Last Argument Of Kings: Book Three (The First Law 3)

He was home. He had survived. It felt like a hundred years since he had stood at the stern of a not dissimilar ship, miserable and forlorn, watching Adua slide sadly away into the distance. Over the surging water, the snapping sailcloth, the cries of the seabirds, he began to distinguish the distant rumble of the city. It sounded like the most wonderful music he had ever heard. He closed his eyes and dragged the air in hard through his nostrils. The rotten salt tang of the bay was sweet as honey on his tongue.

‘One takes it you enjoyed the trip, then, Captain?’ asked Bayaz, with heavy irony.

Jezal could only grin. ‘I’m enjoying the end of it.’

‘No need to be downhearted,’ offered Brother Longfoot. ‘Sometimes a difficult journey does not deliver its full benefit until long after one returns. The trials are brief, but the wisdom gained lasts a lifetime!’

‘Huh.’ The First of the Magi curled his lip. ‘Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever. Master Ninefingers! Are you determined to return to the North?’

Logen took a brief break from frowning at the water. ‘I’ve got no reason to stay.’ He glanced sideways at Ferro, and she glared back.

‘Why look at me?’

Logen shook his head. ‘Do you know what? I’ve no fucking idea.’ If there had been anything vaguely resembling a romance between them, it appeared now to have collapsed irreparably into a sullen dislike.

‘Well,’ said Bayaz, raising his brows, ‘if you are decided.’ He held his hand out to the Northman and Jezal watched them shake. ‘Give Bethod a kick from me, once you have him under your boot.’

‘That I will, unless he gets me under his.’

‘Never easy, kicking upwards. My thanks for your help, and for your manners. Perhaps you will be my guest again, one day, at the library. We will look out at the lake, and laugh about our high adventures in the west of the World.’

‘I’ll hope for it.’ But Logen hardly looked as if there was much laughter in him, or much hope either. He looked like a man who had run out of choices.

In silence Jezal watched as the ropes were thrown down to the quay and made fast, the long gangplank squealed out to the shore and scraped onto the stones. Bayaz called out to his apprentice. ‘Master Quai! Time for us to disembark!’ And the pale young man followed his master down from the ship without a backward glance, Brother Longfoot behind them.

‘Good luck, then,’ said Jezal, offering his hand to Logen.

‘And to you.’ The Northman grinned, ignored the hand and folded him in a tight and unpleasant-smelling embrace. They stayed there for a somewhat touching, somewhat embarrassing moment, then Ninefingers clapped him on the back and let him go.

‘Perhaps I’ll see you, up there in the North.’ Jezal’s voice was just the slightest bit cracked, in spite of all his efforts. ‘If they send me . . .’

‘Maybe, but . . . I think I’ll hope not. Like I said, if I was you I’d find a good woman and leave the killing to those with less sense.’

‘Like you?’

‘Aye. Like me.’ He looked over at Ferro. ‘So that’s it then, eh, Ferro?’

‘Uh.’ She shrugged her scrawny shoulders, and strode off down the gangplank.

Logen’s face twitched at that. ‘Right,’ he muttered at her back. ‘Nice knowing you.’ He waggled the stump of his missing finger at Jezal. ‘Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he’s got a touch with the women.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Aye.’

‘Right.’ Jezal was finding actually leaving strangely difficult. They had been almost constant companions for the last six months. To begin with he had felt nothing but contempt for the man, but now that it came to it, it was like leaving a much-respected older brother. Far worse, in fact, for Jezal had never thought too highly of his actual brothers. So he dithered on the deck, and Logen grinned at him as though he guessed just what he was thinking.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll try to get along without you.’

Jezal managed half a smile. ‘Just try to remember what I told you, if you get in another fight.’

‘I’d say, unfortunately, that’s pretty much a certainty.’

Then there was really nothing Jezal could do but turn away and clatter down to the shore, pretending that something had blown into his eye on the way. It seemed a long walk to the busy quay, to stand next to Bayaz and Quai, Longfoot and Ferro.

‘Master Ninefingers can look after himself, I daresay,’ said the First of the Magi.

‘Oh, yes indeed,’ chuckled Longfoot, ‘few better!’

Jezal took a last look back over his shoulder as they headed off into the city. Logen raised one hand to him from the rail of the ship, and then the corner of a warehouse came between them, and he was gone. Ferro loitered for a moment, frowning back towards the sea, her fists clenched and a muscle working on the side of her head. Then she turned and saw Jezal watching her.

