardens.
It only took a moment for Bayaz to come into view, striding down the gravel path between the neat lawns, the back of his bald pate shining. Yoru Sulfur walked behind him, staff in one hand, a box of dark metal held under the other arm. The same box that had followed Jezal, and Logen, and Ferro in a cart across half the Circle of the World. What happy days those seemed now.
Bayaz stopped, suddenly, turned, raised his head. He looked up, straight towards the window.
Jezal pressed himself into the hangings with a whimper of terror, his whole body trembling, the after-image of that unbearable pain still stamped, cold as ice, into his guts. The First of the Magi stood there for a moment longer, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. Then he turned away smartly, strode between the bowing Knights of the Body flanking the gate, and was gone.
Jezal knelt there, clinging to the curtains like a child to his mother. He thought about how happy he had once been, and how little he had realised it. Playing cards, surrounded by friends, a bright future ahead of him. He dragged in a heavy breath, the tightness of tears creeping up his throat, spreading out around his eyes. Never in his life had he felt so alone. Son of Kings? He had no one and nothing. He spluttered and sniffed. His vision grew blurry. He shook with hopeless sobs, his scarred lip trembling, the tears dripping down and spattering on the tiles.
He wept with pain and fear, with shame and anger, with disappointment and helplessness. But Bayaz had been right. He was a coward. So most of all he wept with relief.
Good Men, Evil Men
Grey morning time, out in the cold, wet gardens, and the Dogman was just stood there, thinking about how things used to be better. Stood there, in the middle of that circle of brown graves, staring at the turned earth over Harding Grim. Strange, how a man who said so little could leave such a hole.
It was a long journey that Dogman had taken, the last few years, and a strange one. From nowhere to nowhere, and he’d lost a lot of friends along the way. He remembered all those men gone back to the mud. Harding Grim. Tul Duru Thunderhead. Rudd Threetrees. Forley the Weakest. And what for? Who was better off because of it? All that waste. It was enough to make a man sick to the soles of his boots. Even one who was famous for having a flat temper. All gone, and left Dogman lonely. The world was a narrower place without ’em.
He heard footsteps through the wet grass. Logen, walking up through the misty rain, breath smoking round his scarred face. Dogman remembered how happy he’d been, that night, when Logen had stepped into the firelight, still alive. It had seemed like a new beginning, then. A good moment, promising better times. Hadn’t quite worked out that way. Strange, how the Dogman didn’t feel so happy at the sight of Logen Ninefingers no more.
“The King o’ the Northmen,” he muttered. “The Bloody-Nine. How’s the day?”
“Wet is how it is. Getting late in the year.”
“Aye. Another winter coming.” Dogman picked at the hard skin on his palm. “They come quicker and quicker.”
“Reckon it’s high time I got back to the North, eh? Calder and Scale still loose, making mischief, and the dead know what type o’ trouble Dow’s cooked up.”
“Aye, I daresay. High time we left.”
“I want you to stay.”
Dogman looked up. “Eh?”
“Someone needs to talk to the Southerners, make a deal. You’ve always been the best man I knew for talking. Other than Bethod, maybe, but… he ain’t an option now, is he?”
“What sort of a deal?”
“Might be we’ll need their help. There’ll be all kind o’ folk in the North not too keen about the way things have gone. Folk don’t want a king, or don’t want this one, leastways. The Union on our side’ll be a help. Wouldn’t hurt if you brought some weapons back with you too, when you come.”
Dogman winced. “Weapons, is it?”
“Better to have ’em and not want ’em, than to need ’em but—”
“I know the rest. What happened to one more fight, then we’re done? What happened to making things grow?”
“They might have to grow without us, for now. Listen, Dogman, I never looked for a fight, you know that, but you have to be—”