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

Sounds crept at him now from all around. Grunts and whimpers, coughs and sobs, quick gasping, slow growling. The occasional outright shriek of pain. Sounds between men and animals. A voice whispered throatily from somewhere to his left, droning endlessly away like a rat scratching at the walls. ‘I can’t see. Bloody wind. I can’t see. Where am I? Somebody. I can’t see.’

West swallowed, feeling the pain growing worse. In the hospitals in Gurkhul there had been sounds like that, when he had come to visit wounded soldiers from his company. He remembered the stink and noise of those horrible tents, the misery of the men in them, and above all the overpowering desire to leave and be among the healthy. But it was already awfully clear that leaving would not be so easy this time.

He was one of the wounded. A different, contemptible and disgusting species. Horror crept slowly through his body and mingled with the pain. How badly was he injured? Did he have all his limbs, still? He tried to move his fingers, wriggle his toes, clenched his teeth as the aching in his arm and leg grew worse. He brought his left hand trembling up before his face, turned it over in the dimness. It seemed intact, at least, but it was the only limb that he could move, and even that was a crushing effort. Panic slithered up his throat and clutched at him.

‘Where am I? Bloody wind. I can’t see. Help. Help. Where am I?’

‘Fucking shut up!’ West shouted, but the words died in his dry throat. All that came up was a hollow cough that set his ribs on fire again.

‘Shhhh.’ A soft touch on his chest. ‘Just be still.’

A blurry face swam into view. A woman’s face, he thought, with fair hair, but it was hard to focus. He closed his eyes and stopped trying. It hardly seemed to matter that much. He felt something against his lips, the neck of a bottle. He drank too thirstily, spluttered and felt cold water running down his neck.

‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘You were wounded.’

‘I know that. I mean . . . in the city. The wind.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think anyone knows.’

‘Did we win?’

‘I suppose that . . . the Gurkish were driven out, yes. But there are a lot of wounded. A lot of dead.’

Another swallow of water. This time he managed it without gagging. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Ariss. Dan Kaspa.’

‘Ariss . . .’ West fumbled with the name. ‘I knew your cousin. Knew him well . . . a good man. He always used to talk about . . . how beautiful you were. And rich,’ he muttered, vaguely aware he should not be saying this, but unable to stop his mouth from working. ‘Very rich. He died. In the mountains.’

‘I know.’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Trying to help with the wounded. It would be best for you to sleep now, if you—’

‘Am I whole?’

A pause. ‘Yes. Sleep now, if you can.’

Her dark face grew blurry, and West let his eyes close. The noises of agony slowly faded around him. He was whole. All would be well.

‘Am I dreaming?’ She reached forward and dug her nails into his arm. ‘Ah!’

‘Painful dream, eh?’

‘No,’ he was forced to admit. ‘This is real.’

She looked well. Far better than the last time he had seen her, that was sure. No blood on her face for one thing. No look of naked hatred, for another. Only a thoughtful frown. He tried to bring himself up to sitting, failed, and slumped back down. She did not offer to help. He had not really expected her to. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.

‘Nothing too serious, apparently. A broken arm, a few broken ribs, and a leg badly bruised, they tell me. Some cuts on your face that may leave a scar or two, but then I got all the looks in the family anyway.’

He gave a snort of laughter and winced at the pain across his chest. ‘True enough. The brains too.’

‘Don’t feel badly about it. I’ve used them to make the towering success of my life that you see before you. The kind of achievement that you, as a Lord Marshal of the Union, can only dream of.’

‘Don’t,’ he hissed, clamping his good hand across his ribs. ‘It hurts.’

‘No less than you deserve.’

His laughter quickly stuttered out, and they were silent for a moment, looking at each other. Even that much was difficult. ‘Ardee . . .’ His voice caught in his sore neck. ‘Can you . . . forgive me?’

‘I already did. The first time I heard you were dead.’ She was trying to smile, he could tell. But she still had that twist of anger to her mouth. Probably she would have liked to dig her nails into his face rather than his arm. He was almost glad then, for a moment, that he was wounded. She had no choice but to be soft with him. ‘It’s good that you’re not. Dead, that is . . .’ She frowned over her shoulder. There was some manner of commotion at one end of the long cellar. Raised voices, the clatter of armoured footsteps.