‘What are you looking at?’ And she pushed past him and followed the others, into the swarming streets of Adua.

The city was just as Jezal remembered it, and yet everything was different. The buildings seemed to have shrunk and huddled in meanly together. Even the wide Middleway, the great central artery of the city, felt horribly squashed after the huge open spaces of the Old Empire, the awe-inspiring vistas of ruined Aulcus. The sky had been higher, out there on the great plain. Here everything was reduced, and, to make matters worse, had an unpleasant smell he had never before noticed. He went with his nose wrinkled, dodging between the buffeting flow of passers-by with bad grace.

It was the people that were strangest of all. It had been months since Jezal had seen more than ten at one time. Now there were suddenly thousands pressed in all around him, furiously intent on their own doings. Soft, and scrubbed, and decked out in gaudy colours, as freakish to him now as circus performers. Fashions had moved on while he was away facing death in the barren west of the World. Hats were worn at a different angle, sleeves had swollen to a wider cut, shirt collars had shrivelled to a length that would have been thought preposterously short a year before. Jezal snorted to himself. It seemed bizarre that such nonsense could ever have interested him, and he watched a group of perfumed dandies strutting past with the highest contempt.

Their group dwindled as they passed on through the city. First Longfoot made his effusive farewells with much pressing of hands, talk of honours and privileges, and promises of reunion that Jezal suspected, and indeed rather hoped, were insincere. Near the great market square of the Four Corners, Quai was dispatched on some errand or other with all his habitual sullen silence. That left only the First of the Magi as a companion, with Ferro slouching angrily along behind.

Being honest, Jezal would not have minded had the group dwindled considerably further. Ninefingers might have proved himself a staunch companion, but the rest of the dysfunctional family would hardly have been among Jezal’s chosen dinner guests. He had long ago given up any hope that Ferro’s armour of scowls would crack to reveal a caring soul within. But at least her abysmal temper was predictable. Bayaz, if anything, was an even more unnerving companion: one half grand-fatherly good humour, the other half who knew what? Whenever the old man opened his mouth Jezal flinched in anticipation of some ugly surprise.

But he chatted pleasantly enough for the time being. ‘Might I ask what your plans are now, Captain Luthar?’

‘Well, I suppose I will be sent to Angland, to fight against the Northmen.’

‘I imagine so. Although we never know what turns fate may take.’

Jezal did not much care for the sound of that. ‘And you? Will you be going back to . . .’ He realised he had not the slightest idea of where the Magus had appeared from in the first place.

‘Not quite yet. I will remain in Adua for the moment. Great things are afoot, my boy, great things. Perhaps I will stay to see how they turn out.’

‘Move, bitch!’ came a yell from the side of the road.

Three members of the city watch had gathered round a dirty-faced girl in a tattered dress. One was leaning down over her with a stick clenched in his fist, shouting in her face while she cringed back. An unhappy-seeming press had gathered to watch, workmen and labourers mostly, scarcely cleaner than the beggar herself.

‘Why don’t you let her be?’ one grumbled.

One of the watchmen took a warning step at them, raising his stick, while his friend seized hold of the beggar by her shoulder, kicking over a cup in the road, sending a few coins tinkling into the gutter.

‘That seems excessive,’ said Jezal under his breath.

‘Well.’ Bayaz watched down his nose. ‘These sort of things happen all the time. Are you telling me you’ve never seen a beggar moved along before?’

Jezal had, of course, often, and never raised an eyebrow. Beggars could not simply be left to clutter up the streets, after all. And yet for some reason the process was making him uncomfortable. The unfortunate waif kicked and cried, and the guardsman dragged her another stride on her back with entirely unnecessary violence, clearly enjoying himself. It was not so much the act itself that Jezal objected to, as that they would do it in front of him without a thought for his feelings. It rendered him somehow complicit.

‘That is a disgrace,’ he hissed through gritted teeth.

Bayaz shrugged. ‘If it bothers you that much, why not do something about it?’

The watchman chose that moment to seize the girl by her scruffy hair and give her a sharp blow with his stick, and she squealed and fell, her arms over her head. Jezal felt his face twist. In a moment he had shoved through the crowd and dealt the man a resounding boot to his backside, sending him sprawling in the gutter. One of his companions came forward with his stick out, but stumbled back a moment later. Jezal realised he had his steels drawn, the polished blades glinting in the shadows beside the building.

