It was a beautiful autumn day in Adua, and the sun shone pleasantly through the branches of the fragrant fruit trees, casting a dappled shade onto the grass beneath. A pleasing breeze fluttered through the orchard, stirring the crimson mantle of the king as he strode regally around his lawn, and the white coat of his Arch Lector as he hobbled doggedly along at a respectful distance, stooped over his cane. Birds twittered from the trees, and his Majesty’s highly polished boots crunched in the gravel and made faint, agreeable echoes against the white buildings of the palace.
From the other side of the high walls came the faint sound of distant work. The clanking of picks and hammers, the scraping of earth and the clattering of stone. The faint calls of the carpenters and the masons. These were the most pleasant sounds of all, to Jezal’s ear. The sounds of rebuilding.
“It will take time, of course,” he was saying.
“Of course.”
“Years, perhaps. But much of the rubble is already cleared. The repair of some of the more lightly damaged buildings has already begun. The Agriont will be more glorious than ever before you know it. I have made it my highest priority.”
Glokta bowed his head even lower. “And therefore mine, and that of your Closed Council. Might I enquire…” he murmured, “after the health of your wife, the queen?”
Jezal worked his mouth. He hardly liked discussing his personal business with this man, of all people, but it could not be denied that whatever the cripple had said, there had been a most dramatic improvement.
“A material change.” Jezal shook his head. “I find now that she is a woman of almost… insatiable appetites.”
“I am delighted that my entreaties have had an effect.”
“Oh, they have, they have, only there is still a certain…” Jezal waved his hand in the air, searching out the right word. “Sadness in her. Sometimes… I hear her crying, in the night. She stands at the open window, and she weeps, for hours at a time.”
“Crying, your Majesty? Perhaps she is merely homesick. I always suspected she was a much gentler spirit than she appears to be.”
“She is! She is. A gentle spirit.” Jezal thought about it for a moment. “Do you know, I think you may be right. Homesick.” A plan began to take shape in his mind. “Perhaps we should have the gardens of the palace redesigned, to give a flavour of Talins? We could have the stream altered, in the likeness of canals, and so forth!”
Glokta leered his toothless grin. “A sublime idea. I shall speak to the Royal Gardener. Perhaps another brief word with her Majesty as well, to see if I can staunch her tears.”
“I would appreciate whatever you can do. How is your own wife?” he tossed over his shoulder, hoping to change the subject, then realising he had strayed onto one even more difficult.
But Glokta only showed his empty smile again. “She is a tremendous comfort to me, your Majesty. I really don’t know how I ever managed without her.”
They moved on in awkward silence for a moment, then Jezal cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking, Glokta, about that scheme of mine. You know, about a tax on the banks? Perhaps to pay for a new hospital near the docks. For those who cannot afford a surgeon. The common folk have been good to us. They have helped us to power, and suffered in our name. A government should offer something to all its people, should it not? The more mean, the more base, the more they need our help. A king is only truly as rich as his poorest subject, do you not think? Would you have the High Justice draw something up? Small to begin with, then we can go further. Free housing, perhaps, for those who find themselves without a home. We should consider—”
“Your Majesty, I have spoken to our mutual friend of this.”
Jezal stopped dead, a cold feeling creeping up his spine. “You have?”
“I fear that I am obliged to.” The cripple’s tone was that of a servant, but his sunken eyes did not stray from Jezal’s for a moment. “Our friend is… not enthusiastic.”
“Does he rule the Union, or do I?” But they both knew the answer to that question well enough.
“You are king, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But our mutual friend… we would not wish to disappoint him.” Glokta came a limping step closer, his left eye giving a repulsive flutter. “Neither one of us, I am sure, would want to encourage a visit to Adua… on his part.”
Jezal’s knees felt suddenly very weak. The faint memory of that awful, unbearable pain nagged at his stomach. “No,” he croaked, “no, of course not.”
The cripple’s voice was only just above a whisper. “Perhaps, in time, funds could be found for some small project. Our friend cannot see everything, after all, and what he does not see will do no harm. I am sure between the two of us, quietly… we could do some little good. But not yet.”
“No. You are right, Glokta. You have a fine sense for these things. Do nothing that would cause the least offence. Please inform our friend that his opinions will always be valued above all others. Please tell our good friend that he can rely on me. Will you tell him that, please?”
“I will, your Majesty. He will be delighted to hear it.”
“Good,” murmured Jezal. “Good.” A chilly breeze had blown up, and he turned back towards the palace, pulling his cloak around him. It was not, in the end, quite so pleasant a day as he had hoped it might be.
Loose Ends
A grubby white box with two doors facing each other. The ceiling was too low for comfort, the room too brightly lit by blazing lamps. Damp was creeping out of one corner and the plaster had erupted with flaking blisters, speckled with black mould. Someone had tried to scrub a long bloodstain from the wall, but hadn’t tried nearly hard enough.
Two huge Practicals stood against the wall, their arms folded. One of the chairs at the bolted-down table was empty. Carlot dan Eider sat in the other. History moves in circles, so they say. How things have changed. And yet, how they have stayed the same. Her face was pale with worry, there were dark rings of sleeplessness around her eyes, but she still seemed beautiful. More than ever, in a way. The beauty of the candle-flame that has almost burned out. Again.
Glokta could hear her scared breathing as he settled himself in the remaining chair, leaned his cane against the scarred table-top, and frowned into her face. “I am still wondering whether, in the next few days, I will receive that letter you spoke of. You know the one. The one you meant for Sult to read. The one that lays out the history of my self-indulgent little mercy to you. The one that you made sure will be sent to the Arch Lector… in the event of your death. “Will it find its way onto my desk, now, do you suppose? A final irony.”
There was a pause. “I realise that I made a grave mistake, when I came back.” And an even worse one when you didn’t leave fast enough. “I hope you will accept my apology. I only wanted to warn you about the Gurkish. If you can find it in your heart to be merciful—”
“Did you expect me to be merciful once?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Then what, do you suppose, are the chances of my making the same mistake twice? Never come back, I said. Not ever.” He waved with his hand and one of the monstrous Practicals stepped forward and lifted the lid of his case.
“No… no.” Her eyes darted over his instruments, and back. “You won. You won, of course. I should have been grateful, the first time. Please.” She leaned forward, looking him in the eyes. Her voice dropped, grew husky, “Please. Surely there must be… something that I can do… to make up for my foolishness…”