Last Argument of Kings

with a
start and tried to jerk up to sitting. Pain shot up one leg, across
his chest, through his right arm, and stayed there, throbbing. He
dropped back with a groan and stared at the ceiling. A vaulted stone
ceiling, covered in thick shadows.
    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.â€

Patriotic Duties
    Glokta winced as
he carefully lowered himself into his chair. There was no fanfare to
mark the moment when his aching arse touched the hard wood. No round
of applause. Only a sharp clicking in his burning knee. And yet it
is a moment of the greatest significance, and not only for me.
    The designers of
the White Chamber’s furniture had ventured beyond austerity and
into the realm of profound discomfort. One would have thought that
they could have stretched to some upholstery for the most powerful
men in the realm. Perhaps the intention was to remind the occupants
that one should never become too comfortable at the pinnacle of
power. He glanced sideways, and saw Bayaz watching him. Well,
uncomfortable is about as good as I ever get. Have I not often said
so? He winced as he tried to worm his way forwards, the legs of
his chair squealing noisily against the floor.
    Long ago,
when I was handsome, young, and promising, I dreamed of one day
sitting at this table as a noble Lord Marshal, or a respected High
Justice, or even an honourable Lord Chamberlain. Who could ever have
suspected, even in their darkest moments, that beautiful Sand dan
Glokta would one day sit on the Closed Council as the feared, the
abhorred, the all-powerful Arch Lector of the Inquisition? He
could scarcely keep the smile from his toothless mouth as he slumped
back against the unyielding wood.
    Not everyone
appeared amused by his sudden elevation, however. King Jezal in
particular glowered at Glokta with the most profound dislike.
“Remarkable that you are confirmed already in your position,â€

The First Law
    Ferro sat, and
she stared at her hand. The hand that had held the Seed. It looked
the same as ever, yet it felt different. Cold, still. Very cold. She
had wrapped it in blankets. She had bathed it in warm water. She had
held it near the fire, so near that she had burned herself.
    Nothing helped.
    â€œFerro…â€

Tea and Threats
    Logen frowned.
    He frowned at
the wide hall, and its glittering mirrors, and the many powerful
people in it. He scowled at the great Lords of the Union facing him.
Two hundred of them or more, sitting in a muttering crowd around the
opposite side of the room. Their false talk, and their false smiles,
and their false faces cloyed at him like too much honey. But he felt
no better about the folk on his side of the hall, sharing the high
platform with him and the great King Jezal.
    There was the
sneering cripple who’d asked all the questions that day in the
tower, dressed now all in white. There was a fat man with a face full
of broken veins, looked as if he started each day with a bottle.
There was a tall, lean bastard in a black breastplate covered in
fancy gold, with a soft smile and hard little eyes. As shifty a pack
of liars as Logen had ever laid eyes on, but there was one worse than
all the rest together.
    Bayaz sat with
an easy grin on his face, as if everything had turned out just the
way he’d planned. Maybe it had. Damn wizard. Logen should have
known better than to trust a man with no hair. The spirits had warned
him that Magi have their own purposes, but he’d taken no
notice, plunged on blindly, hoping for the best, just like always.
Say one thing for Logen Ninefingers, say he never listens. One fault
among many.
    His eyes
swivelled the other way, towards Jezal. He looked comfortable enough
in his kingly robes, golden crown gleaming on his head, golden chair
even bigger than the one that Logen was sitting in. His wife sat
beside him. She had a frosty pride about her, maybe, but no worse for
that. Beautiful as a winter morning. And she had this look on her
face, when she looked at Jezal. A fierce kind of look, as if she
could hardly stop herself tearing into him with her teeth. That lucky
bastard always seemed to