The audience gasped and edged back. Jezal blinked. He had not intended the business to go anything like this far. Damn Bayaz and his idiotic advice. But there was nothing for it now but to carry it through. He assumed his most fearless and arrogant expression.

‘One step further and I’ll stick you like the swine you are.’ He looked from one of the watchmen to the other. ‘Well? Do any of you care to test me?’ He earnestly hoped that none of them did, but he need not have worried. They were predictably cowardly in the face of determined resistance, and loitered just out of range of his steels.

‘No one deals with the watch like that. We’ll find you, you can depend on—’

‘Finding me will present no difficulty. My name is Captain Luthar, of the King’s Own. I am resident in the Agriont. You cannot miss it. It is the fortress that dominates the city!’ And he jabbed up the street with his long steel, making one of the watchmen stumble away in fear. ‘I will receive you at your convenience and you can explain to my patron, Lord Marshal Varuz, your disgraceful behaviour towards this woman, a citizen of the Union guilty of no greater crime than being poor!’

A ludicrously overblown speech, of course. Jezal found himself almost flushing with embarrassment at that last part. He had always despised poor people, and he was far from sure his opinions had fundamentally changed, but he got carried away halfway through and had no choice but to finish with a flourish.

Still, his words had their effect on the city watch. The three men backed away, for some reason grinning as if the whole business had gone just as they planned, leaving Jezal to the unwanted approval of the crowd.

‘Well done, lad!’

‘Good thing someone’s got some guts.’

‘What did he say his name was?’

‘Captain Luthar!’ roared Bayaz suddenly, causing Jezal to jerk round halfway through sheathing his steels. ‘Captain Jezal dan Luthar, the winner of last year’s Contest, just now returned from his adventures in the west! Luthar, the name!’

‘Luthar, did he say?’

‘The one who won the Contest?’

‘That’s him! I saw him beat Gorst!’

The whole crowd were staring, wide-eyed and respectful. One of them reached out, as though to touch the hem of his coat, and Jezal stumbled backwards, almost tripping over the beggar-girl who had been the cause of the whole fiasco.

‘Thank you,’ she gushed, in an ugly commoner’s accent rendered still less appealing by her bloody mouth. ‘Oh, thank you, sir.’

‘It was nothing.’ Jezal edged away, deeply uncomfortable. She was extremely dirty, at close quarters, and he had no wish to contract an illness. The attention of the group as a whole was, in fact, anything but pleasant. He continued to shuffle backwards while they watched him, all smiles and admiring mutterings.

Ferro was frowning at him as they moved away from the Four Corners. ‘Is there something?’ he snapped.

She shrugged. ‘You’re not as much of a coward as you were.’

‘My thanks for that epic praise.’ He rounded on Bayaz. ‘What the hell was that?’

‘That was you carrying out a charitable act, my boy, and I was proud to see it. It would seem my lessons have not been entirely wasted on you.’

‘I meant,’ growled Jezal, who felt himself to have gained less than nothing from Bayaz’ constant lecturing, ‘what were you about, proclaiming my name to all and sundry? The story will now spread all over town!’

‘I had not considered that.’ The Magus gave a faint smile. ‘I simply felt that you deserved the credit for your noble actions. Helping those less fortunate, the aid of a lady in distress, protecting the weak and so forth. Admirable, truly.’

‘But—’ muttered Jezal, unsure whether he was being taken for a fool.

‘Here our paths diverge, my young friend.’

‘Oh. They do?’

‘Where are you going?’ snapped Ferro suspiciously.

‘I have a few matters to attend to,’ said the Magus, ‘and you will be coming with me.’

‘Why would I do that?’ She appeared to be in a worse mood even than usual since they left the docks, which was no mean achievement.

Bayaz’ eyes rolled to the sky. ‘Because you lack the social graces necessary to function for longer than five minutes on your own in such a place as this. Why else? You will be going back to the Agriont, I assume?’ he asked Jezal.

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

‘Well, then. I would like to thank you, Captain Luthar, for the part you played in that little adventure of ours.’

‘How dare you, you magical arsehole? The entire business was a colossal, painful, disfiguring waste of my time, and a failure to boot.’ But what Jezal really said was, ‘Of course, yes.’ He took the old man’s hand, preparing to give it a limp shake. ‘It has been an honour.’