‘The king!’ Whoever it was nearly squealed it in their excitement. ‘The king is come again!’

In the beds all around men turned their heads, propped themselves up. A nervous excitement spread from cot to cot. ‘The king?’ they whispered, faces anxious and expectant, as though they were privileged to witness a divine visitation.

Several figures moved through the shadows at the far end of the hall. West strained to look, but could see little more than metal gleaming in the darkness. The foremost shape stopped beside a wounded man a few beds down.

‘They are treating you well?’ A voice strangely familiar, strangely different.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is there anything you need?’

‘A kiss from a good woman?’

‘I would love to oblige you, but I fear I’m only a king. We’re a great deal more common than good women.’ Men laughed, even though it was not funny. West supposed that people laughing at your poor jokes was one advantage of being a monarch. ‘Anything else?’

‘Maybe . . . maybe another blanket, sir. Getting cold down here, at night.’

‘Of course.’ The figure jerked his thumb at a man behind. Lord Hoff, West realised now, dragging along at a respectful distance. ‘Another blanket for every man here.’

The Lord Chamberlain, that fearsome scourge of the audience chamber, humbly nodded his head like a meek child. The king stood, and moved into the light.

Jezal dan Luthar, of course, and yet it was hard to believe that it was the same man, and not only because of the rich fur mantle and the golden circlet on his forehead. He seemed taller. Handsome, still, but no longer boyish. A deep scar on his bearded jaw had given him an air of strength. The sneer of arrogance had become a frown of command. The carefree swagger had become a purposeful stride. He worked his way on slowly down the aisle between the cots, speaking to each man, pressing their hands, giving them thanks, promising them help. No one was overlooked.

‘A cheer for the king!’ someone gurgled through gritted teeth.

‘No! No. The cheering should be for you, my brave friends! You who have made sacrifices in my name. I owe you everything. It was only with your help that the Gurkish were defeated. Only with your help that the Union was saved. I do not forget a debt, that I promise you!’

West stared. Whoever this strange apparition was who looked so like Jezal dan Luthar, he spoke like a monarch. West almost felt a preposterous desire to drag himself from his bed and kneel. One casualty was trying to do just that as the king passed his bed. Jezal restrained him with a gentle hand on his chest, smiled and patted his shoulder as though he had been offering succour to the wounded his entire life, instead of getting drunk in shit-holes with the rest of the officers, and whining about such meagre tasks as he was given.

He drew close and saw West, lying there. His face lit up, though there was a tooth missing from his smile. ‘Collem West!’ he said, hastening over. ‘I can honestly say that I have never in my life been so pleased to see your face.’

‘Er . . .’ West moved his mouth around a bit, but hardly knew what to say.

Jezal turned to his sister. ‘Ardee . . . I hope you are well.’

‘Yes.’ She said nothing else. They stared at each other, for a long and intensely awkward moment, not speaking.

Lord Hoff frowned at the king, then at West, then at Ardee. He insinuated himself somewhat between the two of them. ‘Your Majesty, we should—’

Jezal silenced him effortlessly with one raised hand. ‘I trust that you will soon join me in the Closed Council, West. I am in some need of a friendly face there, in truth. Not to mention good advice. You always were a mine of good advice. I never did thank you for it. Well, I can thank you now.’

‘Jezal . . . I mean, your Majesty—’

‘No, no. Always Jezal to you, I hope. You will have a room in the palace, of course. You will have the royal surgeon. Everything possible. See to that, please, Hoff.’

The Lord Chamberlain bowed. ‘Of course. Everything will be arranged.’

‘Good. Good. I am glad you are well, West. I cannot afford to lose you.’ The king nodded, to him, and to his sister. Then he turned and moved on, pressing hands, speaking soft words. A pool of hope seemed to surround him as he passed. Despair crowded in behind it. Smiles faded as he moved away. Men dropped back onto their beds, faces clouding over with pain.

‘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.’

‘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 every 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 mêlée. 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.