Bayaz’ grip was shockingly firm. ‘That is good to hear.’ Jezal found himself drawn very close to the old man’s face, staring into his glittering green eyes at unnervingly close quarters. ‘We may have the need to collaborate again.’

Jezal blinked. Collaborate really was an ugly choice of word. ‘Well then . . . er . . . perhaps I will . . . see you later?’ Never would have been preferable, in his opinion.

But Bayaz only grinned as he let go of Jezal’s buzzing fingers. ‘Oh, I feel sure we shall meet again.’

The players themselves were long gone. He watched the shadows shifting on the grey wood, remembering the sound of their laughter, the taste of smoke and strong spirits, the feel of the cards in his hand. Here Jalenhorm had sat, playing at being tough and manly. Here Kaspa had laughed at jokes at his own expense. Here West had leaned back and shaken his head with resigned disapproval. Here Brint had shuffled nervously at his hand, hoping for big wins that never came.

And here had been Jezal’s place. He dragged the chair out from the clutching grass, sat down in it with one boot up on the table and rocked it onto its rear legs. It seemed hard to believe, now, that he had sat here, watching and scheming, thinking about how best to make his friends seem small. He told himself he would never have engaged in any such foolishness now. No more than a couple of hands, anyway.

If he had thought that a thorough wash, a careful shave, a plucking of bristles and a long-winded arranging of hair would make him feel at home, he was disappointed. The familiar routines left him feeling like a stranger in his own dusty rooms. It was hard to become excited over the shining of the boots and buttons, or the arrangement of the gold braid just so.

When he finally stood before the mirror, where long ago he had whiled away so many delightful hours, he found his reflection decidedly unnerving. A lean and weather-worn adventurer stared bright-eyed from the Visserine glass, his sandy beard doing little to disguise the ugly scar down his bent jaw. His old uniforms were all unpleasantly tight, scratchily starched, chokingly constricted round the collar. He no longer felt like he belonged in them to any degree. He no longer felt like a soldier.

He scarcely even knew who he should report to, after all this time away. Every officer he was aware of, more or less, was with the army in Angland. He supposed he could have sought out Lord Marshal Varuz, had he really wanted to, but the fact was he had learned enough about danger now to not want to rush at it. He would do his duty, if he was asked. But it would have to find him first.

In the meantime, he had other business to attend to. The very thought made him terrified and thrilled at once, and he pushed a finger inside his collar and tugged at it in an effort to relieve the pressure in his throat. It did not work. Still, as Logen Ninefingers had been so very fond of saying: it was better to do it, than to live with the fear of it. He picked up his dress sword, but after a minute of staring at the absurd brass scrollwork on the hilt, he tossed it on the floor and kicked it under his bed. Look less than you are, Logen would have said. He retrieved his travel-worn long steel and slid it through the clasp on his belt, took a deep breath, and walked to the door.

He had already walked past the house once in each direction, and dared not do so again for fear that Ardee would see him through a window, recognise him, and wonder what the hell he was up to. So he made circuits of the upper part of the street, practising what he would say when she appeared at the door.

‘I am returned.’ No, no, too high-blown. ‘Hello, how are you?’ No, too casual. ‘It’s me, Luthar.’ Too stiff. ‘Ardee . . . I’ve missed you.’ Too needy. He saw a man frowning at him from an upstairs window, and he coughed and made off quickly towards the house, murmuring to himself over and over. ‘Better to do it, better to do it, better to do it . . .’

His fist pounded against the wood. He stood and waited, heart thumping in his teeth. The latch clicked and Jezal put on his most ingratiating smile. The door opened and a short, round-faced and highly unattractive girl stared at him from the doorway. There could be no doubt, however things had changed, that she was not Ardee. ‘Yes?’

‘Er . . .’ A servant. How could he have been such a fool as to think Ardee would open her own front door? She was a commoner, not a beggar. He cleared his throat. ‘I am returned . . . I mean to say . . . does Ardee West live here?’

‘She does.’ The maid opened the door far enough for Jezal to step through into the dim hallway. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

‘Captain Luthar.’

Her head snapped round as though it had an invisible string attached to it and he had given it a sudden jerk. ‘Captain . . . Jezal dan Luthar?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered, mystified. Could Ardee have been discussing him with the help?

‘Oh . . . oh, if you wait . . .’ The maid pointed to a doorway and hurried off, eyes wide, quite as if the Emperor of Gurkhul had come calling.

The dim living room gave the impression of having been decorated by someone with too much money, too little taste, and not nearly enough space for their ambitions. There were several garishly upholstered chairs, an over-sized and over-decorated cabinet, and a monumental canvas on one wall which, had it been any bigger, would have required the room to be knocked through into the neighbouring house. Two dusty shafts of light came in through the gaps in the curtains, gleaming on the highly polished, if slightly wonky, surface of an antique table. Each piece might have passed muster on its own, but crowded together the effect was quite suffocating. Still, Jezal told himself as he frowned round at it all, he had come for Ardee, not for her furniture.

It was ridiculous. His knees were weak, his mouth was dry, his head was spinning, and with every moment that passed it got worse. He had not felt this scared in Aulcus, with a crowd of screaming Shanka bearing down on him. He took a nervous circuit of the room, fists clenching and unclenching. He peered out into the quiet street. He leaned over a chair to examine the massive painting. A muscular-seeming king lounged in an outsize crown while fur-trimmed lords bowed and scraped around his feet. Harod the Great, Jezal guessed, but the recognition brought him little joy. Bayaz’ favourite and most tiresome topic of conversation had been the achievements of that man. Harod the Great could be pickled in vinegar for all Jezal cared. Harod the Great could go—

‘Well, well, well . . .’

She stood in the doorway, bright light from the hall beyond glowing in her dark hair and down the edges of her white dress, her head on one side and the faintest ghost of a smile on her shadowy face. She seemed hardly to have changed. So often in life, moments that are long anticipated turn out to be profound disappointments. Seeing Ardee again, after all that time apart, was undoubtedly an exception. All his carefully prepared conversation evaporated in that one instant, leaving him as empty-headed as he had been when he first laid eyes on her.

‘You’re alive, then,’ she murmured.

‘Yes . . . er . . . just about.’ He managed half an awkward smile. ‘Did you think I was dead?’

‘I hoped you were.’ That wiped the grin off his face with sharp effect. ‘When I didn’t get so much as a letter. But really I thought you’d just forgotten about me.’

Jezal winced. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t write. Very sorry. I wanted to . . .’ She swung the door shut and leaned against it with her hands behind her, frowning at him all the while. ‘There wasn’t a day I didn’t want to. But I was called for, and never had the chance to tell anyone, not even my family. I was . . . I was far away, in the west.’

‘I know you were. The whole city is buzzing with it, and if I’ve heard, it must be common knowledge indeed.’

‘You’ve heard?’

Ardee jerked her head towards the hall. ‘I had it from the maid.’

‘From the maid?’ How the hell could anyone in Adua have heard anything about his misadventures, let alone Ardee West’s maid? He was assailed with sudden unpleasing images. Crowds of servants giggling at the thought of him lying around crying over his broken face. Everyone who was anyone gossiping about what a fool he must have looked being fed with a spoon by a scarred brute of a Northman. He felt himself blushing to the tips of his ears. ‘What did she say?’

‘Oh, you know.’ She wandered absently into the room. ‘That you scaled the walls at the siege of Darmium, was it? Opened the gates to the Emperor’s men and so on.’

‘What?’ He was even more baffled than before. ‘Darmium? I mean to say . . . who told her . . .’

She came closer, and closer, and he grew more and more flustered until he stammered to a stop. Closer yet, and she was looking slightly upwards into his face with her lips parted. So close that he was sure she was going to take him in her arms and kiss him. So close that he leaned forward slightly in anticipation, half-closing his eyes, his lips tingling . . . Then she passed him, her hair nearly flicking in his face, and went on to the cabinet, opening it and taking out a decanter, leaving him behind, marooned on the carpet.

In gormless silence he watched her fill two glasses and offer one out, wine slopping and trickling stickily down the side. ‘You’ve changed.’ Jezal felt a sudden surge of shame and his hand jerked up to cover his scarred jaw on an instinct. ‘I don’t mean that. Not just that, anyway. Everything. You’re different, somehow.’

‘I . . .’ The effect she had on him was, if anything, stronger now than it used to be. Then there had not been all the weight of expectation, all the long day-dreaming and anticipation out in the wilderness. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He said it without thinking, then found himself flushing and had to try and change the subject. ‘Have you heard from your brother?’

‘He’s been writing every week.’ She threw her head back and drained her glass, started to fill it again. ‘Ever since I found out he was still alive, anyway.’

‘What?’

‘I thought he was dead, for a month or more. He only just escaped from the battle.’

‘There was a battle?’ squeaked Jezal, just before remembering there was a war on. Of course there had been battles. He brought his voice back under control. ‘What battle?’

‘The one where Prince Ladisla was killed.’

‘Ladisla’s dead?’ he squealed, voice shooting up into a girlish register again. The few times he had seen the Crown Prince the man had seemed so self-absorbed as to be indestructible. It was hard to believe he could simply be stabbed with a sword, or shot with an arrow, and die, like anyone else, but there it was.

‘And then his brother was murdered—’

‘Raynault? Murdered?’

‘In his bed in the palace. When the king dies, they’ll choose a new one by a vote in Open Council.’

‘A vote?’ His voice rose so high at that he almost felt some sick at the back of his throat.

She was already filling her glass again. ‘Uthman’s emissary was hanged for the murder, despite most likely being innocent, and so the war with the Gurkish is dragging on—’

‘We’re at war with the Gurkish as well?’

‘Dagoska fell at the start of the year.’

‘Dagoska . . . fell?’ Jezal emptied his glass in one long swallow and stared at the carpet, trying to fit it all into his head. He should not have been surprised, of course, that things had moved on while he was away, but he had hardly expected the world to turn upside down. War with the Gurkish, battles in the North, votes to choose a new king?

‘You need another?’ asked Ardee, tilting the decanter in her hand.

‘I think I’d better.’ Great events, of course, just as Bayaz had said. He watched her pour, frowning down intently, almost angrily, as the wine gurgled out. He saw a little scar on her top lip that he had never noticed before, and he felt a sudden compulsion to touch it, and push his fingers in her hair, and hold her against him. Great events, but it all seemed of small importance compared to what happened now, in this room. Who knew? The course of his life might turn on the next few moments, if he could find the right words, and make himself say them.

‘I really did miss you,’ he managed. A miserable effort which she dismissed with a bitter snort.

‘Don’t be a fool.’

He caught her hand, making her look him in the eye. ‘I’ve been a fool all my life. Not now. There were times, out there on the plain, the only thing that kept me alive was the thought that . . . that I might be with you again. Every day I wanted to see you . . .’ She did nothing but frown back at him, entirely unmoved. Her failure to melt into his arms was highly frustrating, after all he had been through. ‘Ardee, please, I didn’t come here to argue.’

She scowled at the floor as she threw down another glass. ‘I don’t know why you did come here.’

‘Because I love you, and I want never to be separated from you again! Please, tell me that you will be my wife!’ He almost said it, but at the last moment he saw her scornful sneer, and he stopped himself. He had entirely forgotten how difficult she could be. ‘I came here to say that I’m sorry. I let you down, I know. I came as soon as I could, but I see that you’re not in the mood. I’ll come back later.’

He brushed past her and made for the door but Ardee got there first, twisted the key in the lock and snatched it out. ‘You leave me all alone here, without so much as a letter, then when you come back you want to leave without even a kiss?’ She took a lurching step at him and Jezal found himself backing off.

‘Ardee, you’re drunk.’

She flicked her head with annoyance. ‘I’m always drunk. Didn’t you say you missed me?’

‘But,’ he muttered, starting for some reason to feel slightly scared, ‘I thought—’

‘There’s your problem, you see? Thinking. You’re no good at it.’ She herded him back against the edge of the table, and he got his sword so badly tangled up with his legs he had to put a hand down to stop himself falling.

‘Haven’t I been waiting?’ she whispered, and her breath on his face was hot and sour-sweet with wine. ‘Just like you asked me?’ Her mouth brushed gently against his, and the tip of her tongue slipped out and lapped against his lips, and she made soft gurgling sounds in her throat and pressed herself up against him. He felt her hand slide down onto his groin, rubbing at him gently through his trousers.

The feeling was pleasant, of course, and caused an instant stiffening. Pleasant in the extreme, but more than slightly worrying. He looked nervously towards the door. ‘What about the servants?’ he croaked.

‘If they don’t like it they can find another fucking job, can’t they? They weren’t my idea.’

‘Then whose—ah!’

She twisted her fingers in his hair and dragged his head painfully round so she was speaking right into his face. ‘Forget about them! You came here for me, didn’t you?’

‘Yes . . . yes, of course!’

‘Say it, then!’ Her hand pressed up hard against his trousers, almost painful, but not quite.

‘Ah . . . I came for you.’

‘Well? Here I am.’ And her fingers fumbled with his belt and dragged it open. ‘No need to be shy now.’

He tried to catch her wrist. ‘Ardee, wait—’ Her other hand caught him a stinging slap right across the face and knocked his head sideways, hard enough to make his ears ring.

‘I’ve been sitting here for six months doing nothing!’ she hissed in his face, words slightly slurred. ‘Do you know how bored I’ve been? And now you’re telling me to wait? Fuck yourself!’ She dug roughly into his trousers and dragged his prick out, rubbing at him with one hand, squeezing at his face with the other while he closed his eyes and gasped shallow breaths into her mouth, nothing in his mind but her fingers.

Her teeth nipped at his lip, almost painful, and then harder. ‘Ah,’ he grunted. ‘Ah!’ She was decidedly biting him. Biting with a will, as though his lip were a piece of gristle to be chewed through. He tried to pull away but the table was at his back and she had him fast. The pain was almost as great as the shock, and then, as the biting went on, considerably greater.

‘Aargh!’ He grabbed hold of her wrist with one hand and twisted it behind her back, yanked her arm and shoved her down onto the table. He heard her gasp as her face cracked hard against the polished wood.

He stood over her, frozen with dismay, his mouth salty with blood. He could see one dark eye through Ardee’s tangled hair, expressionless, watching him over her twisted shoulder. The hair moved round her mouth as she breathed, fast. He let go of her wrist, suddenly, saw her arm move, the marks left by his fingers angry pink on her skin. Her hand slid down and took hold of a fistful of her dress and pulled it up, took another fistful and pulled it up, until her skirts were all tangled around her waist and her bare, pale arse was slicking up at him.

Well. He might have been a new man, but he was still a man.

With each thrust her head tapped against the plaster, and his skin slapped against the backs of her thighs, and his trousers sagged further and further down his legs until his sword-hilt was scraping against the carpet. With each thrust the table made an outraged creaking, louder and louder every time, as though they were fucking over the back of some disapproving old man. With each thrust she made a grunt, and he made a gasp, not of pleasure or pain in particular, but a necessary moving of air in response to vigorous exercise. It was all over with merciful swiftness.

So often in life, moments that are long anticipated prove to be a profound disappointment. This was undoubtedly one of those occasions. When he had spent all those interminable hours out on the plain, saddle-sore and in fear of his life, dreaming of seeing Ardee again, a quick and violent coupling on the table in her tasteless living-room had not been quite what he’d had in mind. When they were done he pushed his wilting prick back inside his trousers, guilty, and ashamed, and miserable in the extreme. The sound of his belt-buckle clinking made him want to smash his face against the wall.

She got up, and let her skirts drop, and smoothed them down, her face to the floor. He reached for her shoulder. ‘Ardee—’ She shook him angrily off, and walked away. She tossed something on the floor behind her and it rattled on the carpet. The key to the door.

‘You can go.’

‘I can what?’

‘Go! You got what you wanted, didn’t you?’

He licked disbelieving at his bloody lip. ‘You think this is what I wanted?’ Nothing but silence. ‘I love you.’

She gave a kind of cough, as if she was about to be sick, and she slowly shook her head. ‘Why?’

He wasn’t sure he knew. He wasn’t sure what he meant, or how he felt any more. He wanted to start again, but he didn’t know how. The whole thing was an inexplicable nightmare from which he hoped soon to wake. ‘What do you mean, why?’

She bent over, fists clenched, and screamed at him. ‘I’m fucking nothing! Everyone who knows me hates me! My own father hated me! My own brother!’ Her voice cracked, and her face screwed up, and her mouth spat with anger and misery. ‘Everything I touch I ruin! I’m nothing but shit! Why can’t you see it?’ And she put her hands over her face, and turned her back on him, and her shoulders shook.

He blinked at her, his own lip trembling. The old Jezal dan Luthar would most likely have made a quick grab for that key, sprinted from the room and off down the street, never to come back, and counted himself lucky to have got away so easily. The new one thought about it. He thought about it hard. But he had more character than that. Or so he told himself.

‘I love you.’ The words tasted like lies in his bloody mouth, but he had gone far too far now to turn back. ‘I still love you.’ He crossed the room, and though she tried to push him off he put his arms around her. ‘Nothing’s changed.’ He pushed his fingers into her hair, and held her head against his chest while she cried softly, sobbing snot down the front of his garish uniform.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ he whispered. But of course it had.